8 Months Earlier

The spring sun high above was warm in its radiance, the breeze slightly cool as it ruffled my jacket.

Even with the clear skies a chill had begun to seep into my bones the longer I stood - the minutes having dragged on to well over an hour as indecision left me rooted in place.

'What the fuck are you doing?' I thought for what had to be the umpteenth time.

An answer still eluded me.

My duffel bag lay on the ground beside me, all of my meager belongings tucked orderly inside.

Once more my gaze swept across the ranch style home. It was just as I had remembered it to be - in both memory and dreams. Untouched by time it sat at the corner of the street, overlooking an expansive front lawn that was, and had always been, well tended to. A vibrant and lush garden sat just below where the living room overlooked; the dazzling display of colors a testament to my mother's natural tending.

She always did have a green thumb. A sense of nurturing that went beyond just her family and friends.

My gaze continued to sweep across the house, across everything. Familiar memories assaulted me, nostalgia hanging upon every inch I took in.

It was as if I could hear the carefree laughter of my friends and I carried by the wind.

Even now I could see myself playing in the front yard, kicking up tufts of green grass and staining my clothes much to both of my parents chagrin.

"Home," I mumbled.

The word sounded foreign to me.

I felt out of place, adrift.

I wasn't the boy that had ran away from here all those years ago.

That boy had died. I had been there. Had watched it.

Caked in blood and dirt on some foreign soil - in some foreign war - he had died alone and afraid.

Only the husk of that boy still lived. Nothing more than a simple shade - a blank mask concealing an ocean of blackness.

It was a struggle to keep the bleak thoughts at bay - from letting them swallow me up as I all but invited them in with my reminiscing. Steel bars were erected once more, the snarling wolf of my depression throwing itself against them undeterred - unrelenting.

With a sigh, a shake of my head, I leaned down to grab my duffel bag before beginning my journey across the cobalt steps towards the front door.

Each step I took made the door appear all the further away. My legs suddenly felt leaden, my movements slowing.

The first stirrings of an anxiety attack began to creep into my being.

I felt my heartbeat kick up, a drumming within my ears. Breath hissed out between my lips even as I fought against the desire to hunch over. Bile coated my tongue, invisible bands beginning to constrict my chest.

I wanted to run away.

Needed to run away.

This was a bad idea, I chastised myself. I regretted the decisions that had led me to this moment, to this place.

Nothing good could come of this.

I was ready to turn away. Away from all the memories that assaulted me at once, the sights and sounds of ages past brought back to life with my mere presence. Once more I was the young boy that I had been all those years ago. Fearful to come home after having stayed out for far too late.

Only this time it had been years instead of hours.

My body trembled, fists clenched at my sides as I fought to control my breathing.

You can do this.

Taking a deep breath, attempting to steel myself, I knocked on the front door.

The wait felt like that of an eternity, but must not have been more than a minute, before the sound of a lock unhitching met me and the door swung inwards.

My breath caught in my throat as my gaze took in my mother for the first time in a decade.

She hadn't aged, not that I could tell.

Her eyes still appeared as sharp as ever, her blonde locks the same style she had been fond of in my youth. The only sign of the years that had passed were the new crows feet below her eyes that hinted at a tiredness within her.

She gave me a quick once over before meeting my gaze with an almost impatient look.

"Yes?" She asked expectantly, keeping the door open only a fraction.

I couldn't fault her for not recognizing me. Even I no longer recognized the man that stared back at me in every reflection.

The series of flights and lack of sleep had only magnified my scruffy and haggard appearance.

"Mom...?"

At my one word, her gaze narrowed. I could see her truly taking me in, peeling away the layers that the last decade had created.

Tears began to gather in her eyes, pooling upon the fringes of her eyelashes before cascading downwards. The recognition was all too apparent.

"Grayson?" She asked, her voice stammering as she opened the door further. "Is that really you?"

My eyes stung at the depth of her emotions, the pain that was all too evident in her gaze.

"Yes, mom. It's really me." I answered softly, my voice cracking.

Her hands reached out towards me tentatively, fingers trembling, as if she wasn't sure I was truly real.

I stood unmoving as her fingers glided across my face - her face scrunching into a grimace as she traced the scar that mired my features.

"I never-" She began before her voice broke, sobs wracking her.

Stepping outside, she crushed herself against me. I could feel her body shake, her tears soaking through the front of my jacket.

My arms came up as of their own accord, returning my mother's hug with just as much force.

"My boy is finally home." I heard her blubber, words barely coherent.

Nodding, my own tears falling to join hers, "I'm home, mom."

***

My mom hadn't left me alone for more than a few seconds once ushering me into the kitchen - always hovering close by, her eyes quickly turning towards wherever I happened to be.

I knew her motive for it.

She feared that I would run away once more.

My promise that I wasn't going anywhere hadn't carried much weight - doing little to alleviate her fears.

"We didn't know where you and Dalton ever went." She began, sliding a coffee mug across the table towards me.

"Thank you,"

I cupped the mug, letting the warmth seep into my hands. I had never had a fondness for coffee growing up, always finding it bitter. It was only after several years in the military that I had come to love it - finding it a necessity in my day to day life.

The smell alone pulled me back in time, back to a simpler time. It was a time when I would find myself sitting around a table in a makeshift barracks along with Dalton, Tray, and Pete. It was always the calm before the storm, the moments of reprieve between the cacophony of noises that had become all too loud.

Lifting it, I took a sip, my eyes watching my mother over the lip of the mug.

I watched as her smile turned into a sad frown, the corners of her lips tugging downwards. "After the funeral...Well after the funeral we learned about what happened. Where you two had gone. Tidbits at least."

"I'm sorry I couldn't have been here for it." I was quick to answer, staring down at the table. The guilt still ate away at me - the knowledge that I had been a world away when final goodbyes had been uttered. "I was-"

"Was in a hospital in Germany." She interrupted, reaching across the table to offer my hand a reassuring squeeze. "The military man told us. Didn't give us much detail, mind you. Just that you had been injured during a mission. Wouldn't even say where you had been."

Nodding, I kept my thoughts to myself.

Injured was a mild way of putting it.

I had been torn apart.

"It was Afghanistan. At the time."

My mother didn't appear all that surprised, glancing down at her own coffee mug. "We thought as much," She answered.

Turning upwards to meet my gaze once more, she continued, "You two were always inseparable. We learned a little bit about what happened to Dalton. As much as the government was willing to say at least.

"They were very secretive, very vague."

"I can imagine." I answered, not knowing what else to say.

She appeared just as lost for a moment before her eyes flickered across my face, grimacing as she had earlier.

I knew the question was coming before she even did.

"Is that where you got the...?" She asked, her voice trailing off. Instead of uttering the words, she merely pointed towards her own face in question.

Nodding, my eyes turning down towards my coffee, "Yes. A few years ago... Well before everything else that had happened."

I felt no inclination to go into further detail. My mother didn't deserve to hear about the horrors of war. To hear how barbaric and base men could be to each other. Even now I could still see the blood on my hands - crimson stains that no amount of washing could remove.

As if sensing my discomfort, she tapped the table with both hands, her smile returning as I glanced up.

"Well all that matters is that you're home now."

Her words conveyed a true honesty, her genuine happiness easy to see.

I felt undeserving of it.

I deserved anger.

Hate.

"Are you planning to stay long, or...?"

I could see the fear in her eyes, the worry that I would be gone once again before she even had a chance to say goodbye.

Shaking my head, I offered her a wane smile of my own. "No, mom. I'm here to stay this time. I promise."

She sighed softly, releasing the breath she probably hadn't been aware that she was holding.

I was rewarded with a grin, blindingly bright, "I'm glad, Gray. I left your room just as it was."

"Thank you,"

She dismissed my thanks with a simple wave, "It's what mother's do."

I clenched my jaw, once more reminded of how undeserving I was.

"Go rest," My mom said, intruding upon my inner thoughts. "You look like you're falling apart at the seams."

In more ways than one.

"I will wake you when I have dinner ready and hopefully you will tell me more once you're up to it?"

"Thank you," I said once again, offering her a small smile. "I would like that."

I felt my mother's gaze upon me as I made my way towards where my old bedroom lay at the rear of the house, duffel bag in hand.

True to her word, my bedroom was just as I had remembered it all those years ago. The only addition was a few boxes piled off to the side, beside where my desk lay tucked in the corner. My PlayStation 3 still sat plugged in below a clunker of an old television - still ready for a gaming session after school that had never come.

Sighing, I was content to merely leave my duffel bag against the wall as I shrugged my clothes off quickly.

A shower would have to wait - fatigue pulling me downwards as if an anchor.

The bed was too soft, the room too quiet. A restless grew within me as I rolled back and forth, the minutes ticking by. Soft bed sheets suddenly felt itchy, clawing at my skin as if razors. I kicked them off forcefully, my growing discomfort palpable.

It was disconcerting being back home, back in the real world.

I longed for the sounds of the barracks. The sounds of my brethren sleeping; snoring and muttered sleep talking. Over ten years it had become the ambiance of my nights; akin to the sounds of thunderstorms during my childhood.

Now I was left with nothing but my own thoughts. In the quietness of the afternoon I felt my depression return with a viciousness that would not be ignored.

It had a life of its own; independent and malevolent.

It wielded sadness as if a weapon, forcing me to relive memories I wished only to forget.

No present or future seemed to exist for me; only the pain and failures of the past that I no longer could escape from.

I just wanted to forget.

I wanted a reprieve from the images, the sights and sounds, that tormented me endlessly. Visions of blood and torn bodies; women, children, friends, and foes. Hollow, glassy eyes that stared unseeing at me, into me.

Perhaps I had died that day. Perhaps this was hell that I now found myself trapped in. Forever reliving the pain that loss had brought me.

"Why wasn't it me instead?" I whispered softly into the darkness of my bedroom.

Although I pleaded and begged with my simple question - no answer came. No answer ever came.