50. Letters
Letters
Jackson,
I’m holding onto the paper so tightly right now.
They put his things in a footlocker today to ship back to Anna.
I had to sit there and watch them pack up his gear, his boots, the stupid inflatable pool float he bought at the commissary.
Everything he was, just reduced to a plastic bin.
I went out to the flatbeds afterward to look at the stars like I used to, but the sky just looked empty. I couldn’t see anything but the dark.
Every time I close my eyes, Jackson, I’m right back there.
I see him on the floor. I see the blood, and I feel the heat, and I can hear myself screaming his name.
I can’t sleep because the second the room goes dark, his face is right there staring back at me.
I’ve been awake for three days straight just trying to outrun it.
But I read your letter under my flashlight. I read it until my hands stopped shaking.
You said you love the guy who draws the ducks, but Jackson, I don’t know where that guy is right now. I feel like he died with Brody. There’s nothing left inside me but dust and grease and a chest that hurts so bad I can barely catch my breath.
The guys in the tent are watching me. They think I’m just grieving a brother in arms. They keep telling me to stay strong, to stay tough.
I have to nod and pretend they’re right.
I have to keep the armor on. If I tell them that my entire world just ended, they’ll ask too many questions.
He was my home, my safe place. I have nowhere now.
I am so tired of hiding, Jackson. I am so tired of being entirely alone in this hell.
Please don’t stop writing. Even if I don’t reply, even if I can only manage a few words. Don’t let go of the line. You are the only light I have left over here.
I’m trying to breathe.
Splash