The Fourth of July

"The ABUs were discontinued in 2021." I don't know why or how that was the first thing that came to mind. I think I was just so surprised to see him there, in the flesh, standing outside of my apartment building. Originally, when I'd come out to take a smoke, noise-cancelling headphones still pressed tightly over my ears, I'd intended to watch the fireworks with bitterness and contempt. Three years since separating from the Air Force, and I still hated the Fourth of July. It felt near disrespectful that the way the US honors its forces is to light fireworks that mimic the sounds of bombs dropping and gunshots. Despite my attempt to ignore the holiday altogether, nightmares had decided for me that I would be awake this Fourth of July evening.

That's how I found myself on the balcony, staring at David Murphy.

The uniform was obviously the first thing my brain registered. Vomit green camo with the rank on his shoulders. He still has his Airman insignia, two blue stripes looking like wings. I can't see most of his face under the shadow of his cap, but his shit-eating grin is almost as distinct as the outdated uniform. There was no doubt in the world that that was Murphy.

"You never wanted to switch over to OCPs anyway, Webber," he said. If this were a poorly-made film, he would be standing on his heels with his hands tucked in his pockets, but in the actual military, you were trained much better. We learned all the way back in boot camp to never even let our hands linger in our pockets when we were grabbing for something. Instead, he had one hand wrapped around the front of his uniform's coat, fingers rested gently on one of the middle buttons, looking like a mannerly butler of sorts.

Still in disbelief, I began to argue. "It seemed like a certified way to get my ass chewed. I've since changed my mind."

"You always said you'd need a magnifying glass to properly see an officer's rank in time to salute," he laughed, kicking a chunk of concrete in the street, before raising his eyebrows. "Still smoking cancer sticks?"

"Hasn't killed me yet."

"Not for lack of trying." He stepped closer to my balcony as he said this, his face a little more visible. Disappointment. Or maybe guilt. I'm not sure. It reminds me of my roommate, O'Conner, whenever I came back in from my smoke breaks on the balcony. She always seemed so worried, and I appreciate her concern and sympathy, but it didn't make the overwhelming guilt disappear.

"That's a little ironic coming from you," I snapped, feeling like I swallowed lead. My throat began to close up a little. I wouldn't cry, but I would get a little defensive, and who could blame me? What was he doing here? It didn't make any sense, not when I hadn't seen him since he was lying in a coffin. "You kill--....you're gone. Or you were gone. How...why?"

Instead of answering, he turned his face to the sky. The fireworks were still going off, but I hadn't even noticed them with him standing there. Reasonably, my focus had been preoccupied.

"Do you remember how we met?" he asked, turning back to me, ignoring my questions.

"How could I forget?" I scoffed. It didn't make me any less confused, but if I had a chance to talk to him, why wouldn't I jump at the opportunity. And it felt so good. Instant relief at hearing his voice, low and gravelly just how I remembered it. "We met in therapy. You attended the same group session as me, and we shared enough trauma and bitterness to hit it off. It wasn't exactly ethical either but..."

He contemplated that, as if he was verifying the details matched up with what he knew of the story. There was something in his expression that compelled me to elaborate, not exactly doubt but a kind of disbelief, like he didn't remember it like that. "We both had PTSD that the doctors didn't want to diagnose because it would mean kicking us out of the military. Like a medical discharge was something we didn't want....The program with Captain Rich saved me, but you--"

"It saved me too," he interrupted fiercely. There was something incisive in the way he said it that made me take a step back, despite the distance already between us, me on the balcony and him below, like some sort of twisted version of a Shakespearean play. "Sometimes I think you dismiss what you meant to me just because of what happened."

"You...you killed yourself, Murph," my eyebrows drew inward as I said it, unable to hide the pain I felt in saying it out loud. "I don't know how you expect me to take that. You can tell me I didn't fail you, but it happened, and I wasn't enough--"

"It wasn't about being enough," Murphy shook his head, seeming more exasperated the longer I spoke with him. "It was never even about you. You were important to me, Webber, seriously, but I was...tired. The nightmares never stopped, even during the day, and I felt like a...like a whimpering pussy."

"A pussy, for what?" I yelled immediately, gripping the banister on the balcony with white knuckles. Because I knew what he meant, and by the look on his face, Murphy knew too. At the funeral, his older brother Daniel Murphy had smirked. "This is the first time David has ever shown that he has any balls," he'd said, elbowing his younger brother. The younger boy, Ian, had agreed, sneering, "Only a pussy has PTSD for anything other than going into war." Their comments made me sick to my stomach, but I hadn't said anything. Maybe I was numb now to the callous words of military men when regarding the pain of other men. Maybe this was their way of grieving, however fucked up that it was. Or maybe they're just a bunch of dicks and so was I for saying nothing, but his mother was so distraught that it hadn't felt beneficial to confront them on their dismissal of him. But it was seared into my brain anyway.

"I'd been fighting what was done to me for a very long time," Murphy said simply. He didn't have to explain because I knew. We'd talked in group therapy, not about explicit details, but some of our thoughts and feelings reflected the trauma inflicted upon us without us having to say anything. One girl would flinch if a voice got too loud, and one girl didn't have it in her to speak up during therapy. Murphy had been battling an unspeakable violation a long time, longer than he'd been in the military, and I knew that the exhaustion he felt the first time I met him. Bloodshot eyes with dark bags underneath. A half-smile, not because he was cheeky but because the effort to raise a full smile would have taken energy he didn't have. He reminded me of what I saw of myself, except the nightmares I was plagued with involved the booming sound of bombs crashing to the earth.

"Why now?"

"I think you know that--"

There's a sudden flash and it takes me a second to process what's going on. I feel a sort of out-of-body experience, like I'm watching myself outside of my body. I see myself hurl my body over the side of the balcony, bursting into tears and screaming at the top of my voice for Murphy to MOVE PLEASE GOD RUN GET OUT OF THE WAY. I watch O'Connor slam the screen door open, lunging to grab me and keep me from falling. When had she even returned home? I'm fighting to release myself from her embrace, trying to see what happened to Murphy. I'm struggling, trying to elbow out of her grip, when I notice from my view above us both that she has a phone in the crook of her neck. She's crying too, softly sobbing, as she says, "911, please send help. My roommate is having another episode."