Page 13 of Dream Girl

“Some of the seasoned folks here talk about their war stories, and some of the youngsters brag about their first kill.” Eddie shrugs, eyeing a pair of men trying to beat each other on the treadmill.

It doesn’t sit right with me when Eddie mentions the younger ones that brag about their first kill as if they aren’t humans themselves. Death is a sensitive topic to me, and I tend to avoid it as much as possible, especially if it’s related to the military.

Movie deaths are tolerable; it’s just to move the plot along, and I have not had a movie trigger any memories.

“You don’t share yours,” Eddie comments; he’s genuinely curious and not prying with a condescending tone that I would hear from some.

My stories are mine. They aren’t for the ears of civilians, and I prefer keeping them to myself as it is basically none of their business. Eddie shouldn’t put his nose in places where it doesn’t belong, but I don’t hate the concern in his voice.

He’s just a kid; he means no harm.

“Not a talker, aye?” Eddie smirks, but it turns into a grin.

He smiles a lot, just like Amelia. Maybe it’s why I can tolerate Eddie for this long. Anyone else would get my back because I would be out the door before they can get another sentence in unless it’s absolutely essential for me to hear.

“That’s cool, man!” he shouts, squatting down with his hands still behind his head.

He’s either trying to make himself not a threat to me, or he’s trying to do squats in front of another man. I want to swing my leg out, kick him, and send him across the room for doing something not in the realm of social norms.

“I wanted to be a Navy SEAL too!” Eddie huffs, breathing harshly as he quickens his pace on squats.

“But I got injured,” he says, shrugging when he bends his thighs. “Then, I realized that I didn’t want to be a Navy SEAL when I came to this physical therapy group.”

I raise my eyes, attention focusing on his blue eyes to see where he is going with his story. I don’t think he has a destination or an ending to his rambling. He just wants to talk until my ears bleed or I get fed up with his voice.

I’ll punch him in the throat before he can make my ears bleed, but the proper action, in this case, is to walk away.

He stops and drops on the ground before I can make my plan of punching him through the wall a reality. Eddie gasps for breath, supporting his weight with his arms as he leans back.

“Oh!” he groans. “I wanted to be a SEAL so badly, but my calling isn’t in that department!”

I zip up my gym bag, holding the strap in my hand when he lunges himself into a sitting position.

“I’m in training to be a paramedic!” The swell of pride on his face is blinding; a part of me thinks that he’s some reincarnation of a broken lamp.

“It’s hard with the medical background too, but I’m ready for it!” he exclaims, lifting his arm up and smacking his bicep to prove his point that he’s been working out.

“I want to save people and help those who need me; it’s my lifelong dream to be useful to someone!”

This is my cue to go. I don’t need a kid spilling his sob story to me. I have no interest in it either as I stand from the bench. My hair is almost dried after the shower in the locker room, but the coldness from winter weather is bad for wet hair so I’m stuck here until I can leave with dry hair.

There isn’t a single hairdryer in this place. It’s rather frustrating to be this irresponsible for a facility that is so secure. Though, I wouldn’t be here or at the therapy sessions with Doctor Fulton if it isn’t mandated from the court order.

Normal people aren’t mandated to be in any of them, but I’m aware that I’m a threat to society if I let the nightmares affect my judgment.

“Hey!” Eddie jumps on his feet, throwing his hand out. “I’m Eddie, what’s your name?”

I refuse to give him my hand just like last time, and he still doesn’t get deterred by my dismissive behavior. He seems more intrigued with that puppy look on his face, and he would have imaginative ears and tail if it wasn’t so immature in my head.

If it takes my name to shut the kid up, then I will do it. “Miloslav.”

He tries to pronounce it with a broken Russian accent of all things even when I’m not Russian. “M-Milo—Milo—”

While he’s butchering my name, I take the chance to leave the struggling man as his face twists in concentration as he continues to futilely try my name. It honestly isn’t that hard, but it could be the first time he has tried to pronounce a foreign name on his native English tongue.

“M-Miloslav!” he screams at the top of his lungs, not giving a single care about people around him who are startled by his outburst.

His grin is too wide as it tugs on his cheeks; his arm shoots up and waves in the air while jumping up and down. My initial reaction to him is to ignore and leave, but he starts to come up to me, and that’s when I know that giving him my name is not the best action I should have taken.

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