Chapter Three
CAMP GEIGER
NORTH Carolina
Three Years Later
Mato
23 Years Old
Ripping Velcro fills the silence of the room as I pull my gloves tighter around my wrists. My sparring partner tapped out for the night, so it’s just me and the bag.
The sunlight filtering through the window grew dark hours ago, but exhausting my body is the only thing that chases away the thoughts that keep me awake at night. And I like to feel the jarring shockwave in my shoulders and chest each time I slam my fist into the bag.
Especially today.
Sweat slides down my face and neck as I work through the heavy bag drill I practice daily, turning my tan cammies brown around the collar and down my chest, as I grunt with the force of my knees and fists colliding with the bag.
I hate the fucking guilt and ache that consumes everything on this day. Even after three years. All I have to do is think back to driving away from everything I had ever known, my heart pounding against my ribs and fear trying to make me turn around, and I’m easily back in that car.
A little piece of me died with each mile I put between me and the girl who held my heart in both of her hands since we were children.
I don’t remember my mother; she died when I was so young that I only ever felt a longing for the connection a child has with their mother.
When my father died, I felt sadness and mourned the man who always taught me strength, patience, love, and humility.
But the fucking pain ripping me in two when I left Breanna was like nothing I’d ever felt.
My neck prickles and the hairs stand up to let me know I’m no longer alone in the room.
Grabbing the bag on its return swing so it won’t hit me, I look over my shoulder at the man who has been a constant part of every day since I came to Camp Geiger.
He is leaning against the doorframe with a folder in his hand.
Pulling my gloves off to drop them on the floor, I salute my CO, and he returns the gesture after pushing off the frame. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Taking an at-ease stance, I clasp my hands in front of me. His comment is just part of his dry humor, since I’m here every night without fail and he knows that. “What can I do for you, sir?” I use the less formal title since it’s so late in the evening and his visit is most likely social.
Even at the end of the day, his khaki uniform shirt is pressed with no wrinkles, and his breast bars are straight. Despite his meticulous appearance and his strict adherence to the rules, I’ve learned that underneath all of that is a man who genuinely cares about his men.
“You’ve done very well in the last three years, Lieutenant Corporal.”
His formal use of my title confuses me, and the skin across my shoulders tightens as my eyes lock on the wall directly in front of me. It doesn’t feel like a social visit anymore.
“Thank you, sir.” I say with my chin held high and my voice firm.
He stops in front of me, and one side of his lips twitches. “Relax, Mato.”
Without adjusting my stance, I take a breath and shift my gaze to look at him. “Thank you, sir.” Confusion is laced in my still firm, but softer tone.
This time, he lifts his chin as he locks eyes with me.
“You have shown discipline, integrity, exemplary physical fitness, and an outstanding capacity to lead and mentor, and it has not gone unnoticed. I am recommending you for the Martial Arts course to earn your instructor credentials, after which you will be transferred to Camp Smith for your MCMAI assignment.”
I’m being transferred to Hawaii.
When I earned my tan belt in boot camp in San Diego, grappling with other recruits was a way to channel my anger and the constant ache I felt after I enlisted.
Focusing on punches, kicks, and proper technique distracted my mind from the guilt and misery I wore like a raincoat, and I found myself using that outlet consistently.
I only recently considered it a career path when it was suggested I would make a good instructor.
My heart beats a little faster knowing I will be leaving the continent.
For a fraction of a second, I think it might be a good thing, but it’s no use, regardless of how many miles, or land masses, I put between me and Breanna, she will always be under the same sky I’m under, and she is who I think of when I look at the moon and stars at night.
After returning to the barracks right before lights-out, I pull the letter I’ll never send from my back pocket and add it to the others I keep in my footlocker.
One every month. This one tells her about my promotion and the upcoming transfer to Hawaii.
It also tells her how much I miss her. I know she’ll never see them, but I like the connection I feel to her by writing them.