Page 43 of Desolation

“Looks like your hands took a beating,” Mr. Cartwell says to me as we sit at the pier.

I look down at my hands, torn and cut, some fingers taped. “Rough workout this morning.”

“Hmm.”

I look over at him and see him shaking his head as he looks out toward the sunset.

“You have something you want to say?” I ask.

He shrugs. “At least it wasn’t a fight.”

“I don’t get into those anymore.”

“Well, that’s a good thing.” He sips his iced tea before he looks over at me. “I don’t think taking out your guilt on a punching bag is any better though.”

I clench my fist at his comment causing a cut on my hand to rip open.

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

He guffaws. “You think I don’t blame myself for losing my friends? I do. I still do to this day but I don’t let it eat away at me. I might blame myself but I know it wasn’t my fault. It was war. People die. You hold your friend’s lifeless bodies in your arms wishing you could have done something different. But you can’t change the past. You have to move on.”

I sigh. “I can’t.”

“It’s not easy.”

I look out over the ocean, the sun starting to turn the sky a light purple. I wish it were easy. I wish I could let it go. Remember the good things about my best friend. The shenanigans we would get into. The good times we shared. But all I see is his bloody body every time I think of him.

My heart aches as I think of how I talked to his wife this morning. But I don’t get it. I don’t understand how she doesn’t blame me anymore. How she could get over it all so quickly and I am struggling to find my own breath.

“Aubrey called me this morning,” I confess to Mr. Cartwell.

“And?”

“She tried to apologize again. Take away the blame from me.”

He snorts. “Well at least someone is going to therapy and getting help.”

I look over at him, my brow furrowing. “I am one hundred percent to blame for this. She needs to know that.”

“The only person there is to blame for his death, is the one who shot him.”

I groan and throw my head back. Why does no one understand that I should have had his six? Should have pulled him out of the line of fire, should have been the one to take the bullets. He had everything to live for. I had nothing.

* * *

“You okay?”

I look up from my desk to see David. “Yeah,” I grunt.

He scratches his head. “You look like shit.”

I snort and look back at my computer, scanning through blurry videos. I know I look like shit. I fucked up last night and drank. I haven’t drank in almost a year. Ever since Sam died. Ever since I got kicked out of the SEALs. And I am paying for it now. My head is pounding, my eyes bloodshot. I can barely see what’s on the screen in front of me.

“Jackson wants to see you in his office.”

“He couldn’t have told me that?” I retort.

David shakes his head. “Gotta lose the attitude, Thompson.” He pauses. “I was just in there. He asked me to tell you.”

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