Chapter Thirteen Larissa #3
“And they just keep coming. People you were told were your enemies—your country’s enemies—from all walks of life, shooting at you.
Your brethren start to die, one by one, their skin exploding from the bullets, their eyes going distant.
Death is everywhere, and you can’t clearly define who all your enemies are because you just shot a woman who pulled a gun on you unexpectedly as you ran a mission.
And no matter what you do, you can’t keep the goddamned dirt from collecting beneath your fingernails.
As the days start to blur into months, you think of your wife and infant son, who are so far away as the blood on your hands grows so heavy and thick you don’t remember what the flesh looks like beneath. ”
He stops his footing altogether.
“Fifteen million blinks later, you’re in your shower, so very far away from the place you lifted that gun a thousand times or more, and there’s scalding water running over your back.
Water that starts to run cold as you watch it circle the drain.
Unable to understand why it’s running clear while your hands are still covered in the blood you spilled. ”
Jaw granite, he rips his ballcap off, wiping his forehead before securing it tightly back over his crown.
“In the next room is the familiar noise of your bubble, but not. Your wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner, but the infant son you left is now walking and talking gibberish as the news circulates throughout the house. The anchor is reporting yet another conflict. One you ignore because you’re back in that peaceful bubble you fought like hell—through hell—to get back to.
But you don’t quite understand where you fit inside of it anymore.
So, when your wife asks you to take out the trash, she has to say it several times.
Until you finally watch her lips move the way you did your brothers’ lips over there when the snaps were whizzing past your ears. ”
My heart splutters its beat as his eyes lower, his voice growing rawer with every word he speaks.
“Intent on carrying out your orders, you find yourself stuck in time, unsure of how long you’ve been standing outside with the garbage bag in hand, your fingers pinching the lid of the can, because you can’t get that same damning image out of your head.
The sight of that screaming toddler strapped with explosives and coming straight toward you on that dirt street.
Screaming for his mother—for help—as you keep that approaching threat in your crosshairs, with seconds to decide if pulling that trigger is worth the loss of your soul.
It’s that image which shutters in, day in and day out, as you struggle to carry out the simplistic orders your wife gives you—cut the grass, change the oil, paint the fence. ”
A burn takes up the whole of my throat as Tyler’s eyes continue to lose focus.
“As you do these things, you can’t stop the shuttering.
And the only others who know what you’re going through seem to be doing okay, so you keep this to yourself.
Your wife and baby become your sole focus, your only mission.
So you watch her mouth move and follow her orders to the letter.
But you’re never really there. The shuttering won’t stop.
The dirt is still under your fingernails.
The hot air you’re pulling into your lungs still feels the same as it did over there, and one day …
one day, you realize you’ll never again be the man who kissed his family goodbye.
That the air you’re inhaling will never be clean again. ”
His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he forces the rest out.
“Not long after, you receive a box in the mail. A medal that tells you that you did your job. That you’re a deserving soldier.
That you’re being rewarded for being brave, but as you run your thumb over it, you can’t help but remember the bravery of that teenager who fought you to keep their own family alive.
Who was forced to fight while you signed up for it.
As you study the medal, you wonder how much it costs to make, because you know the true cost. You know it, and the lie attached means you weren’t brave at all.
That you followed orders to feed the machine, the lie.
The lie that the scared boy—that farmer—was your enemy.
But no, your enemies weren’t all soldiers but merely people given guns who had no choice but to point them at you or die because the conflict wasn’t substantial enough to constitute war.
That blood was spilled to feed the machine—the military-industrial complex—and line the pockets of those who decided you were expendable, as were the lives of the people you killed—that trillion-dollar lie, Larissa. ”
When a lone tear spills down my cheek, Tyler studies it with indifference as he continues.
“But that soldier got through the worst of it. He was finally having more good days than bad. He made another baby with his wife, hosted barbecues for the closest in his company, and finally slept his first full night in years without the sweats. So, one Saturday night, just two months after his daughter was born, he took his wife to a nightclub to dance. He was a shit dancer, but he loved to watch her move.”
My heart lifts slightly as I hang onto his every word.
“Excited to see her in action, he ushers her out of the car and takes a mental picture of the smile she’s wearing, because it’s similar to the one he memorized before he became a Marine.
The same smile that carried him through his worst days in that dirt.
At the sight of it, he forgives himself a little more for doing what he had to do to get back to her.
Peace is within reach—temporary as it may be.
But a few beers and dances in, a commotion breaks out.
As do shots, which direct his attention across the club.
To another teenager, one holding a gun exactly like the guns that were pointed at him on that rocky terrain.
In that place so far away. For a millisecond, he believes his mind is betraying him.
This can’t be happening. Not here, not so fucking far away from that dirt.
But with the next shot, he becomes a believer and springs into action.
Without thought, he’s running toward the kid openly firing, to shield not only his wife but everyone else in the building.
Those he swore to protect when he took his oath. ”
Unable to help it, I cup my mouth.
“Making a beeline for that kid, he assigns himself the mission to wrestle away the gun he shouldn’t have in his hands.
A gun that he knows belongs in the hands of a soldier.
One who may or may not be fighting for the right reason, but who deserves that fucking gun and the chance to defend himself all the same.
And he does, but not before succumbing to the bullets he’s riddled with.
Even as he sinks to the floor, he feels nothing but sweet relief as his wife hovers over him, begging him not to leave her.
Relief that the snaps have stopped, and for those precious last breaths, that the shuttering image that’s robbed him of so much is finally fading.
And just after he takes a gulp of air that feels like freedom, he expels his last and succumbs.
Not overseas in the dirt, but in the very bubble he fought so hard to get back to. ”
My eyes continue to burn as I blink to clear them. “Tyler—”
“And the trillion dollars made from the war he fought, or the one before it, trickles down into the billions divided by the contractors who made the weapons. The payoff in dividends fucking obscene for those who own that contractor’s stock.
Down to the CEO who benefits from raising the prices of consumer goods during times of crisis.
Onto the banks and credit card companies, who just upped the annual percentage rate while increasing the credit limits of the consumers buying the overpriced goods.
The list of benefits is endless, but it’s no economy boost. What it truly is, is more enslavement to a nation that is already angry, scared, confused, and more in debt than ever.
In the end, it’s the soldiers and their families who foot the bill. Who pay for it all. All of it.”
His eyes penetrate mine, deep and cutting.
“I’ve been investigating this over half my life, and I’m certain some of these conflicts were elevated while others were legitimately fought for the right reasons.
Though profiteering has always been a part of it, I’ve made it my mission to make sure no goddamn boots from any military branch ever hit that dirt unless it’s truly warranted.
The other part of my job is to find the motherfuckers responsible for putting a soldier’s gun into hands it has no business in. ”
“People like my father.” I hold his gaze, the inferno in my chest spreading with white-hot flames. “This wasn’t hypothetical at all, was it? This was one of your friends?”
He doesn’t have to confirm it, but continues as if I didn’t ask.
“I’m of the belief that those who come back the most haunted and unable to acclimate back into their former lives believe that, one way or another, they are part of the lie.
I went and saw for myself. Some of the missions I was sent on were not to protect and defend anything other than greed, and in turn, polarized individuals who now seek retribution for the damage those missions caused.
People who are raising their own soldiers with the intent to retaliate against that soldier whose first kill was that farmer, who has a little brother, and others like him. ”
It takes me long seconds to summon the strength to ask, “And where is your bubble?”
He scans the surrounding woods as long, painful seconds pass. His silence is admission enough. He has no bubble.
“Do you regret serving?”
“Not at all,” he answers instantly. “I’m a proud Marine and will be until my dying breath.”
“Your tattoos … What do they mean to you?”
He stares back at me as if weighing whether to answer before he finally does.
“The bird is my promise to anyone outside of the military just trying to survive under a government that’s abused the faith placed in them.
The other is to honor my brothers-in-arms. It’s my vow that, as long as it’s within my power, the next time boots from any branch hit foreign soil, it will be for the right reasons, so they’re never made privy to or feel part of that lie.
Then maybe it won’t be so fucking hard for them to come home and live in their own skin. ”
He rests at a little stream and palms some of the cold water onto his face as the sun catches on his swinging dog tags.
As I soak in his words, he surveys our surroundings, water droplets resting on his lashes, his stubble-cloaked jaw, and trailing down his neck.
His voice is distant when he speaks again.
“War itself is an ocean of gray. It’s muddled and, at times, too convoluted to fully know what is right and wrong. It can’t be deciphered so easily, and that will never change. But what I am certain of is, sending anyone to fight for no better reason than capital gain is fucking abominable.”
He faces me, his expression intent, and takes a few long seconds to speak.
“So what we have in common is that maybe you are a soldier in your own right who was forced to lift your gun. Like that farmer. So what grudge should I hold against you?”
“One you’ve decided I share with my father,” I say, no longer confused as to why his hatred for me is so hardwired.
He remains silent, and though I know my words are now useless, I have to know.
“Still, you walk with me, dine with me, and are actively protecting me. You can say it’s because of the intelligence I offer, but you have enough at this point to act alone, so why bother? ”
“I don’t need to see the evil to know I walk amongst thieves, killers, pedophiles, and every other kind of sick fuck imaginable.
I’ve been face-to-face with more evil than almost anyone I know.
The difference between them and you is that they don’t go around confessing their evil deeds as you seem so intent on doing.
Your reasons for doing what you have to survive are like any other soldier, no matter what side you’re on.
But it all brings me back to my earlier point and begs the same question.
We can talk about religion and God’s existence all day long.
Still, I think the better question is … at this point, if we do believe in any version of a deity, God—the watcher or the active God—are we at all worthy of either version coming back for any of us? ”
“You don’t believe we are”—the truth is evident in his simmering eyes—“at all.” My voice shakes as I search for any sign that this isn’t the case from a man who guards a world he now seems to resent. “So why—” I swallow. “Why continue to fight?”
Dread cloaks me as what he just conveyed sinks in, ripping what remains of my own fight away from me. He’s made it far too easy to understand his reasons for his grudge and disgust.
He takes a long moment to answer, as if he’s summoning a memory before speaking. “Because I can’t forget what our original ambitions were, and I can’t accept this world as it is now. Though I’m getting really fucking close. Are we done?”
“Yes.”
“Thank fuck.”