Page 63 of Mine to Protect

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Somewhere in thefog of deep sleep, the sound of glass shattering urged me awake. Still, the nightmare held me hostage until slicing pain pulled me awake. Disoriented, I blinked the early morning fuzziness away and shook my head to aid in bringing me back to reality. Streams of sweat trickled down my temples, between my bare pecs and back.

Damn. I went to bed fully clothed, and now here I stood in the middle of the kitchen in nothing but black boxer briefs.

I lifted my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead before it dripped into my eyes when a searing throb of pain drew my focus down. Blood dripped from the tips of my fingers in steady drops, pooling on the laminate kitchen floor. Brightness assaulted my unprepared eyes after switching the overhead light on to inspect my hand.

Fine lacerations sliced through the skin of my right hand with several deeper, wider ones scattered in no apparent order. Flexing and tightening my fingers into a fist, I ground my teeth to hold back a cry of pain, but the mobility did mean nothing important was cut or damaged. I hoped.

Reaching into a drawer, I yanked out a clean towel and carefully wrapped the injured hand to stop the blood from making more of a mess. After tying another towel tight around my wrist to staunch the flow of blood, I shifted to the sink to clean up. Something sharp bit into the sole of my bare foot.

Glass littered the floor, along with several knives and the knife drawer, which had been ripped from the cabinet and now lay in splinters amongst the glass. Squatting where I stood, I inspected the various knives until I located one with a bloody handprint along the hilt.

What the hell did I dream about?

Standing with a groan, I turned to the microwave to check the time.

“Well fuck,” I gritted out. The microwave hung precariously by bolts that held it in place. The front had splintered, with a massive hole in the middle like someone had beaten it repeatedly with something hard.

Like a fist.

My fist.

Turning toward the living room, I found a trail of clothes leading to the kitchen.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I yelled at the top of my lungs in utter frustration.

It wasn’t the first time I’d attempted to attack my reflection. Back in DC, mirrors were constantly shattered in my small apartment, windows punched out, and now it seemed I’d been reduced to beating the shit out of even a blurred image of myself in a microwave door.

Wonderful.

So fucking wonderful.

That was why I couldn’t be around her. Why I’d needed to be alone. Who’d want someone who might beat them to death in their sleep and have absolutely no recollection of it? The answer was no one.

It didn’t happen every night, just during periods of high stress. I stared down at the blood-soaked towel. This was my reality. I was fucked in the head. I had enough control when I was awake to manage it, but, when asleep all bets were off.

The sleeping issues didn’t start in the marines. It probably stemmed from my love-lacking childhood. I never knew if I’d be yanked from bed by another foster kid who proceeded to whip my ass. Or sometimes the adults looking after me decided nighttime was the best time to treat you like the disposable human punching bag you were. Or it could also be from always being on edge at school, because yet again, threats lurked everywhere; people loved to gang up on the poor, shittily dressed, and most of the time reeking of body odor kid. Whatever started it, it only escalated in the corps and turned into what it was now after the standoff three years ago.

We fought for our lives every fucking second during those thirty days. The little sleep our bodies forced us to take was filled with gunshots in the background and true, unfiltered terror coursing through our veins. After I made it home and saw the shrinks the military required, it was clear—to them anyway, not me—that I wasn’t fit to continue serving my country. Which was another blow. I always imagined being a lifer with the marines; they were the only family I ever knew. Then they were gone, leaving me fucked and alone.

Alone.

I’d always been alone. But after meeting her, the thought of spending the rest of my life that way seemed pitiful. She changed me, changed my outlook, but that didn’t mean it would change the outcome.

* * *

Outside of theclosest pharmacy to the cabin, I dumped the bandages, gauze, and antibiotic ointment I purchased onto the passenger seat. At least the worst part was over. Before I left, I painfully removed every sliver of glass embedded in my skin before running out for supplies. Only a few of the gashes looked deep enough to require stitches—like that was going to happen. Instead of waiting at an emergency clinic all day, I drew the separated sides of skin tight together and stuck several butterfly Band-Aids along the cut. I had more important things to do than wait on some doctor who’d ask too many questions.

Twenty minutes later, I had it tightly bound, but loose enough to have full mobility, and pulled the SUV onto the main highway toward the cabin community we shared.

Damn, I was so fucking ready to see her.

And not to have sex, which was a first. No, I just wanted to see her, talk to her, make sure she was safe. Hell, we didn’t even have to speak; just being in the same room with her lifted the weight of loneliness from my chest.

That morning, standing in the middle of the damaged kitchen, nearly naked with a fucked-up hand, you’d think I’d feel embarrassed, but I wasn’t. No, I felt achingly alone. More alone than I ever had been. Maybe because I wanted to be with her, but my fucked-up head prevented me from doing so.

And I hated it.

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