Page 13 of The Scars I Bare
Ask anyone who was at Ground Zero what the air smelled like, and I bet, with how hard it was to breathe as ash fell from the sky, they could still describe it years later.
In vivid detail.
I wasn’t going to forget the night I nearly lost my life.
I wasn’t going to forget the bloodcurdling screams as cars exploded and debris went flying.
Or how my best friend, a man I hadn’t seen in years, went into life-saving mode like one of those real-life heroes you read about in the papers, shouting orders while making tourniquets out of his own damn clothing.
While I sat there, in a state of shock, staring out onto the water that had been a best friend to me longer than any person on the planet. And I felt betrayed. I’d taken my first steps along the shore of the Atlantic. I’d learned to steer a boat before I could even ride a tricycle.
I wanted to stand up and scream out into that black water and ask it, Why? Why me? We were buddies. We understood each other.
And that was when the piece of debris sliced through my arm, and my life ended.
Or at least, it should have.
That night, I dreamed of the ocean—before it was the enemy.
Before it had taken away my life and everything I had to look forward to.
I dreamed I was on a boat, chasing the sunrise, both hands on the wheel, as my heart soared with such a happiness locked inside it, I thought I might explode.
And then I awoke, trembling and covered in sweat.
In that split second, when dream and reality still blurred in the twilight of morning, I felt it. Reaching up, I touched the place where my arm had once been, hoping, just hoping, that this one time, my dream might be reality.
But dreams were for suckers and small children.
And I was neither.
Rubbing the tender skin right around where the piece of debris had sliced through my arm, I tried to will away the pain and ache of the dream.
Phantom pain. That was what the doctors had called it. It was when a person still felt pain in an extremity they no longer possessed, like the body was mourning the idea long after the brain registered the information. Or maybe it was the other way around.
It really didn’t matter what they called it. It sucked all the same. Because, as much as I tried to move on and forget, my body couldn’t. Every morning, it’d reach out for that missing arm, and when it couldn’t find it, it’d cry out in agony.
And I’d be dragged back to the past. Haunted by the events of a singular night.
Scrubbing a hand over my unshaven face, I took a deep breath and got out of bed. Looking over at the clock, I shook my head at the time.
Shit, I need to get going.
Racing to the bathroom, I took a quick shower and got dressed. Flopping down on the bed, I slid on my shoes and headed for the kitchen.
I was in desperate need of coffee.
Checking the clock once more, I let out a huff of air as my indecision ping-ponged around in my mind. Risk being late for a cup of coffee or arrive early but severely irritable?
Coffee wins.
Wishing I’d taken Molly up on her numerous offers to purchase me one of those fancy coffee machines that used the pods, I started the process of scooping out the coffee and filling the water. I could hear her voice in my head.
“It’s no big deal, Dean. I’ll pick it up when I’m up the coast, getting supplies, the next time. Hell, I can even write it off as a business expense.”
But it was a big deal.
At least, it was to me. I didn’t need her favors. If I wanted a fancy-ass coffeemaker I’d go get one on my own.
