Page 54 of Forgotten Pieces

It’s the terrifying memory of watching my crew get blown up.

My body shakes as I feel the pain of the bullets enter my arm. My eyes fight the fill of tears as I watch my best friend get shot in the head.

I scream as I watch them all die from bullets or IED. I want myself to be next. I want to be the victim of the assault rifle pointed at me. I want to be sitting in the next seat over as my Humvee hits the ground bomb.

But I am not.

I am alive.

And I don’t want to be.

I feel cold hands grip my shoulders as I let out a blood-curdling scream.

I hear Shelley’s voice trying to calm me down.

I don’t mean to hit her.

I don’t mean to use such force it knocks her from the bed.

I just don’t want to be restrained.

The slap across the face wakes me from my drowning memory.

I look up to see her crying. Black tears smearing her face from the leftover makeup she didn’t wash off.

I roll over away from her.

I don’t care how she feels right now. I just want to be alone.

I hear Mac comfort her. He must have been the one who slapped me.

I let him lead her from the room as I stare out the window.

Silently wishing I too was blown up by that bomb.

* * *

I wake up for a second time with a pounding headache. This time I know it’s from the alcohol. The alcohol that I know caused that dream last night. I bury my head under the pillow as sunlight pours in from the window. My mouth tastes like cotton and I want nothing more than to puke until the feeling passes.

The darkness covering my face does nothing compared to the darkness covering my mind. I can still see the faces of my dead comrades. I can smell the scent of their blood.

I hear the bedroom door open but I make no attempt to move. The last thing I want to see are people when my head is in this space. I need to be alone. I need the companionship of myself. That’s it.

But I have no luck.

I feel the edge of the bed sink down as someone sits on it.

A small hand touches the center of my back and I flinch.

“I’m okay.” I hear Shelley whisper. She probably thinks I am mad at myself for hitting her. It was an accident. And she knows not to touch someone in the middle of a night terror. It was part of the therapy we both went to.

I don’t respond. I don’t think she is going to say anything else as we both sit in silence. But she breaks it first. “What happened to that guy that you were a week ago? We finally felt like an us again.”

I don’t really have an answer for her. There are so many things that have been keeping us apart. It’s not just my PTSD. I turn over and sit up against the headboard. “He fell back into the darkness.”

“I don't understand why you can't just get over it. It's been a year. You lost people. You're going to lose me.” She pauses and then glances up at me. “You are losing me. Can't you see how this is tearing us apart? I can't be with someone who only gives me part of themselves part of the time. I need you here one hundred percent of the time. I need one hundred percent of you.”

I somehow control the rage flowing through my veins at the first words she said. She doesn’t get it. She never has. “It works both ways, Shelley. I need you one hundred percent of the time too.”

---