7 Fletcher Are You Really Okay?—Sleep Token
Fletcher
Are You Really Okay?—Sleep Token
When you wake up in military hospital, they ask three questions.
Name.
Age.
Rank.
Because we amount to little else, right?
From the moment I enlisted, I had my whole life mapped out. Each milestone to hit. The weights, personal bests, and muscle targets needed to reach basic training. New goals. Promotions. Rising through the ranks until I achieved seniority and became our squadron’s pilot.
A, B, C.
Eleven years of my life spent fulfilling that sole purpose.
All for nothing.
You don’t join the armed forces expecting a medical discharge, but on some existential level, you’re always prepared for it. Or so they say. But I never prepared for a life outside the air force or contemplated the chance that I’d one day be forced out.
What was the point?
I was fucking invincible.
From the minute I set foot in my first Typhoon fighter jet, I was addicted to the thrill of having my insides compressed against my spine by the megaton force of propulsion. The sheer power of traversing miles like mere millimeters and hovering high above the world like a god.
After the confines of growing up in the sleepy foothills of rural England and being deployed across four different continents, I finally had a purpose. I was just a meathead from a broken home, but I actually made something of myself. I belonged. I mattered.
What now?
“Fletcher? Are you listening to me?”
Swallowing the razor blades shredding my throat, I flick Sterling a glare.
“Fine, whatever,” he grouches. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
After grabbing the fresh rose-and-lily bouquet from the dashboard, Sterling leaves the truck with a huff. It rocks from the force of his door slam as he stomps towards the pub to deliver what I’m sure will be a shoddy apology.
He’ll be lucky to leave with his legs attached. Cassidy won’t take lightly to whatever shit he pulled while wasted at the weekend. Honestly, I didn’t care enough to decipher why I had to scoop my best friend off the pavement. With my voice gone, my priorities have been vastly simplified.
As a matter of fact, I care about very little these days.
Breathing? Barely interested. Talking through hand signals or whatever shit they’re suggesting?
I’ll pass. There’s nothing left to say. My ability to ever communicate again disappeared in the crash.
All I have left is chronic pain from severe laryngeal burns.
Everyone looks at me with pity in their eyes.
That’s why I stopped going out. I don’t need to see their shock and disgust when they see my scarred flesh, ugly and mottled like some half-demolished rubbish heap.
It’s bad enough that my roommates have to witness the sweat-soaked state that I jerk awake in when sleep finally takes hold.
Within a few minutes, Sterling’s traipsing back to the idling truck. Hmm. He looks even more contrite than when he scuttled inside. Tail between his legs, he sluggishly climbs in, then bangs his forehead against the steering wheel.
“I got out alive,” he mumbles.
No small achievement.
“She’s barred me from the tavern until I, and I quote, pull my head out of my ass. Apparently that dickwad ex-husband of hers is thinking about pressing charges for common assault because I punched his stupid face.”
Ah, it was a fight. Also unsurprising.
“Shit! I’ve made such a bloody mess of this. Andy was running his mouth, and I just saw red. I hate what he did to Cass.”
Despite leaving Hawkthorpe at eighteen to enlist, I met Cassidy’s ex enough times over the last decade to form my own opinion. Assholes who don’t respect their women deserve to be taught a lesson. He should’ve been worshipping the ground she walked on.
If given the order, I could erase him. Quite easily. Infiltrate his home without leaving a speck of evidence. Quietly remove his stain from the face of the earth. There are plenty of methods that would fly beneath the radar. You learn just how easily humans can be dismantled in the military.
Tempting . . . Very tempting . . .
“Shit, I’ve got another apology to make before we head into the city for your check-up. Do you mind?”
Shaking my head, I focus on the road ahead.
“Alright, let’s get this over and done with.”
Sterling navigates cobbled streets into the town centre.
It’s sleepy on a mist-soaked Monday morning in the dead of winter.
Hawkthorpe is undeniably beautiful with its traditional stone cottages, but to me, it’s just a living grave.
Behind the picture-perfect postcard landscape, rolling hills, and thatched houses lies the home to plenty of ghosts who never escaped.
Tucked into the lower street off the town square is Hawkthorpe’s traditional stone-front bakery. Jen has run the place since the nineties and refuses to retire. I swear the sugar cookies and homemade sausage rolls haven’t changed since we stole petty cash from our parents to buy them as kids.
“There.” Sterling nods towards the lit storefront. “Outside.”
Sure enough, his target is sitting on a wooden memorial bench outside the bakery. Steam curls from the rim of her takeout cup as the sad-eyed stranger who helped save his sorry ass nurses her morning coffee.
My heart sputters.
She looks . . . so alone.
Her chin is tucked, face buried in an oversized puffer coat that protects her from the cold. She sips her coffee slowly, seeming to savour each hit with the appreciation of a captive emerging to see the light of day once more.
What the hell?
I might be living half a life, but I can still acknowledge why Sterling’s got himself all tied up in knots about embarrassing himself in front of this woman.
She’s quietly beautiful—the elegant neck of a swan, all defined features and smooth skin, short hair curling at the ends like an iridescent oil spill.
“Cass said she gave her the day off. Eden’s been helping out at the pub since she rocked up.” Sterling hesitates, chewing something over. “No one knows why she’s in town or what her story is.”
And that clearly annoys the fuck out of him.
He ought to take a leaf out of my book. Life’s a lot more peaceful when you don’t care about anyone or anything. Myself included. I couldn’t care less why Little Miss Helpful has decided to hang around, and Sterling shouldn’t either.
Selecting the second bouquet—a colourful arrangement of yellow roses and daisy sprigs—he clambers out to issue his second apology. Like a total hypocrite, I crack the truck’s window to listen in on their conversation.
I’m just looking out for him.
That’s all.
Frigid mist particles carry scraps of conversation to me. Sorry. Drunk. Complicated. Eden wears what can only be described as a frown of disillusionment. She isn’t letting Sterling off the hook that easily. For such a mousy thing, it would appear that she’s quite forceful when needed.
A hidden backbone. Good. With looks like that and a palpable aura of vulnerability, she’ll need it. Else this world will chew her up and spit her right back out.
Eyes rounded in mistrustful saucers, Eden studies the hand-tied bouquet.
Liam was covering for his mum at the florist and threw them together in honour of Sterling’s apology tour.
It doesn’t seem like the extravagance has quite won Eden around; she’s eyeing the thing like it’s a loaded pistol pointed at her temple.
My shredded throat spasms when Sterling hands it over, brushing her wrist in the process. Her recoil is an obvious reflex. The kind only honed through experience. I don’t think he even clocks it, but I know a trauma response when I see one. I have enough of them to manage these days.
Those timid but oddly fierce eyes are hollowed out for a reason. The question is why on earth that realisation makes my heart pound even harder while the muscles in my oesophagus scream in agony.
Every limb locks tight when Eden stands, tossing her empty coffee cup and reluctantly cradling the bouquet to her chest. She follows Sterling over to his truck, her eyes trailing a ghostly path over my skin through the windshield.
Please don’t look at me.
I don’t want to be seen like this.
“Hey, Fletch?” Sterling cracks the door open to address me. “Mind shifting over? Gonna give Eden a lift into town.”
My eyebrows shoot upwards of their own accord.
“Please,” he adds emphatically. “She wants a change of scenery.”
Huh, not leaving then. Wonder how he feels about that.
Nope. Don’t care. I don’t give a shit.
With a loud exhale, I scoot over into the tight middle seat. It’s a hell of a squeeze at my size. I’m spilling over onto the passenger seat where Eden contemplates the space, one canine sinking into her bottom lip.
“Don’t worry,” Sterling reassures, a faint smile in place. “He doesn’t bite.”
“You sure about that?” Eden jokes.
“Well, now you mention it . . .”
“You really don’t need to give me a ride.”
“Eden, please. It’s the least I can do.”
Blood red blossoms where her lip is trapped by her tooth, creating a deep swell.
Am I that intimidating? Is it my burns? She can’t even see the worst of them.
Fuck, leaving the house was a mistake. I don’t need a check-up, they won’t tell me anything new anyway.
I could still go back to smashing kitchen tiles.
The ever-present ache that tears up my chest and larynx grows wings, its flight spreading sizzling fire through my vocal box. Hot chemicals and searing ash rip apart the damaged remains of my voice. The same fire that stole my tongue and left me half a man.
I’ve found my home on the edge of that terrifying precipice ever since those three damn questions. Name. Age. Rank. Nothing but an angel’s breath holding me back from plummeting right off the fucking edge. God, how I’d love to hurl myself into its abyss.
“Are you sure this is okay?” she whispers uncertainly.
“He’ll behave.” Sterling’s voice filters in. “Right, Fletch?”