25 Years

TW: suicide and s/h, violence and abuse, mental illness

           It feels like my head is the exhaust of a broken car, trembling violently, spewing out smoke and wailing to release the pressure within. With each thwack of my fist against my skull, it throbs worse, but I love the pain. It relieves me more than the lit cigarette in my right hand. I’m hoping my head catches fire as I slam my cigarette-hand against it, but I’d take any horrible fate right now, like spontaneously combusting from embers reaching my oxygen-filled lungs.

           I’m a person split in two between reason and feeling. When my forehead begins to tickle from the stream of human wine down my skin, my left brain makes me lower my hand and focus on sucking air between clenched teeth, as if I genuinely want to ease my body and slow down time.

           My left brain can’t concentrate for long. Maybe it’s because of the several concussions, but regardless of why, I’m thankful I’m able to take over again – the emotional me.

           The emotional me knows what he wants, and the left brain used to be able to keep me silent, but now, I can override my survival instinct and use the power to lunge forward and yank my M1911 off the coffee table.

           I’m gasping for air, now. My jaw aches and my cheeks are sour. The surface of my beautiful weaponry is smooth, dark, and shiny, glistening a reflection from the dim ray of the kitchen light around the corner.

           I blink and watch droplets of water form upon my pistol. as I grip the hilt of the weapon, my white knuckles stand out against my permanently tanned skin, looking as though they’re completely made of scar tissue.

           I shove my cigarette between my lips and take the pistol in my dominant hand. My head spins as logic and spirit wrestle within. Desperate, the former pleas that I look for a sign, compromising with compassion. But when I lift my head and remember where I am, I’m only further disgusted and discouraged. I live alone in this family home with reminders of what had been. I should’ve moved out a long time ago, but every time I considered, I remembered how pointless it is to put in all that work just to throw it away shortly after.

           My therapist suggested I try putting positive reminders around the house to remind me what I’m fighting for.  I remember being so careful going through the boxes, picking out the things that would inspire me, especially those that made me cry bittersweet tears. I had placed a small assortment of those items on my coffee table, but they were now covered with dust, napkins, old food containers, and empty liquor bottles.

           The photo frame kept a sweat-stained love letter from two decades ago alive. I didn’t need to read it to feel the words.

           There was the teddy bear that Georgy got me, which he made on his own at some store when he was little. He gave it an army jacket and named it Teddy, which I had nicknamed my Georgy because of his teddy bear eyes.

           When Charlotte left, she gave me her wedding ring, and I’ve saved it in its original box. Both of our rings are in there, in fact, and I always keep the lid folded open. They seem to always glisten, even in the dark, with the beauty and life she’s naturally imbued in them.

           Finally, there’s the unopened Jerusalem snowglobe. Georgy loved when I brought him snowglobes from my deployments, but my time in Iraq changed everything. Before he left with Charlotte, he gave it back to me.

           Maybe seeing those things day in and day out is what’s driven me to give up.

           I can hear a sharp breath entering my lungs, but I feel nothing. I’m numb all throughout. Maybe it’s nicotine or the vodka, but whatever it is, I’m grateful. A long time ago, I used to pray, and I always thought this would be the only other time I would ever pray again, but my brain is empty and my prayers go out to no one. I don’t need a haven. I need silence and total numbness. If I must continue existing, give me hell.

           The barrel is so cold, it feels hot against my skin. My chest burns with a fiery ache of anticipation and desire, and while I steady my hand, I focus on taking deep inhales from my cigarette.

           I begin to feel the peace: the soothing descent into nothingness, like I’m sinking into an infinitely deep, warm bath with soft bubbles and Epsom salt. My chest is full and my body is weightless. I don’t feel hunger. there are no expectations to meet, or people to please. There’s no bright lights or loud noises. There’s nothing but me – me without me.

           And I can’t help but smell her perfume and see his large black eyes.

           I choke on the smoke. I double-over on the couch, dropping the cigarette from my mouth onto the carpet, coughing violently, saliva dripping from my lips as I begin to whack my chest with the hilt of the pistol. My lungs and stomach aches and my throat stings. Through my tear-filmed eyes, I see the flare of embers on the carpet, and in instinctual panic, I stomp them out, continuing to stomp after the flame is out, my grief exploding into anger. I missed my chance. Though I hold that pistol in my hand, the courage has died out. My body hurts too much now. I’m afraid to survive, to suffer a life as a victim where everyone knows what, why, and how.

           Suddenly, I’ve trashed my living room. It always happens before I know it. The table is flipped, the couch cushions thrown, the book shelf knocked down. Once I catch my breath, I throw myself to the floor and begin to sob. Everything inside is pouring out, and instead of feeling red ribbons from my head on my cheeks and tasting metal in my mouth, my cheeks shine and my mouth tastes salt.

           I’ve hardly left the house these past few days. I feel like I pulled the trigger that night, but I know the reality of my continued existence. Since then, I’ve pulled out my collection of horror movies. I have movies dating back to the 1960s, but I can’t engage myself with the black and white films right now. I need to see fire.

           I’m halfway through a cannibal film when I flip the lid to my cigarette carton and find ash and nothing more. I curse my past self for being so selfish.

           After shrugging my leather jacket on, I grab my wallet and step out into the early morning. The crickets are singing a sweet song and the streetlights glow like stars. The sky is a peaceful shade of blue – not summer-sky bright, nor winter-night dark – somewhere in between as sunlight stretches from beyond the distant valley. I set out on foot for the gas station, which is about fifteen minutes away. As exhausted as I am, my wallet is too empty to waste on gas.

           Charlotte wanted us to move to a slow, uneventful suburb, far from Base. We agreed on  this house an hour away from my work, and that was years ago. Now that I don’t have to worry about the time or gas the distance took, I’ve come to appreciate the neighborhood, yet I can’t get myself out for anything beyond cigarettes and food. If I have to leave the house, I do it at night.

           I tend to get lost in thought while my feet follow a familiar path. But there’s something breaking past the barrier, which takes me a moment to capture. I recognize the smell of hungry flames.

           “Ryan!”

           My sweat sank into the shrapnel wounds on my face that became unified with the blood melting from my body. It stung like hell, but not more than the sounds of a brother in arms trapped.

           As soon as I enter the burning vessel, I felt the tremble of panic from my men as they tried to scurry out. I count one of them as they push past me. There’s three remaining.

           I keep my hands off the metal walls and use the outdoor light and surrounding flames to light my path. The tank is an oven and the toxic grey plumes carry the aroma of melting plastic and burnt skin. With the air growing thicker, I walk with a lower stance to keep a hurried pace but stay conscious.

           There’s a figure slumped on the floor against a wall. I hurry forward, recognizing Jacob by his dark complexion. He was a newbie who must’ve been sent into shock or knocked unconscious by the impact of the grenade. I hoist him over my shoulder and I waddle back to the exit.

           When I reenter the tank, I use a rag to cover my mouth and hunt down the last two men. It was Oliver and Joe who were working in the cockpit. I can hear Oliver’s cries for help.

           A panel overhead had collapsed, it was pinning him to his chair, one of his arms included.

           I whisper reassurances to him through a hoarse throat and urge him to save his breath as his cries soften. I must maneuver the block of metal and wires from underneath one of the armrests and prop it for Oliver to lift both of his arms and help me lift it off of himself. When we do that, we’re able to shove it up on the dash, and I lean over, holding it there as Oliver unbuckles himself and stumbles out from his chair. He’s slamming his fist to his chest as he leaves the cockpit, struggling to breathe after being stuck there, the panel pressing against his stomach for so long. I pat his back once as he flees as a reminder to keep going and then turn to Joe’s seat on the left. His head is slumped forward against his chest, unconscious, and I’m not even sure he’s alive but I try taking his body with as well.

           I press the button to unlock his seatbelt, but it’s melted. I rattle it, tug at it, my hands trembling with terror. Then, I’m struck with genius and yank my switchblade from a holster on my hip. I saw through the belt, but it only takes me a couple seconds for each one. I break the three belts and shove them off Joe.

           I pull his body from his seat and drag him out of the tight space until I’m able to lift him up onto my shoulder. Just as I turn to leave, I hear a crack and watch part of the roofing collapse on the path just before the exit, swarmed with flames.

           All I can do in that moment is breathe, and even then, I can hardly do that.

           I lower Joe to the ground and sit down beside him, wheezing as I press my fingers to his neck.

           I’m all alone in this tank, the vessel meant to protect us being my ultimate demise. I think of how, even I were to survive this, how much pain I would be in, physical and emotional. My skin would be blistered, my face would be scarred and healing for weeks, and I lost great men today, men like Joe, who had families and goals and dreams like I do. I lost these great men because I opted we take a different route than originally planned. I figured it was safer, but that was not the case.  I was about to be one of the examples of that.

           I have three options. One, I suffocate. Two, I burn alive. Three, I go out by my own hand, not by the hand of the enemy.

           As I slip my folded knife back into its holster, I trade it for the weapon beside it. The M1911 was always my gun of choice, it had saved me more times than I can count, and now, it was going to do it again one more time.

           I took as steady of a breath as I could and gripped the hilt in preparation. I reached into the front of my helmet and pulled out a sweaty piece of folded paper, which I pressed against my chest. The pistol found its way shakily to my temple and I felt my chest rise and fall heavier with anticipation as the fire and smoke burned my chest. My finger rested on the trigger and was just starting to apply pressure when white plumes fill the dark air.

           I think a lot about what would’ve happened if I did something else. Would I still be with Charlotte if I never joined the military? Would I be a different person if I had followed the original route? Would that family have survived that morning if I wasn’t there?

           The house had burnt down completely, but the family was unscathed, including their guinea pig, Sir. They almost lost their son, who went to the basement to attempt to rescue Sir. But I broke through a panel for the dryer tube and lifted him through.

           When I invited them to stay at my house, they insisted I had already done enough, but it turned out to be the best reward I could’ve received. I cleaned my home, had a dog to take for walks, listened to the sounds of joy as this family basked in all their luck, no matter how minimal it may have seemed to me at the beginning.

           It turned out the mother was a veteran as well. She was much younger than me, and hadn’t served nearly as long, retiring after her first term to start a family, but she was able to agree how terrible the barracks were and how we can never take back that first fight, or any that came after that.

           One morning, she and I were having coffee on the back porch, and when she thanked me, again, for giving her family a place to stay, I couldn’t stop myself from admitting to her what I had done, what I had tried to do, what I still wanted to do. I spoke of my regrets, my lost dreams, how I felt void of purpose since I left the army and since I lost my family. She was silent for a few minutes, and for the first time in a couple of days, I pulled out a cigarette.

           “Are you good at math?” She asked.

           “Hell no.”

           She laughed. “Okay, well, I have a math problem for you anyway.” I mumbled, “oh boy,” before she looked to me with glossy black eyes, smiling, and asked me, “how old are you?”

           “Forty-five.”

           “Right now, the average person lives, like, seventy to eighty years. How much longer does that leave you with?”

           I stared at her, paused, and said, “it’s too early.”

           “That gives you around twenty-five years.” She replied. Immediately, I groaned, looked away, scowling beneath my scratchy stubble. “And you have the right to groan.” I was surprised to hear her agree and looked back to her, once again intrigued as to where she was going with this.

           “But people are going to keep people-ing, and they need you. So get some rest, and when you’re ready, find beauty and protect it.”

           Her son ran up to the back door and pressed his palms against the glass, blew his hot morning breath on my door, and drew a heart.