A film had sounded nice. The way his expression flickered toward interest while I was scrolling through the live-streaming shows though had me deciding on cartoons instead. James settled in front of the couch, absently reaching and accepting his shake when I brought it for him. The antics of Bugs Bunny captivated both of us.

I took up a spot on the floor to join him. We spent over an hour like that until Bugs Bunny was shown chewing a carrot while sprawled along the top of a bomb.  A little imp with a mallet pounded away at the head of it. The scene had James freezing up.  So did I as I braced for the noise.

Then it occurred to me I should change the channel. That I could, I should say.

“Is alright James,” I reassured, working the remote to change the cartoons to music.

The opening chords to “Dreams” by The Cranberries quietly cut through the air. Somewhere in the middle of the song his posture began to lose its rigidity. Cautious gunmetal blue eyes searched the room before hesitantly settling on me. I offered a smile that I hoped would calm some of his anxiety.

“I like The Cranberries. Always cheers me up when I’ve had a rough time of things.”

He tilted his head a bit. Looked toward the tv when another song started.

“This band is The Cranberries. If you tell me what music you like, I can put it on for you.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared as I planted a hand on the couch to help myself up. He stayed put while I took our dishes to the kitchen to wash.

“I have to go back to work Monday,” I said when the dishes were put away. “I’ve used up all my leave time.”

His gaze was vacant, wouldn’t meet mine as I stepped back into the living room. I gestured toward the packet beside him.

“I’ll be here through the weekend to help. I’ll go to the store later to pick up a few things for you.”

His eyes scanned over the first page. The other pages were read just as quickly. At the end of it he lifted himself up to stand at parade rest.

Watching Bugs, his eyes had been animated. Not just an anxious alertness, searching for threats or this vacantness, but a… a child’s delight maybe? Nothing else gave it away, just his eyes. Looking at him now though…

“Are you anxious?” I asked.

He pulled his shoulders straighter. Swallowed as his eyes darted from the floor back to a point above my head.

“You don’t have to be anxious, James. I’m not gonna hurt you and I’m sure the police will find whoever hurt you before.”

He tensed when I took a step in his direction. I took the hint. Didn’t move any closer.

“What would make this easier for you?”

His brows dipped for a moment. He didn’t speak.

I waited. Gave it through to the end of “Linger.”

“What do you need?” I asked.

His next inhale was slow and deep. The exhale was equally measured.

“I want to make things easier for you until you’re back on your feet. Tell me what would make you less anxious. What do you need, James?”

Silence stretched for a few songs. The interruption about car insurance didn’t sway his attention from the spot above me in the slightest.

“Tell me what you need.”

The answer was spoken hesitantly. Softly. If the next song hadn’t frozen to load, I might have missed it.

“Orders.”

Orders?

“You don’t need orders, James. You’re not a soldier anymore, right? You’re a civilian now.”

At least I think you are. Are you? Or are you still active military?

The idea hadn’t occurred to him it seemed when his brows furrowed deeply. I waited a few moments while he sorted through his thoughts.

“Why do you need orders?” I decided to ask when he remained silent.

It took nearly as long as before, the moments dragging out, but he lowered his gaze to meet mine briefly and answered, “The Ghost… requires orders.”

He nodded to himself. Resettled his gaze above my head.

“Ghost?”

His gaze sharpened.

“James?”

Blank eyes. Moments later furrowing brows.

What did they do to you, lad?

“Your name is James. You told me it while in the hospital. Do you remember that?”

He held himself very still. His chest hardly moved with his breaths.

“You’re a person. Not a thing, a weapon. It was wrong of em to treat you like that,” I insisted.

The music came back on for a few seconds. The abrupt start and stop of sound gnawed at my thinning nerves.

“You’re a person, James. What does James need to make life easier right now? Tell me that please.”

After a minute he quietly said, “The Ghost does not have needs.”

“You’re not a ghost, whatever that means. You’re a lad, James.”

Ghost. Is that a code name? A rank? It’s not one I recognize if it is.

Orders. He said he needs orders. The Ghost requires orders he had said. Doesn’t have needs.

Separate. Disconnected. “Ghost” must have been his job title for whatever reason. That had been his title and somehow for some reason “James” had been drilled out of his head.

Am I misreading this disconnection? This confusion over his own name? The idea that he doesn’t have needs when everyone has them?

“You’re human. You know that right?” I asked quietly. Cautiously.

Without skipping a beat, he answered, “The Ghost is a weapon.”

Nausea swirled in my stomach. My fingers twisted together as I wrung my hands. I dared to ask, “For who?”

“The Ghost’s handlers,” he answered plainly. Unprompted he added, “The handlers decide what missions The Ghost is used for.”

Alright, so yes. Definitely a disconnection between himself and his training that apparently made him into a weapon.

A weapon. Lots of soldiers are trained to handle weapons. To be weapons in the way they’re trained to be lethal. But to actually consider yourself a weapon? Not a person, just a weapon. Why would someone push it so far…?

“Are you asking me for orders… because you see me as a handler?”

Please say no. For the love of God say no.

The seconds in between dragged heavily with unsaid implications. I found I couldn’t stand still anymore. Ended up fidgeting and looking back at the blinds covering the kitchen window.

“What does a handler do?” I asked aloud instead of being able to contain the thought.

He tilted his chin up the slightest. Took on an air of purpose as he rolled his shoulders and resettled into his stance with more certainty.

“A handler provides orders. A handler provides the mission. A handler oversees performance testing and maintenance. A handler administers punishment. A handler does not tolerate disobedience. A handler observes as The Ghost is returned to storage containment.”

Not a person. Just a weapon. Treated like a tool.

I sucked a shaky breath in through my mouth. Made my way to sink onto the couch before the shaking could make my knees buckle.

“I… I’m not a handler, James.”

Why couldn’t I have said that with a steadier voice? Where was the calm steady tone I needed?

Performance testing. Maintenance. Like a machine being sent to the mechanic…

Why the feck would anyone want to brainwash another person into such a mindset? There are soldiers who train for battle and then there’s just abuse. Chaos unchecked.

I swallowed back the sour taste in the back of my throat before asking, “I’m not a handler, but would you like to stay here anyway?”

Not James. Just a weapon. The Ghost. Ready to be pulled off the shelf for battle at any time. Out of storage.

I hope the bastards that drilled this into his head get what’s coming to em.

I sniffed and wiped my suddenly wet eyes. “I promise it’ll be better here. I can’t be here all day durin’ the week, but you’ll have a roof over your head. We’ll get ye healthy again. Much food as you like once you can stomach it. Good food. And when I get paid, we’ll go and-and I’ll help you buy clothes. Soft clothes. Warm. Clothes you like. Clothes you picked because you wanted them and not for any other reason.”

I’m rambling. I know I am. Rambling. Stuttering. Starting to cry.

“The police they- they didn’t find a match to your prints yet. It’ll be alright though lad. You don’t have to leave here if you want to stay. I’ll make it work Jamie lad. Help you get healthy and keep you warm.”

Am I just talking to myself? If they really drilled out any sense of self… If he really only sees himself as a tool to be used when needed… Can he understand what I’m saying?

God, if only I could see clearly past these tears. What does he look like right now? Is he still staring at the wall with a blank expression? Has anything changed?

“I know I’m basically a stranger.” I rubbed the heel of my palm across an eye. “You’re free to decide what to do of course. I’m not tryin’ to take your choice away.”

I rubbed my hands over my arms to fight off a chill. Took in a shuttering breath to try and stabilize.

In for four. Hold the breath for three and out for five.

“If you wanted to stay here, I’d be fine with it is what I’m sayin’. You could stay and I’d be here for you. I’m here for you if you want it, James. Just like family. I think you need that. You need family to look out for you.”

I’ve been told I get harder to understand when I get upset. Irish born and all. All the practice to tone it down some just goes away…

What a fecking mess this is. I’m supposed to be calm and reassuring. On top of things so he’ll feel safe. Instead, here I am rambling and crying and-and...

A gasp that wasn’t my own broke through my spiraling train of thought. The kind you make when the breath is knocked out of you. Something was said. I scrubbed my eyes and blinked away the last of the unshed tears.

“I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry. Could you say again?” I asked, taking care to slow down my words.

He stumbled back with a deep open-mouthed inhale. Caught himself with a hand against the wall. Wide eyes swung in my direction.

“Warm,” he said quietly. Then a little louder, “Warm.”

I wiped at an eye. Nodded at the shook lad.

“Aye James. We’ll get you warm soft clothes. Warm blankets. When the cold sets in, the apartment will be warm. I won’t let you be cold.”

The word became like a prayer to him. Little steps were taken while whispering “warm,” shaking like a leaf, before he stumbled down to his knees. I rushed to stand, and he reached for me, “warm” now becoming garbled as he loudly sobbed it, but when I got to my knees he pulled into himself.

What had they done to you? Being warm was… Being warm should be something everyone gets to have. I’m lucky to have it as well as I do. This though…

This anguish. The relief. It’s… It is telling. So telling.

Just a weapon. The Ghost is a weapon he said. And if they drilled it into him that he’s just a weapon then… why bother to keep a weapon warm?

Oh…

Oh James… That’s probably why you were starving too isn’t it?

Recognizing being human. Self. Stripped away from you… That wasn’t enough for them. Whoever “they” are. They barely kept you fed. They had to take away warmth too. Strip away even the thought that you could be warm, the bastards.

“Warm James. You’ll be warm,” I promised, aching to wrap him in a hug but too afraid to move and startle him. “You’ll be warm.”