Page 24 of Ruined

The apartment is quiet and small and dingy. Dust bunnies are marching their way along the skirting boards. Right now it seems as though they have more purpose and meaning in their lives than I do.

My gut aches low from where the bullet hit me. Damage has been done. Damage of the kind that makes my ears start to ring hollow when anybody talks about it and feels even worse when I think about it. So I don’t think about it. I pretend the ache is from a cramp, though the doctors have made it clear I won’t have periods anymore.

* * *

Weeks later…

I don’t know when I got to the office. An hour ago? Three days ago? Some amount of time. I’m staring at a man who is sitting across from me at a desk. I know his name, but I don’t care to remember it right now. He has a beard with a small piece of corn chip in it. I watch the corn chip move up and down, slightly side to side.

“We’re going to transition you out of the field and into the office. Data processing. Your field work will provide an invaluable perspective for…”

The ringing is starting in my ears again, a sort of high-pitched whine that drowns out the words but can’t do anything to stop me from occasionally catching glimpses of his fake sympathetic face. They’re moving me to data-processing because that is where the burnouts go.

“Riley? Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I say. “Perfectly clear.”

* * *

Weeks after that…

Data processing involves staring at a screen and moving the screen around and occasionally making a note about the thing on the screen. I can do that. I can watch a video and then watch a video and then watch a video and then…

* * *

More time passes…

“Riley, we’re very sorry, but we’re going to need you to begin mandatory counseling. Your performance has been understandably substandard of late, and though we understand the reason for it, we have to maintain minimal….”

My hearing goes back into blessed tinnitus. I nod and I smile.

* * *

Days roll into each other…

“You’ve experienced trauma…”

A nice lady with a streak of gray through deep brown hair is talking to me in very soothing tones. She is relating to me and commiserating with me. It is all very nice. She wants me to talk about what happened to me and process all the terrible pain that is now wrapped up in scar tissue in my belly.

I am playing with a little fidget toy she has, a sort of metallic ball contraption, baubles that spin around and stick together and reflect my face and my empty eyes…

“It’s understandable that you’re not interested in discussing the matter, but I think it would really be helpful to explore some of the emotions around…”

Someone throws a fidget toy at the nice lady.

* * *

A little bit after that…

I am on drugs designed to make things better. They might be making things better, I’m not sure. Sometimes people ask me questions like how are you, or how are you doing? And to them I stare blankly and respond with the most recent meal I ate.

“How are you?”

“Stale cereal.”

It works. It keeps people at bay.

* * *

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