Formation

by Ryan Leigh Dostie

  He glowers. “I just went off what was in the report—”

  “You were on his side long before the report even came out.” Now that I’m here, now that I have him here, I’m not letting him go. “And even if you didn’t believe…if you don’t get what happened, it said in the report that he said he was going to go to ‘that Dostie-chick’s room because she’s so wasted.’ He said it. That’s in the report! He knew I was drunk and purposefully…and in some states, like in California for example, it’s…it is rape…if you do that to someone you know is too drunk.”

  “This isn’t California, Dostie.” He sneers. “And he had a few drinks, too. Does that mean you raped him? Should I get CID? Maybe we need to report you, too?”

  That knocks the gale right out of my sails. For a moment I sit there, stunned, robbed of my rage. “But…” I start feebly. “He did it on purpose. I went to my room. I closed my door…”

  “It’s what you said in the report that’s important.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You tied my hands when you said it wasn’t rape.”

  “That’s not what I said,” I whisper, a soft desperation that goes unheard.

  “I can’t prosecute a rape if you say you’re not sure.” He drives the nail home then, a little too smug, one side of his mouth curled up nastily. “So I don’t know why you’re so mad at me.”

  The realization destroys me. I slump forward and stare at the floor. I finally get it then—why the whole case was closed, why everyone turned me away, disinterested. It was my own fault, my own words, and I shouldn’t have let them push me around, I shouldn’t have withered so easily, trying to do what they wanted. I should’ve stayed strong. I have no one to blame but myself. This is what happens to the weak. Tears roll down my cheeks, off my chin, onto my hands, and I have no idea what’s being said anymore. I can’t hear past the white haze in my skull.

  I’m done. I feel myself break. I don’t have the energy or the desire to sit here, to hold my head up, to breathe. I had been tying myself together with makeshift wires and 5-50 cord, thinking it would all come around in the end, that somehow it would be made right, because that’s what’s supposed to happen when you’ve told the truth, when your cause is just, and I was stupid and young and naive. I see it then and let go, spilling onto the floor, undone.

  In Captain Wells’s room, that relatively eventless evening in Iraq, I learn there is no justice.

  I drag my feet out of the room. I don’t remember being dismissed, or how the conversation ended, or even hear Sergeant Daniels and Lieutenant Patron follow me outside. I huddle against a cement wall, curled between the staircase and the wall, trying not to be seen. I sob like a child, arms wrapped around my knees, pressing my back into the wall, breathless.

  “I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid,” I gasp out again and again between sobs, trying to bury my face into my knees. “It’s all my fault.”

  I can no longer escape the truth that I had always been afraid of. It wasn’t Captain Wells who fucked me over; it was me. It was me saying the wrong thing, not believing in myself that night in that interrogation room, and I can’t face it. I wish I could take back the last few minutes, to dig the conversation out of my brain with a utility knife. I wanted to unhear it all.

  “It’s not your fault,” Daniels tries to comfort me, crouched by the stairs. Lieutenant Patron sits on the pavement beside him but I can’t see their faces. I want to slip into the wall, be swallowed up by stone. I want to disappear.

  “You’re not stupid,” one of them offers, too, but really, what can they say? They didn’t sign up for this. No one trains them on how to deal with a deranged rape victim. And I am deranged, trying to push myself through the wall, hands tangled in my hair, pulling at the roots, as if I can physically rip the memories out of my skull. I don’t know when they leave or how long they waited there; I’m just relieved when they go. There is no privacy in a camp in Iraq and I just want the right to break in silence, with no one trying to coax me out with pretty and useless lies.

  It takes me several minutes to realize someone else is there with me. I look up to see a Lieutenant sitting beside me. He’s a medic; I see the symbol on his lapel. I might know him vaguely, but we don’t greet each other. He simply smiles. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t try to comfort me. He sits in silent support. He doesn’t judge my tears, just calmly waits, until I become calm along with him. When I finally reach silence, empty, tears dried in streaks on my cheeks, he leaves just as he came, in silence, with a soft smile.

  It was probably such a small action for him. He probably never thought of it again, while I remember it always. Rumor had it that some weeks later his truck hit an IED. They said his skin burned off completely. I wish I could remember his name. I wish I knew if he lived.

  Reconstruction

  Some weeks after my meeting with Captain Wells, male King carves ANDRES LOVES THE FATTIES into the stone on one of the guard towers. It’s meant as a joke. People laugh. I never see the actual statement, but I hear about it, between their chuckles and tobacco-stained teeth. I stand in my tiny bathroom, a shared room newly fixed up and working, and stare into the silver haze of an old, shabby mirror. I stand naked, towel hanging in one hand, and see heavy breasts, round with fat, hanging downward, mouth sloped downward, the extra roll of fat around my waist sliding downward, as if my body is in a state of depression, spiraling down. The Iraqi sun has blasted my face and hands a deep bronze, but beneath the uniform is nothing but the white, fleshy rolls that have been building since the rape. I grab my stomach, fingers sinking into the softness there. ANDRES LOVES THE FATTIES.

  I dress quickly, dragging on a dusty uniform over wet skin, turned away from the mirror, as if to shield myself from it. This is who I’ve become. I’ve lost it all—the strong, wiry legs, the thighs thick with muscle, the slender curve to my waist, the arms hard and unyielding, and with it the girl who had held her head high, her gaze straight. I pause while dressing, hands hanging limply by my sides.

  “No.” I turn back to the mirror, to its dusky reflection. “No.” I say it firmly, the single syllable loud in the tiny room. And then I undress. I toss the uniform to the side and pull on my PT shorts and shirt. I lace up sneakers, toss my personal effects onto my cot, and run out the door. I huff and choke on air, heaving around all that fat, my body swaying with each step. And I run. Sweat pours down my spine, plasters to my head, and still I run.

  I run at night through the compound, watching the bats scatter over the walls, avoiding stray dogs that wander through the broken buildings. In the mornings after night shift, I commandeer the small, makeshift gym and do crunches, sit-ups, and push-ups. I eye my food and obsess, flicking out carbs, eating only meat and vegetables. I separate, divide, calculate anything that goes into my mouth. No concessions are made; no cheats allowed. I pop Hydroxycut like candy, carrying around an oversize bottle in one of my cargo pockets, regardless of the heat and the threat of dehydration. And I run.

  High on rage, I whittle myself down, my final attempt at a fuck you. I don’t swallow the end of a muzzle like Avery Langley did, like I have sometimes wanted to do. Instead I decide that I can slice off half of myself, the part that thinks too much, that cares too much, the part that replays Captain Wells’s words over and over again, and I shove it down under a trapdoor, stomp one boot down, and lock it shut. I will not be broken.

  I delight with the ability to no longer care. I stitch together my parts, hastily, haphazardly, and I’m beautifully and fiercely remade. I’m in love with this new me, because I don’t give a fuck about you, and that’s glorious.

  * * *

  A few weeks into my transformation, one of the medic captains grabs my arm in the hall, swinging me around to face her. Her blond brow is pinched together. “Dostie, you’ve lost an awful lot of weight,” she says. She’s concerned. No one else is.

  I grin in response. “Forty pounds so far.”

  She hesitates, her hand sti
ll clamped on my arm. “Are you doing it the healthy way?”

  “Sure.”

  Sure.

  * * *

  I run all the way to relevancy, which I never intended, but here I am, no longer the fat “shitbag soldier,” and people take notice. Specifically the men. Sergeant Daniels makes his way down the long, dark hall of our work building. I expect him to walk on by with his usual nod, a vague gesture of recognition, but instead he pauses by the edge of my desk, looking down at me. He stands there for a moment, as if weighing something I can’t see, then grabs that same old battle-worn chair he’d sat in months earlier when he took me to see Captain Wells. Now he turns it, straddles it backward, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin on his forearms. It’s a charming, boyish gesture.

  I surprise myself by not flushing.

  “You’re looking good,” he says, light and airy, making it sound more like a compliment on my hard work than a sleazy pickup line. “Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water with those,” he adds, pointing to the bottle of Hydroxycut that sits on the desk.

  “I’ve been drinking a ton,” I promise and meet his gaze, a little startled by the casual attention. I allow myself to wonder if he’s hitting on me. Then I realize that although my waist may be small now, he likes women with large, heavy breasts that can’t be contained by the brown undershirt or the buttoned-up DCU top. He picked a few girls out of the platoon like that, or so the gossip says, girls he held close to him for a brief moment, who got special treatment, and I’m not up to par. For all my weight loss I’ve been awarded small breasts that get lost in the uniform top, and for some reason I’m relieved.

  Sergeant Daniels trades a few tips about dieting and exercising. He has a loud laugh and an ease with himself that I still envy. And yet something is different here. The dynamics are suddenly askew. I’m not sure if it’s because he respects me now or because I don’t care if he does. I’d like for him to like me; I respect him and there’s still a sense of basking in the sun when he’s nearby. Yet I match him in tone, no longer burying my gaze into the ground. There’s sharpness to my confidence. Like me or don’t, that’s on you, not me. I’m done giving a fuck.

  * * *

  Toward the end of our first year in Iraq, Captain Wells transfers out. He goes home or to another unit, somewhere else, and I don’t care as long as he’s not here. It happens suddenly. I never ask where he went; no one does. No one cares. We like Captain Noble, our new company commander, who is young and slender and a bit nerdy. There’s a general consensus that he’s a little weird but he’s not Captain Wells so that makes him tolerable. He doesn’t know my past. It’s like being awarded a clean slate, and I smile at him. Maybe a little too much.

  He approaches me as we’re packing up to leave Baghdad. Our year deployment is closing and the unit is pulled together, some returning from other camps. We’re all finally in the same place again. We’re moved about the company building as equipment and gear are prepped for our journey home. “So I hear there’s a picture out there of you girls,” he says. I know exactly what he’s talking about. King, Brennan, and I posed for a photo in uniform pants and bras, rifles in hands, sunglasses to hide our faces, and meant to send it to Maxim, although we never did. Brennan suggested the photo shoot because she’s always been comfortable with her sexual potency. This was just good, clean fun to her. King probably did it because her strong sense of self was unwavering, so this was neither empowering nor demeaning, simply neutral. I’d jumped at the chance because I’m thin enough to do this now, and being considered sexy is a new label I gladly take over any of my old ones.

  I try to hand Captain Noble the digital camera but he leans over my shoulder, his thigh and hip brushing against mine, waiting for me to bring up the photo myself. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. I’m done looking for father figures in powerful men. I’d rather crush them instead.

  “That’s fucking hot,” he says with a laugh when I show it to him. “I heard about this and I was like ‘I have to see it!’”

  I smirk. “It was just for fun.”

  “It looks like a lot of fun,” he says slowly, turning the phrase over in his mouth with a grin. He’s not much taller than me. He’s married and has a pink dolphin tattoo on one arm. I’m not sure what to do with him but his flirting doesn’t fluster me. Later, he shows me around his private space, the stacks of bottled water, an extra, empty room. “Come over anytime,” he says softly. First Sergeant Bell is in the other room. “We play cards late at night, you should come by and play sometime.”

  “Can I take a bottle?” I point to one of the large plastic bottles of water. Fresh water, water not from the buffalo, that won’t taste like swamp and bleach. Gold.

  “Sure, sure.” He waves at the bottles and I take two. “Come by anytime,” he repeats.

  That night female King finds me and reports, “Captain Noble wants you to come by. To play cards.” It’s late. The sun has set and I’m sitting out on the pavement, headphones in my ears. I can barely make out her figure in the electric-lantern light.

  “Okay, thanks.” I sit there on the warm concrete, watching her leave, and consider what I think is a proposition. It’s not an order, yet there’s something weighty in the request. If I go, I’ll be agreeing to something simply by showing up.

  I hesitate. I think about the boxes of bottled water and other perks. I consider the position of a Captain; it’s good to be king and even better to befriend him.

  I crack open the second bottle of free water, take a slug, then head back to my room. There’s power in being asked, and even more power in saying no.

  I’m no longer the insect squirming under the microscope lens. I smirk at this male gaze, lips curled enticingly. You can’t fuck me over anymore because I’m waiting for it, bristled with thorns, just daring you to try.

  Getting Out of Baghdad

  In April 2004 we’re told we’re going home. We’ve done our time, our year in the desert, and now we’ll head back to the safety of our US bases. Books have been packed, foam mattresses passed on, metal shelves, extension cords, and battered fans sold to the newcomers. I stand one last time in front of the AC unit in our window. Spring has come around again, hobbling along as the temperature already begins its steep climb toward summer. Flattened cardboard boxes are taped across the glass to block out the searing sunlight. I lift my arms, letting the cold blast of air shiver up my spine.

  “God, I’ll miss you,” I say to the AC unit.

  “In two weeks we’ll be home and in actual AC,” King promises as she collapses her cot into a bundle of sweat-stained canvas and bent metal legs.

  “Yeah, after two weeks of hell,” I remind her. But after a year of Iraq, what’s two more weeks? I sling my M16 over my shoulder, give the AC one last mournful glance, and grab my own cot. We step outside and are slapped by the heat. I toss my cot and my last duffel bag into the back of our Humvee.

  “I’m going to see if there’s anything good at the PX,” I call to King, darting toward the store. Of course the tiny shop will have nothing but Maxim magazines, male deodorant, and the odd CD, but I need to peek in one last time. Maybe they’ll have some powdered drink mix. Or a book.

  Just outside the PX I pause for a moment, one boot halted in midair as I realize I’ll never walk this stone path again. I glance at the sandstone buildings, the sprawling prison walls and the muggy skyline of Iraq, and I’m saddened, overcome with nostalgia for this place I never loved. It squeezes my chest. This has become a type of home—more so than my barracks back at Fort Polk. And there’s no coming back to this. Not ever. I twist about, soaking in the dirt-laden road, the crumbling walls. I want to remember you, I think, because no one else will.

  I’m sad to leave, though I can’t understand why.

  I return to my Humvee a little heavier, and I fill my lungs with Baghdad air. There is excited chatter in the convoy line, some soldiers sitting on top of their Humvee hoods as we wait for the orders to roll
out. I hop onto my hood, the hot metal searing my back as I sprawl out and stare up at the cloudless sky.

  “Last letters?” Sergeant Daniels calls out as he walks the line, a bundle of crumpled envelopes stuffed under one arm.

  I shove one hand into my cargo pocket and pull out the letter, dropping it into Sergeant Daniels’s waiting hand. A different kind of sweat breaks out across my upper lip as the paper leaves my fingers. These are my last words, should I die on our convoy ride into Kuwait.

  “Everyone should write a letter to their family and send it home,” First Sergeant Bell had strongly suggested two days prior. “Just in case you die.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it, but it might have been nice if he had.

  The convoy will stretch from Baghdad to Kuwait, miles upon miles of sprawling, barren space with no walls, no concertina wire, nothing but our guns and our severely depleted ammo supply to cover our backs. No one whispers about how dangerous it is, but we all knew as we were handed lined paper, pens, and a single blank envelope.

  I keep my letter uplifting, scratching words of pride and bravado, that I’m all right dying for this (for what?) and it’s all surreal anyway, because who writes a last letter? I write it for my mother, not for myself.

  But watching Sergeant Daniels stride away with that small envelope, I wonder if I said enough.

  * * *

  One hour, two hours, three hours, more, the sun shifts in the sky, the metal swells with contained heat, and we down canteens of water only to sweat it back out into the dirt, pacing, panting, begging to leave. “Jesus fucking Christ, what are we waiting for,” Gaul, my vehicle’s gunner, complains, hopping onto the hood with me.

  Rumors spread up the line, Humvee by Humvee, a well-received contagion. Everyone knows First Cavalry Division came into Iraq thinking their balls were bigger and hung lower than ours. They are here to replace us and are damn sure they are going to end the war in a blaze of bullets and medals. But they are still children peeking out from beneath their too-large helmets, eager, reckless, and fucking everything up.