Chapter 3
JD flicked a quarter through the seam at the corner of the shack. It bounced off the floor and rolled, drawing Earl’s attention. He twisted away, pulling the pistol away from my head for an instant.
I spun free.
It gave Jack a momentary window.
BANG!
JD took the shot.
Muzzle flash flickered.
The bullet rocketed across the shack and drilled into the back of Earl's shoulder, splattering the front wall with blood. Earl’s hand went limp, and the pistol fell to the floor, clattering away.
Tyson kicked the door open and stormed inside, his rifle aimed at the dirtbag. “On the ground, now!”
Earl clutched at his shoulder, his face twisted with pain. Blood oozed through his fingers. “You fucking shot me, man!”
“Get down! Now!”
Earl sobbed and complied, his right arm limp.
Tyson kicked Earl’s pistol to the far corner, then pounced on the scumbag. He slapped the cuffs around his wrists and wasn’t too gentle about it. Earl groaned in pain.
JD rushed into the shack. "Are you okay?”
Frazzled, I nodded.
He released my handcuffs and pulled the gag from my mouth. I gave him a tight hug. "Thank God you found me.”
Jack escorted me outside and signaled Tango One. The helicopter touched down in the meadow a few moments later.
The nightmare was over.
But it had really just begun.
For the next few weeks, I was a basket case.
I couldn't sleep, and when I did, it was nothing but nightmares and cold sweats. The scenario replayed over and over in my mind on a loop. Like a bad song stuck in your head. I’d been in dire situations before.
I’d even been shot once. But for some reason, I just couldn't shake it.
Sometimes you skate through life oblivious to the danger. Then one day you realize just how precarious life is. That it can all be stripped away in the blink of an eye.
The lack of sleep only increased my anxiety.
I kept going about like usual, acting like nothing was wrong.
I didn't really want to say anything to anybody. It was embarrassing, and in a way, I felt weak for struggling with it. I had survived. I was able to walk away where so many weren’t.
Maybe there was a bit of survivor's guilt.
If Tyson and JD hadn’t been on top of things, I would have been dead. And I can only imagine the last minutes of my life would have been worse than death.
I tried meditation, melatonin for sleep, and maybe a little medicinal herb. Nothing really helped. Like clockwork, at 3:00 AM, I'd jolt awake in terror.
I may have had a glass or two of wine in the evenings to help me sleep. Maybe a little more than two. With as much as I worked, I was used to falling in bed and sleeping like a rock. Managing the bar at Diver Down was a full-time adventure.
A friend said, "Maybe you should talk to somebody about this."
"I am talking to someone about this. I'm talking to you."
"No. A professional."
That hung in the air like smoke.
I’d never seen a therapist. I always figured I could work through my issues, whatever they were. Who knew my life better than me? Plus, I didn't feel like spilling the intimate details of my life to a stranger.
My PCP’s solution was a script for sleeping pills and an anti-anxiety med.
I kept going through my routine, hoping something would change. That one day, a switch would flip, and everything would go back to normal. I’d stop looking over my shoulder constantly, hoping the dread of coming home to an empty apartment would fade.
But it didn't.
I was a few weeks into this new normal when Vanessa called. She had no idea what I had been going through. I hadn’t spoken to Vanessa in years. It just happened to be good timing.
We’d been friends in high school, but things happen. People drift apart. We had some issues and a little spat. But that was a long time ago. And now seemed as good a time as any to mend that fence.