Page 57 of Warrior's Walk

For nine months, I lived under the constant threat of gunfire and mortars.

I jumped into a hot zone and nearly lost my life.

But none of that compares to the danger I pose to myself right now.

My head is the most dangerous place I’ve ever been.

I don’t know whether it’s day or night, nor do I care. It’s always dark under the covers.

I’m exhausted, but I haven’t done shit. I just feel… empty. Numb. I guess there comes a point when grief stops hurting. I think this hollow feeling might be worse.

I hear a knock at my door.Shit, I’m not in the mood.I wish everyone would just go away. Stop texting, stop calling, stop coming around.

I bury myself deeper under the blanket, hoping they’ll go away.

A minute later, they knock again.

“Dammit to fuck.” Slowly, I lift the covers off my head, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Another knock, this one louder.I roll out of bed and grab my crutches. “Keep your fuckin’ boots on,” I grumble as I shuffle down the hall.

When I pull the door open, seven ugly mugs stare back at me. “Great, it’s a fuckin’ party.” Company is thelastthing I need.

They push past me, not even waiting for an invitation, which is good because they weren’t getting one. The guys make themselves comfortable on my couch, some leaning against the breakfast bar, and West rifles through my fridge, tossing bottles of water to each of them.

“Thought you said you were bringing lunch,” he accuses Nash.

“I did. Should be here any minute.” He’s got some ugly, ass-green sling around his shoulders and chest, and I swear to fuck as I’m staring at it a black kitten pokes his head out and stares at me curiously.

Brandt grabs the remote control and flips through the TV channels, settling on an action movie with lots of loud explosions. “Does this trigger anyone?” he asks politely.

It’s like I’m not even here. Did they really come to check on me, or did they just want to use my TV and eat my food?

“Yo Rhett,” Stiles calls. “Take a seat, man. You can’t be standing around on that leg.”

He scoots over and pats the space beside him. “The fuck are y’all doin’ here? Is this because I missed group?”

McCormick shakes his head. “Group was canceled today. We had a Code Black.”

That sounds serious. “What’s a Code Black?”

“You know, a blackout day,” he answers. “When one of the Bitches can’t get out of bed. When their head’s not right.”

He pulls a skein of black yarn from his knitting bag and points his bamboo needles at the TV screen. “Oh my God, watch this next part. He totally fucks this guy’s day up.”

I hobble to the couch and lean my crutches against the wall, fitting myself into the tight space between Stiles and McCormick. Concern makes me ask, “Who’s having a shit day?”

“You,” Stiles snorts.

That one word hits me like a punch to the gut. “You canceled the entire group for me?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We didn’t cancel. We just brought the group to you.”

They continue with the movie, ignoring me, and I look up and catch West’s eyes. “You’re part of the group, bonehead. You’re one of us,” he tells me.

“Yeah,” Mandy adds, leaning across McCormick to punch my thigh. “You’re a fucking Bitch.”

Well, fuck me. There’s absolutely no use in trying to keep these guys at arm’s length. They’re like a bad rash, they just keep coming back.

The right side of Mandy’s face is covered in white gauze. I feel like a piece of fucking shit stuck to the bottom of my boot after latrine duty. He texted me several times, even called once or twice, and I ignored every one of them.

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