3. nix #2
Climbing into the guest bed, anger burns deep in my soul that I can no longer share a bed with my wife.
For as long as I can remember, I’d always aspired to be a soldier.
And my time serving in the army fills me with pride, but the price I pay daily is steep.
The scars I carry are far too heavy, and they’re going to cost me my marriage if I don’t deal with the fallout.
Maybe I need to get some help. Talk to someone. Lord knows I’ve always told my men to talk it out. Not to let things fester.
I lay my head on the pillow, my hands cushioning my head, and stare at the ceiling. I want things to go back to how they were before. No, I want things to be better than they were before.
I love Abbi more than life itself, and I need to remind her of that by putting in the effort to show her.
I failed again today, but I won’t fail tomorrow.
Carefree laughter rings out from the front gate, something that’s rare at camp.
One side of my mouth tips up when I see a local boy kicking the soccer ball—Wyatt will be happy.
The guys should patrol the gate, not play with the local kids.
I should stop the kids coming around, especially so close to our base, but it’s the one glimmer of joy in this hellhole.
Wyatt misses Evan and playing soccer with the local boys helps him to feel closer to his son, even though we’re thousands of miles from home.
I’m a firm believer in taking care of my men’s mental health, and this is one way to do that.
Shane’s with them. He doesn’t join in as much, standing on the periphery, but I can see the smile stretching his lips from here as he watches Wyatt horsing around with the boy who hasn’t bothered to remove his backpack.
The ball goes wide, and Shane jogs away from the duo to reach it and keep it in play.
A deafening blast rings out, and the ground shakes violently. The ensuing shockwave launches me to the side, and I hit the ground hard, banging my head, making me woozy.
Heat and piercing pain slice my arm and leg.
Dust and smoke bloom, and I shake my head to relieve the ringing in my ears, but it makes no difference.
It takes a second for my mind to catch up with what just happened.
Shouts fill the air; confusion and disbelief as thick as molasses.
Chaos erupts as men and women run toward our injured soldiers, as they’re trained to do.
I stagger to my feet, ignoring the pain radiating from my arm and leg, and race toward the mangled gate.
My heart pounds like thunder, the blood in my veins surging as adrenaline propels me forward.
Carnage lies all around me when the dust finally settles.
Maimed limbs assault my vision, and the smell of burned flesh invades my nose.
The pungent fumes make me gag, and I try to temper my breaths so I’m not drawing the horrid scent into my lungs.
The destruction is like nothing I’ve seen up close before.
I don’t even know where to start to be of any help.
Dizziness steals my balance, and I drop to my knees, slamming my palms into the dirt to stop myself from face-planting.
A hand grips my shoulder, and I look up, still trying to make sense of my surroundings.
“Sergeant!” The soldier’s face blurs, and he shakes me before looking away. “Over here! I need help over here!”
My vision goes fuzzy, fading in and out. My body feels too heavy. My eyelids droop, and blackness and silence wash over me.
I jolt awake, gasping for breath. My chest heaves and my heart thunders.
My veins carry adrenaline as if I need it for my very survival.
Slick sweat coats my body, and I scrub my hand harshly down my face.
My skin burns as if I’ve been doused with gasoline and set on fire.
Flinging the twisted, damp sheets away from my body, I shakily climb to my feet, holding onto the drawers for stability.
Rubbing my arm and leg, the phantom pains set off by my nightmare feel almost real.
I walk over to the window and move the curtain aside to glare at the night sky, only to find it showing off the stunning colors of dawn.
Damn, I slept longer than I thought. Surprising, really, with all the turmoil in my head.
I quickly make my bed and then head into the master bedroom to shower.
I stop dead in my tracks when the bed is already made and there’s no sign of Abbi.
Spinning on my heel, I race to the kitchen.
I don’t want another day to go by where we don’t talk.
Yesterday was on me, but I refuse to let any more time pass.
The kitchen’s empty; not a single sign she stopped to have breakfast, and when I check the garage, her car space is empty.
Damn it!
Racing back to the guest room, I grab my phone and dial her number. It rings twice, then goes to voicemail. I drop my head in defeat. She declined my call. “You’ve reached Abbi. Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Beep!”
“Uh … Abs. Where are you? We can’t talk if you avoid me.”
I end the call, then wince. “Shit!” That came out wrong.
I dial her number again and get her voice message again. “Uh, Abbi. I didn’t mean it like that. I guess you’re heading to work early. Can we … uh … can we meet for lunch today?” I sigh, gripping the side of my neck. “I’m sorry about last night. You have no idea how mu—”
A long, high-pitched beep cuts me off, and frustration burns through me. It takes everything in me not to throw my phone across the room. Smash it to pieces. But where would that leave me? No way to communicate with Abbi.
Then an idea hits: maybe I don’t have to wait until lunchtime.