42. Ryan
Ryan
The base was quiet, but the silence inside my head was a screaming match.
I lay rigid on my bunk, the flimsy mattress suddenly feeling like a slab of cold rock, unable to move a single muscle as the panic seized my chest. Every flicker of the fluorescent light became the flash of the IED, and the low hum of the generator transformed into the high-pitched whine of the blast. I was stuck in a relentless loop: the metallic smell of copper and blood, the heavy drag of the patrol, and the impossible, suffocating weight of the war pressing down on me.
I closed my eyes, desperately trying to outrun the images, but the darkness was worse, pulling me down into a familiar vortex of terror.
Brody was suddenly sitting on the edge of my bunk, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder.
“Ry,” he murmured, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the ringing in my ears and the internal noise. “You’re doing it again. You’re letting the sand win. Come back to me.” I tried to turn away, the memory of the explosion a fresh wave of agony that tightened my throat.
“It won’t stop, Brody. I can’t.” He squeezed my shoulder, his grip solid and very real.
“Yeah, it will. I’m right here, man, watching your six.
You think I’d leave you alone with that mess?
Just breathe. Focus on my voice.” He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips, deliberately changing the subject to something light.
“I was talking to Cory on the satellite phone earlier. He’s getting so big, Ry.
I even told him all about your ‘Cookie Monster’ and the care packages.
Kid thinks you’re some kind of sugar-fueled superhero, flying in with triple chocolate justice.
” He didn’t move, staying right there in the small room, his presence a physical shield against the ghosts of the valley, pulling me tether by tether back to the present.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing myself to feel the rough fabric of the bunk and the steady weight of my best friend’s hand, grounding myself in the quiet reality of us both being defensive.
Brody reached into my pocket, knowing that Jackson’s latest letter would be there.
He pulled it out carefully and started to read it to me.
Jackson’s words hit me like a freight train, pulling me out of the darkness.