Lucas
(16 Months Later)
After months of sleeping in my truck, you’d think I’d be excited by the prospect of sleeping in a bed. Instead, I’m anxious. Memories from the last time I tried are still fresh…
The sense of danger looming. My body on high alert, listening for the loud hissing whispers of incoming mortar fire. The fear of being killed in my sleep, of waking up to bodies, blood, and chaos all around me.
It’s an aftershock from years spent sleeping in combat zones. It’s a feeling I deal with most nights anyway, but there’s something about the quiet stillness of a bed that intensifies it two-fold. Like the comfort is a trick. A ploy by the enemy to catch me while my guard is down. I know it’s not rational. I know I’m no longer at war, but no amount of rationality can change that for over a decade, that was my reality.
It’s why I left the city. While at one time New York was my refuge, returning to it after this last deployment exacerbated my symptoms. The way sound reverberates around the cement structures is too reminiscent of the sounds of war. Common noises others barely notice increased my restlessness and intensified the panic attacks to the point I almost gave in to my demons.
As soon as the doctors cleared me, I got out of there in search of peace. Since then, I’ve stuck to traveling the state’s backcountry roads through the Adirondack Mountains. Staying in campgrounds along the way, basically living the life of a drifter survivalist.
“If the boys could see me now,” I chuckle at the thought, but the sharp pang that tugs at my chest cuts my amusement short.
They can’t see you now, you idiot, because thanks to you, they’re all dead.
The somber reminder rubs at the raw wound that’ll never heal. The guilt and pain are forever etched on my soul like a poisonous tattoo. The heinous memories and sordid details left behind a lingering filth that’ll never wash clean. It’s marked me as unworthy of the second chance I’ve been given, and it’s why I struggle to believe in much of anything anymore.
God.
Fate.
The universe.
That someone like me can survive to see another day, while good, more worthy, and deserving people had to die, is testament that no higher power exists. Or at the very least, no higher power that gives a damn about what’s right. We’re nothing but pawns in a game where we’re led to believe we control our destinies, when in reality the only thing we have any control over is our choice of when to give up and let death claim us.
And even that, you couldn’t do right.
It’s the gentle whine and nosing at my hand that snaps me from the dark thoughts that consume me. It makes sense he can tell when I’m slipping back. He had a front-row seat to our calamity and knows the nightmare intimately since he lived it, breathed it, and suffered for it just like I did. Forever scarred and deemed unfit to continue the mission, he and I are the same. Forever bound to one another by circumstances no one else could possibly understand.
“Thanks, boy. I’m alright.” I reassure him, though it’s the feel of his soft fur against the palm of my hand that reassures me. Nero is the one good thing that came out of all this. The fact he’s here and still saving me now fills me with gratitude. If not for him, I don’t know how I would make it through each day. A fact I’m almost certain rings true for him as well.
“We’re a fucking pair, aren’t we, boy?”
Coming to the intersection, I turn onto the major stretch of road that will take us away from the wild world that’s become our refuge. The best thing about backcountry camping is the solitude. It’s especially true during the cold months when the chill and snow keep even the most die-hard away. Out there in the wilderness, we could sleep in the truck. We could hike, hunt, fish, cook our meals, and for days, never see a single soul. It was a feeling of perfect peace. The solemn quiet I’d yearned for when I escaped urban society. But now, being forced back toward civilization, I’m overcome by a deep sense of foreboding. Aside from people and traffic, there will be lots of unknowns to contend with. Including sleeping in a bed, since people don’t take kindly to drifters living out of their cars. It draws attention. Especially in a small town like Ruby Creek, and attention is the last thing I need.
The unwelcome ringing of my phone cuts through the quiet. The sound amplifies the anxiousness that’s been building since we left the campsite this morning.
“Damn. I thought we’d have more time,” I growl under my breath as I reach to answer the call. Ringing means we’re already within the boundaries of civilization.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Lucas. Wasn’t expecting you to answer.”
“We’re almost to I-87. Guessing we’re far enough off the mountains to have reception.”
“So, you’ve decided then?” His muffled voice comes through the line as though it’s propped up on his shoulder. I can’t help but smile at the sound of ruffling papers, as I picture him at his desk multi-tasking. It’s who he is. The guy can’t sit still.
Pastor David Johnson has seen me through the lowest points of my life. As a homeless 17-year-old kid, he gave me so much more than food and a warm bed. He gave me love and purpose. Then 13 months ago, with a broken mind and battered body, he opened his home to me yet again. His offer to help me heal and find a new purpose is the main reason I’m still alive. I owe him, which is why I’m fighting so hard to get better.
“Yep, I need to finish this. Hopefully, wrapping things up there will help me move forward.”
Moving forward. A concept so simple, yet seemingly out of my reach. Until recently, it’s what I thought I was doing. Enlisting in the Navy. Becoming a SEAL. Serving my country. For 15 years I thought I was moving forward, but all it took was one bad piece of intel and a lot of bad luck for those 15 years to be for nothing.
“You planning to see your family?”
“Nah. Doubt they’ll want anything to do with me.”
“Come on now, you know that’s not true. Not after all the letters and private investigators. Those people care about you.”
I want to believe him, but after all this time and the way I’ve ignored their every attempt at communication, I’m certain our chance for reconciliation has passed. Plus, I’m not sure I can handle the rejection should they turn me away. The wounds of my past are still fresh, especially now that I’m stuck picking up the pieces of 17-year-old me.
“Maybe, but I’m not exactly in the best headspace right now.”
“I get it, son. You know I do. But it might do you good to reconnect. At the very least, maybe get some closure.”
Closure? There’s no such thing as closure for that part of my life. Like a choker around my neck, I’ve been powerless to break free from it after all these years. If time and fighting wars on the other side of the world haven’t lessened the guilt and heaviness around my heart, I doubt closer proximity will do the trick.
“I don’t think…”
“Son, you know I steer clear of telling you how to live your life, but I think it’s time you stopped pussyfooting around your problems. I’m not just talking about Afghanistan. Your avoidance issues started way before that. Back to when you first showed up on my doorstep, a sad, angry kid. Your parent’s death, your sister, you ran away and never dealt with any of it. And hey, I get it. Life almost broke you, but your sister and the Barrett girl, they’re still there. Both are still waiting for you to come home. You say you’re trying to figure out what comes next. Well, those two girls might just be the key.”
“Look, Pastor…”
“No Lucas. It’s time. You’ve told me you don’t know what else is out there, that you don’t know where you fit anymore. You went as far as telling me the whole point of living out of your truck these past four months was to help you come to some sort of resolution. So perfect, get in that truck of yours, go home, and see what you find. Because what if everything you’re looking for is back there with the people you left behind?”
Clearing my throat, I swallow down the emotion. Tendrils of anger and sadness choke me up, as the man I look up to most in this world gives the same speech I’ve been giving myself and ignoring for over a decade. Except he says it like I don’t know what’s back there. Like I don’t remember everything I lost. Everything I had to give up. All the love. The sense of community and familiarity I so desperately crave. I remember it all. The real problem is that I don’t deserve it. Not after everything that’s happened. Not after everything I’ve done.
The sudden tightness in my throat is my first warning. Nero’s high-pitched whine is the second. But this time, not even his frantic attempts at getting my attention can pull me out of the black hole that’s sucking me under. The pressure in my chest joins in the foray. Building. Constricting. Squeezing and threatening to cut off my airway.
No! No! No! Not now!
But this is my life since Kabul. An endless downward spiral, cycling in and out of the pits of hell. As I attempt to even out my breathing, I slow the car, pulling it onto the shoulder for safety.
“I hear you.” My voice is gruff, and I pray that he can’t hear the terror in the harshness of my breathing.
“Listen, think it over. Take care of business, but be open to reaching out to your sister at least. I know you lost a lot in that town, and I know you’re still recovering from what happened 16 months ago. Just remember, though it feels like you’ve lost everyone, she is still there. Waiting. For you. It’s not too late, Lucas.”
“Okay…” I relent, desperate to get off the damn phone. “Gotta go. Call you when we get there.”
Hanging up before he can respond, I open the door and rush out of the car. Nero, with the agility of a Belgian Malinois, is out before me, running ahead, though in my mental state, my awareness fades and I lose sight of him. Through desperate breaths, I search for the oxygen I know shouldn’t be this hard to find. Determined to hide my vulnerable state, I stumble to the passenger side of my truck, where I collapse. My back to the car, my forehead lowered to my knees. My racing heart is pounding so hard I hear it throbbing in my ears, while beads of perspiration trail down my clammy skin.
Fighting to remain conscious is taking all my strength, and the harder I work to pull air into my lungs, the more it feels like I’m dying. Suffocating in the open air is yet another cruel joke dealt by a universe that hates me. Such a punk-ass way to go after everything I’ve survived. With black dots appearing in my periphery, I resort to the only thing that ever works to pull me back. Resigned, I close my eyes and let the images come.
Memories of whiskey eyes the shape of almonds. With one look, those eyes could pry me open. The flawless skin, so pure and soft, her touch, the only one that to this day has ever silenced all my pain. Little did she know she was my crutch; the only person I’d let see me break because in her I’d found my strength. Somehow, her love was strong enough to hold my pieces together when I couldn’t do it for myself.
She was my best friend. My first love and the only girl to own my heart. She was the embodiment of all that is good and beautiful in the world. Even back when we were kids, I knew she was special. I can’t remember a time I didn’t love her, and with every year that we grew and matured, so did our love, evolving into something timeless.
When we were young, I thought she’d always be a part of my life. But that’s the problem with the innocence of youth. It lets you believe in fairy tales and happily ever afters. On the other side of childhood, the reality is much different. Real life is dark, soul-consuming, and destructive. Just when you think you’re getting ahead, the universe takes it all away simply because it can. I first learned that lesson at the tender age of 17. It’s why I left in the first place, and why I’ve stayed away ever since.
With my breathing returning to normal, the panic is quickly replaced by shame. Pastor David thinks my apprehension stems from leaving my sister behind, but that’s not true. I left Jen to give her a chance at a better life, a decision I’ve made peace with. Instead, my avoidance issues have everything to do with Embree and the way I left her.
After all these years, I still can’t let go of her or that night. Still haven’t forgotten the feel of her lips, the softness of her skin, and the utter perfection in which our bodies fit as if she were made specifically for me. Never again have I felt what I did with her that night. Not with anyone. And the fact I took the gift she gave me and then walked away without a word still haunts me. I’m positive I broke her heart when she woke to find me gone that next morning. It’s one of many reasons I’ll never deserve her, and why it’s not my right to use her memory to ease my suffering.
Running a hand over Nero’s soft ears, I push away the feeling of hope that infiltrates my thoughts when I think of her. That kind of happiness isn’t meant for someone like me, so I shake off the remnants of the panic attack, then gently lift my best friend from my lap and rise to my feet. While I understand Pastor David’s intentions, the fact is, I can barely keep it together on a good day. After all these years and after everything that’s happened, seeing her or my sister is the last thing any of us need.
“Let’s go, boy. Time to get this done and over with.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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