Page 2 of Hell on Wheels

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. I had nights where I didn’t dream of the past. Usually, I had to get drunk off my ass first, but I didn’t divulge that information.

Nightmares were the least of my problems. It was my fuckin’ injuries that pissed me off more than anything. The damn VA Medical Center thought throwing in sessions with a shrink was necessary because of what I went through overseas. I could have saved them a lot of money, time, and effort. It wasn’t like I was gonna do something stupid. I wasn’t into self-torture. I just had nightmares about the bombs and losing my fellow Marines. Same shit a lot of guys went through. I wasn’t the only one.

A lot of us were fucked up.

I got over it. Moved on. The past was the past.

“And your vision?”

“Good days and bad days.” Why did it matter? She always asked the same questions. The answers weren’t gonna miraculously change.

“The bad days? Tell me about those.”

We had the same discussion last week. Didn’t she keep notes?

“Flashes of light. Blurred vision. Sometimes I see particles and floaters.”

She murmured a few words. Nodding her head, she wrote in her notebook for a full fucking minute. “What’s today, Flint?”

“A good day,” I acknowledged.

“That’s what I thought.” A smile lifted the corner of her ruby lips. “Kane isn’t here.”

Nope. My service dog Kane was the best thing that happened to me since I left the Corps. I’d been anxious and jumpy after returning to the U.S. The explosions and my injuries had taken a toll. I’d grown depressed, and that shit pissed me off until I was placed on the list and Kane was issued as my companion.

“He’s fiercely protective. Didn’t like being left behind this morning.”

She laughed lightly. One of those laughs that wasn’t forced but still too professional to be genuine. “He’s good for you. I can see it. You’re far less withdrawn than when we first met.”

She was right. I didn’t talk much during the first few weeks. Didn’t have anything to say. What was the point? My brothers I had known since basic training died just feet from where I stood, and I couldn’t prevent it.

Did I have survivor’s guilt?

Fuck yeah. I hated losing men I considered family. Who wouldn’t? I still didn’t need a shrink to analyze everything I said and did to make sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or others.

“Maybe I am, doc,” I agreed.

“You can call me Joan.” Her voice gentled, and I knew what she was saying without pointing it out.

I never called her by her real name. Didn’t feel comfortable addressing anyone with familiarity. Maybe that was foolish, but I wasn’t growing close enough to another soul only to lose them at some point in the future. My dog? Sure. Kane was my best friend.

People? I’d rather not.

“When’s your next appointment?”

“Three days.”

“I’m optimistic you’ll hear something favorable.”

Favorable? Right.

Lady didn’t have a fuckin’ clue. She meant well, but all her knowledge came from books and not real-world experience. She’d never fought for her country and nearly died. Or watched as a friend’s chest exploded in front of you from the force of a dozen bullets at the same time.

“Yeah,” I replied, my snark evident.

“I know you don’t like to let hope slip in only to be disappointed again, so I’ll hope for you.”

Hope was a delicate thing. A small flame that could quickly grow without warning, and if you weren’t careful, it would erupt into a towering inferno. Then you were stuck with all that heat and burning blaze. When it was doused with water faster than you could blink, it hurt like a motherfucker.

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