Page 17 of Single Mom's Mountain Men
I'm told I have an intimidating demeanor, and it's something I've dealt with since I was a teenager. Heck, I scared more than a couple of teachers in high school, so much that they wouldn’t even give me detention when I slacked off, nor write me up when I slept in class.
The only thing they would do was call my parents, because somehow the only one who could discipline me was my tough-as-nails mother.
“You’ve been terrifying your teachers again Mitchell?" She would say, after making me kneel in the corner while holding a chair over my head as punishment. “How many times I gotta tell you not to do that?"
"I don't do it on purpose, Ma ."
"It don't matter. I've told you, you gotta smile....and show some teeth."
"His smile scares them even more, Ma ,” Wes would chortle at the table but the laughter would die when our mother's gaze turned to him.
My smile widens at the memory, a wistful ache in my chest. I miss that ornery old lady. I regret a lot about going off to the Marines, but mostly I regret the fact that it forced me to leave her and my dad alone. No one thought that Dad would die that suddenly, or that mom would get sick herself.
No one thought the family business would be on the verge of collapse when we got out. They kept most of the bad news from us, not wanting us to shorten our service for their sake.
"I'm sorry, Ma ," I whisper as I close my eyes. "I'll do you right this time. Make you proud."
But as I doze off, it's not my mother or my work that comes to mind. It's not my brothers either.
Instead, I think of the city girl with the sparkling blue eyes.
An explosion rocks off in the distance, and I cover my head to protect it from the shrapnel.
"Chief!"' I scream trying to find him through the dust but he’s nowhere in sight. And there’s no time to look. We’re knee-deep in guerilla territory and seem to be losing this skirmish. If I stay any longer I'm going to be dead.
I start running immediately, bumping into the bodies of the other soldiers running too. Someone is screaming out orders, but we can't hear enough to follow them.
We’re no longer soldiers, merely men faced with their own mortality. Another explosion rocks me back and I feel myself fall. A bullet pierces through my shoulder but I bite back the scream as I crawl on the ground, searching for cover.
I find it behind a tree, propping myself up to rest. A deadbody lays beside me, a gun in its hand, eyes listless and unseeing.
I don't think I know him, but even if I did, I wouldn't recognize him like this.
I take the M16 from his lifeless hand and check to see how many rounds are left in the cartridge. Seems I’m lucky today – the full thirty rounds all nestling in place. I reinsert the magazine, set the gun to semiautomatic fire and turn around to see if I can spot my attackers.
There.
On the mountain, there are a few of them. The bottoms of their faces are covered, shielding their features as they send volleys of bullets flying from their machine guns. One of them is throwing grenades. He's the one I target.
One shot and he goes down but he’s still moving.
Before they can figure out what’s going on I squeeze off two more rounds, killing the machine gun guy.
Fucking bastards,I scream inside.Die.
And then the clank of a grenade lands beside me and I know it's all over.
I jerk out of bed, sweat slicking my body, and bring shaking hands to my face.
My chest is tight, ratchety with panic.
Breathe motherfucker.I tell myself.You're fine. Nothing's wrong. Just breathe.
The military therapist told me there would likely be nightmares. Even though she called me 'remarkably well adjusted considering the circumstances' she noted that I might have some problems sleeping for months afterward.
But it's been a fucking year already.
So why is it still happening?
