2
Christian
Ten Years Ago
Pulling my truck up to the base one last time was an eerie feeling. I had all my paperwork from my higher-ups, so I was just coming to collect my stuff from the barracks, but it just felt fucking weird. My ex-wife had already packed up her stuff and moved back to Arkansas after we filed for divorce. Picking up my duffel bag with my medals from the incredibly small dorm-like room and saying goodbye to all the other guys in the Wounded Warrior unit was just a finality to the end of this chapter in my life.
But it felt fucking weird. I already had all my appointments made with the VA and an apartment lined up with a buddy in San Diego, but that was about it. Besides my disability, I was really fucking lost. We all assumed that we would stay in until we were deemed “better” by the military, but the guys in my unit were getting discharged around the same time.
After we came home from Syria, we were immediately sent to the Wounded Warriors Unit for different reasons. Some of us were missing parts, and others were just fucked up in the head. I was the latter.
“Sir,” I offered to my old First Officer, who waited in front of my barracks room. I was in civilian clothing, and my hair had gotten quite long, with a beard slowly forming. It was definitely out of regs.
“Getting your stuff, and then you’re off?” he asked me casually, leaning on the door as I awkwardly walked around him to pack the rest of my room.
“Yes, sir,” I responded.
“When the bom—”
“Respectfully, sir. I have to go to a shit ton of therapy, and I relive the moment over and over again. I would prefer it if I didn’t have to be here,” I boldly stated.
“Of course.” He nodded and reached out his hand, and I shook his, beneath mine.
“You were the best special forces leader I’ve personally seen in a while. I wish you nothing but the best of luck in the future, West.” I threw the rest of my stuff in a duffel and tossed it in the back of my truck. I had been stationed in San Diego for most of my Marine Corps career until I went over to MARSOC on the East Coast.
I jumped into the truck and turned it on, pulling out on the road that led to the highway off base. With one glance around, I realized I didn’t know if I would ever leave this place, at least not in my mind. It kept me here, imprisoned in the trauma that I had to live with daily.
“Shit,” I muttered as I started the trek across the country to the West Coast. I guess this was one chapter that I would have to force shut.
A month later, I sat in a dive bar in the middle of San Diego, convinced some guy was following me. Everything made me paranoid lately.
It was one o’clock, but when you were jobless, and your brain was scrambled, you didn’t give a fuck what time it was. Getting out of the Marines meant leaving a life of structure. It was a way of living for the past eight years. Now, at twenty-six, I had no direction or goals, so I was drinking at a bar in the middle of the afternoon.
That was when I realized the barstool beside me was suddenly occupied by a man around my age with deep black hair, covered in tattoos and wearing all black.
“A glass of whiskey for me, and the guy next to me will have a water.” I shot my head over to him.
“The fuck you think you are,” I blurted, pissed off and very drunk.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Christian West,” the man said, looking straight at me.
“How do you—”
“I’ve been following you for a while. You look like shit now. Are you employed?” I shook my head, too drunk to argue with whoever this guy was, and how he knew me was irrelevant. After the accident, plenty of news articles circulated on social media. It had to be where he heard my name from.
“I’m here to offer you employment then.” I swiveled on the stool to face him. We must have looked like yin and yang to anyone else in the bar. Where he was dark and chiseled, I had mousy blond hair, a cross between stubble and a beard, and had worn the same clothes for days.
“I don’t need your charity,” I spat back at him quickly.
“Not charity. I’m here to offer you legitimate employment. You see, I need a personal security guard. What I can offer you in return is a six-figure job and benefits.” He looked around the bar. “But you would have to commit to stop drinking.”
Oh, tough act. Since the accident, drinking was where I felt solace. Mostly, it was just a huge distraction from the shitstorm that brewed through my brain every day. I was the borderline definition of an addict, which probably was just me in denial if I’m being honest with myself. Cutting out drinking would be really fucking hard.
“And you have to go to your appointments at the VA.” Damn, I needed to find out who this guy was and why he knew this. I was purposely missing therapy appointments that my old doctor on the East Coast had set up for me. I felt like the bar was doing a better job than the hospital, so why bother going there? It wasn’t like any form of psychotherapy would ever cure my type of PTSD. My trauma was too “complex,” as they described it to me.
“Nah,” I responded, then took a long pull of the beer. The stranger quickly snapped it out of my hand as soon as I finished.
“Who the fuck?” I barked at him.
“My name is Julian Marchetti. I think you will be surprised when you work with me. Let’s get you back on your feet and to the man who knows how to take people down instead of being the one already down.”
“Like I said, no.” This time, I grabbed the water and chugged it down. I needed to be a little more sober to continue this conversation. Instead, the man handed me his business card.
“Call me when you're ready,” he said, rising from his chair and paying my entire tab to the bartender. “Although I have a feeling it won't be long before that call comes. Your VA paycheck is still a couple of weeks away, and you've been sitting here day after day.” I almost stood to protest, insisting I could pay for myself, but then it hit me. He was right. I didn’t have a single penny to my name except for my disability allowance, which I was wasting on cheap booze in this dingy bar.
The guy left as fast as he came, and suddenly I was alone, once again, with the thoughts in my head. They swirled and swirled around in there, and it was really hard for me to reach out and focus on one thought. Before I came out here, I worked with my doctor about literally visualizing the thoughts above my head. Then my hand would grab one and read it, almost like I was cracking open a fortune cookie.
No money coming in for the next few weeks. Sitting in a bar alone drinking day in and day out. Living in my mid-twenties with a porn-addicted roommate. Already divorced with an ex-wife living back in our hometown. I was pathetic. I was a former MARSOC special forces unit in the damn Marine Corps.
I closed my eyes. The alcohol fogged the visualization of actually grabbing the thought. I shakily reached for the business card that the guy dropped off. Being a private security guard wasn’t that hard. I just had to follow this rich guy around and make sure he didn’t die. Plus, I could really use the money, especially if it paid six figures like he said.
I picked up the phone and dialed the guy’s number.
“Barely made it out of the bar,” he cooly responded when he answered. This guy was a fucking dick, but I needed the money, and badly.
“I’m in.”