Chapter 1

Hale

Boom! Pew pew… Help…. Help Jarreau! Help!

Bolting upright in bed. I’m on my feet in the blink of an eye. My weapon drawn and ready. I see nothing in front of me, but shadows from the moonlight. Sweat drips from my body, and my heart is beating out of control; my body high on adrenaline. It’s the same nightmare every night, the same torture I live with daily. I didn’t do enough to save them. I should’ve fought harder, longer. I should’ve saved them… Why couldn’t I save them? The guilt living inside me eats at me every day. It weighs down on my shoulders. I slowly lower my weapon, placing it back next to my bed. Every night before I close my eyes, I set my gun next to my bed- loaded and ready. I need to feel the security of knowing if something happens, it’s close to me. Call it another fucked up thing I brought back with me. Reaching for the lamp, I switch it on and let light flood the room. The same room I grew up in. Not a thing has changed, everything exactly where I left it. Not that my old man would’ve given a shit whether I died there or not. The only thing he ever gave a fuck about was the bottom of a bottle. Deacon growls from the doorway, where he’s poised with his head down low and teeth bared as if ready to attack on my command. “Down boy,” I give him the sign, telling him to be at ease. When I left Walter Reed, a group called Paws for Veterans reached out to me. They’re a group that provides animals for wounded veterans with PTSD. Apparently my shrink thought it would be a good idea, for the “emotional support”, and that’s where Deacon came in. He’s full bred German shepherd and he’s my best friend. He’s the only one who seems to understand what I’ve been through, and the only one who helps me through the moments where my chest gets so tight it’s hard to breathe. My shrink believes I don’t have a severe case of PTSD, but obviously it’s bad enough to need fucking “emotional support’. I don’t even attempt to understand all the psychological bullshit that gets thrown at me. I like having him around, so he stays.

My leg aches with stiffness. Even if I wanted to do something meaningful with my life again, my leg would never allow it. The fuckers almost blew my knee cap off when they took me. I’m surprised the infection didn’t kill me. Extending my leg, I massage the raised bump. My skin around the wound looks marred and gangly. If only the physical scars I bared were the worst of my problems. My mind is fucked up beyond repair, far worse than my body ever could be.

Gripping the sides of the bed, I stand slowly and head towards the bathroom. Flicking on the light, I head to the mirror and open it and grab the pills inside. I open the lid, pop two into my mouth, and swallow them dry. Looking at myself in the mirror, I don’t even recognize the man staring back at me. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I shaved or had a haircut. My eyes look tired; the bags under my eyes look dark and deep. The scar above my eyebrow is ragged and disgusting looking. That’s what I see when I look in the mirror. A fuckup; a bastard that couldn’t save the men who always had my back. My fucking brothers. I look down at the sink and squeeze my eyes shut tightly as I take deep breaths. Sometimes, when I’m just sitting here and thinking of shit, I think back to what I went through over there and I get sucked into a flashback. It’s not just any flashback, but one that feels so real I can’t tell the difference. I can feel the sun beating down on me. The sweat seeping through my cammies. I can still smell the desert air and ammunition all around me. When I finally come back to the present, thirty minutes will have gone by. My whole body will be tense and dripping sweat as if I was there. I won’t remember walking across the room and grabbing my weapon. It’s as if my body is wired to react even when I’m not fully there. That’s how I know I’m fucked up. It’s just one of the many things that keep me away from Ember. Someone getting lost so far in their own head should stay away from anyone they don’t want to tear down with them.

After I was released from the hospital, I stayed in DC for physical therapy. I didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of moving to a new place when truthfully, I had nowhere to fucking go. I couldn’t go home to my dad’s house. Not with him drinking all the time and me still having flashbacks and nightmares that would’ve given him a fucking heart attack. I found an apartment close to the rehab center, and I took a cab everywhere. I couldn’t stand to ride the subway. It was too small of a space and all the crowds freaked me the fuck out. I didn’t go out. I didn’t make any friends. I didn’t socialize with anyone but Deacon. I stumbled across a tattoo shop that I heard some guys at therapy talking about and I started going a few times a month. After six months or so I was covered: my arms, my chest, and some of my back. It was a high I so desperately chased after the first time the needle touched my skin. The first tattoo I ever got, even before my Eagle, globe and anchor, was Ember’s name. Even after everything I’ve been through, after everything I continue to go through every day, she’s the first thing on my mind when I open my eyes and the last before I close them. No one knew where I was and it was for a reason. The only reason I entertained the idea of coming home is because of the house. It was sitting here rotting since the old man passed away and I couldn’t hide away in DC forever. I’m going to find someone local for physical therapy and try my best to keep my mind in a sane place.

I walk out of the bathroom, flicking off the light as I head back towards the bed. I grab my old leather journal from the nightstand and crawl back under the covers. Flipping it open, I pull out the pictures hidden within. I run my finger over her face, seeing the smile on her lips, her blue eyes looking back at me. I remember grumbling at her to put the phone away, to stop with all the pictures, but now they’re a lifeline. The pictures are so worn from years of being held, I don’t know how much longer they’ll last, but looking at them calms the storm inside my heart. They say soulmates find each other no matter where they are in the world, and that their lives will intersect at one point. Fate, destiny, hope. That’s what I had with Ember. It’s like God made us one; two halves and together we were whole. I will sacrifice my happiness in order to give her life. Drifting off, her blue eyes are the last thing my mind sees.

Chapter 2

Today, I’m heading into town to Jared’s shop to talk with him about a job. Jared Marshall taught me everything I know. Everything I know about cars, engines, bodywork... I learned it from him. The entire town will know once I pull up and I’m dreading it. I hate being the talk of the town. That’ll be one they haven’t heard; a dead man walking in town. Hopefully, it’ll all die down quickly and I can be left in peace. I need a job to keep me busy and out of my head. I got a pretty good chunk of money from the Marines. Apparently being captured by the enemy calls for some kind of monetary retribution - not that any amount of money in the world would ever make up for the shit that I’ve been through. It won’t last me long though, not with all the repairs Dad’s house needs. I have to put a new roof on, put flooring in the house, and repaint everything. I hope working and repairing the house will keep me from losing my mind.

Grabbing my keys from the table, I open the door and head towards the shop where the Camaro sits. I haven’t driven her since I’ve been home, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Or maybe because the thought of Ember overwhelms me every time I crank it up. I shove the key in the ignition and back out towards the street. Everything I pass, every spot in my hometown, reminds me of what I’ve lost. Every memory these places draw from me makes me angrier. Angry at everything I’ve given up. Angry for my life, the love of my life, and the person I use to be, being ripped away from me. Angry that I’m back here… angry in general.