Page 46 of Mended Hearts

I don’t want sympathy but have a feeling it’s a look I’ll receive from here on out.

I lean my head back as my eyes begin feeling heavy. I refuse to look down at my wounds. I’m so drugged up; I can barely feel them. I don’t need to see them. Seeing them will make them more real. The doctor’s lips continue moving, but I don’t care what he’s saying. All I can do is think of the fingers I’m trying to move that no longer exist. It’s such a weird, empty feeling.

“HOW LONG HAVE you been having nightmares?”

I open my eyes, trying to focus on the nurse in my room. I push the button, elevating my bed into a sitting position.

“What makes you think I’ve been having nightmares?” I ask before taking a drink out of my now lukewarm water. My throat is dry and scratchy. Must be the meds.

She walks up to the side of the bed, and I lean forward a bit so she’s able to readjust my pillow. “Your heart rate increases,your body begins to tremble, followed by beads of sweat near your hairline. You shake your head back and forth, and when you finally do wake up, it’s as if you’re startled.” She takes a step back, eyeing me, waiting for an answer.

I contemplate telling her the truth, but then think what the hell and decide the truth won’t affect a stranger. “I only have nightmares when I’m awake. Sleep is the only time I’m able to escape them, for the most part.” I attempt a shrug.

She looks at me with a faint expression of sadness. Like she’s all too familiar with the nightmares I just explained. But it leaves as quickly as it came.

“Then why do you seem scared if they aren’t nightmares?” She pulls up a chair and starts to slowly pull off the dressings. I wince as I bite through the twinge of pain. For the most part, I’m so medicated it doesn’t bother me, not until they have to change the dressings on it.

I take a deep breath before releasing a heavy sigh. “Because sometimes dreaming about something you once had and knowing you’ll never have it again is frightening to come to terms with.”

She nods, and I see understanding in her eyes.

Since being in the hospital, all I seem to do is dream about her…what we had…what I miss…what I will never have again. It’s as if my subconscious mind is playing out the time we had together on a constant loop, reminding me why I’m here in the first place.

Just like the meaning of her name, a repetition of sound, everything about her ripples through my soul. But unlike her name, the vibrations never cease. To this very day, they’re still very much moving throughout my mind, my heart, and every fiber within me.

The love I feel for this girl is an untamable force of nature just waiting to be unleashed again. It calls out to me, beggingfor one more chance. It’s her or no one. I will never feel these feelings for anyone else. But she’s taken, and it’s eating me up inside. The one thing I want more than anything in the world is unattainable.

“Well, maybe getting you out of this hospital and back to your home state will help.” The nurse gives me a smile as if me going home will fix all my problems. Little does she know home is where they all began.

I’m leaving here worse off than I ever imagined, yet far better off than I deserve to be. I’m a jobless, handless, Echoless man with nothing left to offer. But I wouldn’t do a damn thing differently. In some screwed-up way, I protected what I love, and there’s no way I can regret that decision.

Chapter Thirty-Two

DUSTIN

The abrupt bouncing as we land jars me awake, bringing me out of my haunting memories. It’s bright and sunny, and I’m more than ready to get off this cramped plane. But what I’m not ready for is what lies on the other side of the door—the one I follow all these passengers through. Passengers who’ll most likely be greeted by loved ones whom they are happy to see. I shouldn’t harbor these resentments that I do, but I haven’t figured out how to shake them. So instead of unpacking and dealing with them, I’ve kept them stowed away like carry-on baggage.

It’s not that I don’t love my parents, because I do. They gave me a great childhood, but I can’t get past the idea that my own mother played a role in the demise of Echo and me. The idea of being dependent all over again and temporarily having to reply on them is the part I’m less than thrilled about. The idea of starting over from scratch and no longer having the only career I’ve ever known is something I haven’t even begun to process. I don’t even know how. Where would I even start? Where do you go when you give your entire life to a career you were willing to die for, and when you survive a blow that was intended to killyou, you’re no longer needed. The idea that I’ve been reduced to damaged goods is a bitter pill to swallow.

I wait for the plane to empty before stepping out of my window seat and reaching for my carry on. If I’m going to struggle, then I’m going to do it on my own—with no bystanders. I awkwardly pull my cell phone out of my pocket and turn it back on. The stewardess announced we arrived thirty minutes early, so I’m not sure my parents have made it here yet.

As I slowly and dreadfully trudge my way to baggage claim, the airport bustles with people rushing to make their flights. I’m more than thankful for this sling my arm is hiding in, here in this crowded place. No one can see that I’m missing the rest of my arm from mid forearm down. The last thing I’m up for are sympathetic glances and invisible pats on the back from civilians.

My phone chimes and I move to the closest wall, making sure to get out of the way from all the moving people.

Mom: We’ll be there around 2:30. There was an accident that backed up traffic.

Me: I’ll be in baggage claim.

I finally make my way over to where even more madness resides, waiting for the luggage conveyer belt to start up. The tug of war over suitcases will be commencing soon as the alarm goes off, alerting the passengers. I stay back, not wanting to get in the middle of it all. I’m not in a rush by any means. My bag can circle until the place clears out for all I care.

Being in uniform with a sling, holding my arm in place, doesn’t hide the fact that I’m a wounded soldier. I’m proud that I’ve served my country. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my injury. I just curse the meaning behind it and what it now stands for. It doesn’t represent the war of US soldiers against foreign men.No, to me, it represents the war between my heart and mind. The hardest battle I’ve found myself into date.

After the crowd has thinned, I decide to get closer. A few moments later, I spot my dust-colored bag. The same bag I’ve lived out of for the last thirteen years. It’s been a faithful duffle bag, never allowing me to carry more than I need or could handle. But now, as I attempt to seize it, I’m wondering how well I’ll be able to handle both bags.

I drop my gym-sized bag down, getting my arm ready to reach out for my large duffle. I quickly grab the strap and give it a strong tug, making sure to get it the first time. I fling it across my shoulder, resting it on my back as I bend down to grab my other one. Trying to balance it all is a bitch, and my phone falls out of my pocket with me bent over, clanking on the ground.

“Dammit,” I breathe out, barely audible to the people around me. I’m not trying to make even more of a scene. My phone is scattered around me. It’s an older flip phone and the back has come off, allowing the battery to fall out as well.Just my luck.

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