The Honor Anthology

by Emily Snow

  I laugh. “Great, so I’ll manage to burst in your room tomorrow and ruin your good time.”

  “Don’t you dare, man. You know how long it took me to talk her into something like this? Too damn long,” he says, walking out the door.

  “All right, I’m going to lock my door now and then you’re going to show me what else I’m missing,” I say before I stand up and walk over to my door.

  When I return, the screen is full of her tits. “God, babe, you know how to make a man feel welcome.” She backs away a little and stands up, showing me her little belly and her naked pussy. “Fuck, babe.” I automatically take out my dick and start pumping.

  “Squeeze your tits, babe. Play with them.” I stroke harder and faster because the likelihood that I’ll get interrupted before I finish is great. “Oh that’s it, babe. Show me how you use those fingers while I’m gone.”

  She moans and everything quickens. I grab a dirty T-shirt from my floor and use it to catch my release. I keep watching her though. “Babe, if I were there right now, I’d run my tongue straight up that slit and lick all of those juices off. Keep rubbing it for me, babe. Pinch your nipples.” She uses her other hand to work her nipples. Pretty soon, she comes, too.

  She faces the camera with a smile on her face. “Feel better about your day now, baby?”

  She laughs. “Yeah. Thanks. Do you feel better?”

  “No, now I’m hard again, but I’m just gonna go jerk this one out in the shower because if we keep going on here, I’ll never turn the computer off.”

  She laughs. “Goodnight, Sergio. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby. Talk to you tomorrow, after your babysitting gig.”

  She laughs. “Yes, tomorrow.”

  The call ends and I can’t wait for tomorrow. It already feels like it’ll never come, but I just never would’ve dreamed I’d be right.

  Present…

  Stage One - Shock/Denial

  I feel the plane hit the tarmac and a jolt goes through my body. “Staff Sergeant Nichols, you ready?” I hear the Specialist ask before I can stand.

  I glare up at him. “No. Not at all.” I stand up, grabbing my duffel, and exit the plane. As soon as I clear the fence, I see my mother and father. My mom’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot from crying. I can tell my dad is doing his best to hide the fact that he’s been crying, too. An old Marine crying, who would have thought?

  My mom wraps me in her arms. “Oh, sweetheart.” My chest feels like it could crack open at any moment and the contents spill out. It would probably feel better that way.

  My dad pulls us both into a hug, slapping my back. “Let’s get you loaded up.” He takes my duffel to their SUV. I just nod. I can’t even form words to my parents right now. If I do, I’ll lose it.

  I sit in the backseat and stare out the window, watching as the base I’ve learned to call home over the past two years goes by. Everything inside of me says this isn’t real, that it’s a dream and I’ll wake up in the desert or we’ll walk up to the door and it’ll swing open with her on the other side. Once we reach our off post apartment, my heart starts to race and pound as reality sets back in. How am I going to walk in there and know she’s gone forever? Following my parents up the steps, my dad uses the key I gave him months ago to unlock the door. As soon as the smell of home hits me, I drop my duffel and puke into the shrubs. My mom pulls my duffel into the house as my dad walks me in. “Son, you should go get a shower. We have to meet Nancy and Michael soon.”

  I nod and walk down the hallway to our bedroom, passing the door that is thankfully shut. Going into our bedroom is hard. I smell her, I see her things strewn around. Peeling away the ACUs I’ve been wearing for over twenty-four hours now, I start the water in the shower. I see her lotion on the counter, her special toothpaste and the one final thing that breaks all of my composure…her prenatal vitamins. Taking the bottle in my hand, I throw it at the bathroom wall and it bursts. I step in the hot shower and sit on the bench, dry heaving because there is nothing in my stomach to throw up.

  I want the shower to scald the skin off my body. I pick up her coconut shampoo and smell of it. The smell makes me dry heave again. She’s gone, she’s gone, our baby is gone and I want to die.

  I stay in the shower until it runs cold, finally making me get out. There is so much of her here; everywhere I look, there’s something she’s touched. After getting dressed, I meet my parents in the living room where my mom is cleaning up. “Let’s go,” I croak.

  When we pull up to the funeral home, my dad looks over at me. “The detective from the case is going to meet us here. I asked him to do that rather than drag you to the police station.”

  Seeing her parents’ car parked a couple of spots over kicks me in the chest again. How am I going to talk to them? I failed them. I didn’t keep her safe.

  As we walk in, a guy in a suit takes us to a conference room where Nancy and Michael are waiting. A big guy in a suit is also there when we walk in. “You must be Staff Sergeant Nichols. I’m Detective King.” He shakes my hand. “Please, sit down and I’ll try to go over this quickly so that you can do the other things you need to do.”

  I nod as my mom sits on one side of me with Nancy on the other. “At approximately seventeen hundred Thursday afternoon, your wife, Mrs. Mackenzie Nichols, stopped at an off post gas station on Horton Street. While she was out pumping gas, she must have heard a scream. A gunman was robbing the store and he took a little eight-year-old girl as a hostage. When she witnessed this, she approached him and managed to get the little girl loose so she could run back into the store. More than likely, this saved the little girl’s life. Your wife lost her balance, causing her to fall, and the gunman shot once, hitting her in the head at close range before running. We’ve caught him; the security cameras at the store were top of the line, so we had a clear picture of him. All of that was because your wife managed to pull off his mask so we could see him. The mother of the child ran outside and tried to administer first aid because she was a medic, but,” he shakes his head, “it was too late. By the time they got your wife to the hospital, it was also too late to save the baby. From what doctors said, though, it would have been too early for her to survive anyway.” He stands and puts a card in front of me. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your wife was a hero. Here’s my card. I’m sure your mind is all over the place so if you have any questions later, please feel free to call me. The District Attorney will be in contact about the trial and a few other things. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Once he leaves the room, I finally hear the sobs coming from everyone else. Before, I could only hear the detective and a roaring in my ears. A man from the funeral home comes in and we, or should I say our mothers, plan everything. Thank God they do because I’m not sure if I could have. She’ll have a military funeral here and then she’ll be buried outside of Savannah where her parents live. We felt like that was best since I’ll eventually move on to another post.

  Once we arrive back at the apartment, my mom opens the door and I see Shannon and Kale. Remembering our Skype call a few nights ago, I know Shannon has to be a mess, too. She sees me and runs across the room. It’s the first time I break in the presence of someone else. I sob into her shoulder. “I knew something was wrong. When she didn’t show up right on time, I knew something was wrong. I kept calling her phone and calling.” I feel her tears soak through my shirt.

  I feel someone tug at my leg. I wipe at my face and reach down to pick up Kale. “Hey, buddy.” As soon as he smiles at me, I start to sob again.

  “Serg, Serg.” He tries to say my name and it breaks my heart, because the next words from his mouth are, “Mac, Mac.”

  Shannon takes him from me and my mom takes me to the couch. “Honey, we need to pick her out something to wear.” Her mom sits on my other side.

  “I want her buried in her ASUs,” I mumble.

  Her mom puts her hand on mine. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  The n
ext few days go by in a fog. I go through the motions. I still haven’t dared to open the door for the spare room or sleep in my bed. My attempts at sleep have been on the couch, with my dad in the recliner. Now, I’m standing at the front of a funeral home in my ASUs, along with my in-laws, while people try to express their sympathy for our loss. I couldn’t bring myself to allow them an open casket. I can’t look at my wife, the woman technically still carrying my child, in a box. Her mother, Nancy, started to protest, but actually the funeral director agreed with me. He said it would be best, due to the nature of her wound, that we actually kept it closed. Mike, her father, and my parents talked with Nancy and helped her understand.

  Every time someone hugs me, I feel something poking me from the inside pocket. I reach inside to find my boutonniere from the day we were married. It makes me realize I’ve only worn my dress uniform a couple of times since then.

  Pretty soon, a female soldier in an ASU dress uniform steps in front of me with a small girl beside her. “Staff Sergeant Nichols, I’m Sergeant Mills, and this is my little girl, Grace. We were the ones at the gas station. Your wife saved my little girl and I will be forever grateful. I’m so sorry. It all happened so fast.” The Sergeant is crying; she’s trying to form more words but can’t. I pull her in and hug her.

  “They told me you tried to save her,” I say by her ear. “Thank you.”

  Looking down, I see the little girl is scared. I’m sure these past few days have been traumatic for her, too. I stoop down. “Grace, I’m glad you’re safe.” I hand her the dried flower in my hand. “Hang on to this, Grace. It was from a very special day in my life. I’m glad my wife was able to save you.”

  She just gives me a small nod with wide eyes as her mother speaks to my in-laws.

  After what I’m sure is only another hour, but feels like twenty-four to me, we are finally finished with the visitation. A chaplain lets us know that all of the arrangements have been made for the service tomorrow. Since this is a military town and most people are buried somewhere else, the funeral home has a garden that they allow people to have their service in so that we can have a proper military ceremony. Her burial in Savannah will be private, with only family and the honor guard there.

  Once we arrive back at my apartment, I step once again into our bedroom. Removing my dress uniform, I lay it across the bed. A bed that is still unmade from the last time she was in it. Her pillow smells like her shampoo. Like her. I can’t stay in here anymore. I put on my running clothes and start out the door. My mother tries to stop me. “Sweetheart, it’s almost ten o’clock at night. You can’t go running now.”

  I shrug her off and head out the door. As soon as my foot hits the sidewalk, I run. I run away from the apartment, from Mac, from the pain, from the loss, all of it. I just run.

  I return a few hours later, doing better at feeling numb. Once again, I find myself in a scalding shower trying to maybe peel this layer of hurt off. Once I’ve finished there, I return to the couch to try and find sleep, but it never finds me.

  Standing in the memorial garden listening to an Army chaplain talk about Mac’s life and service to our country, her words come back to me. Your missions are very dangerous; mine, I could sustain a paper cut. Only it wasn’t a paper cut and it wasn’t her job.

  Ready! Aim! Fire! The gunshots ring out, bringing me back to the garden. My body jumps as the second and third final shots ring out. A cold chill runs through my body as the bugler begins to play “Taps.” Moments later, an officer stands before me with a folded flag, murmuring something about a grateful nation. I simply sit and wait for them all to leave. I can’t get up, I can’t move. Once again, this feels like a dream, or a nightmare.

  Stage Two - Anger

  It’s been three weeks. I need to get back to the desert. I can’t stay here. I fucking hate this apartment. They won’t let me go back though. Not yet anyway. I have to go through this mandatory counseling. I’m a fucking sniper, I don’t need counseling. I need to shoot someone.

  I tip the bottle of whiskey to my lips and take another large swallow. I sent my parents and her parents home a week ago. There really isn’t any more they can do for me. Our moms wanted to start cleaning out her clothes and the things in the spare room, like she doesn’t fucking matter. Like she was never here. How wrong is that? Since God decided that it was okay for some piece of shit to take the bright spot in my life, we should just do away with everything? In my drunken state, I stumble down the hall to the bathroom to take a piss. Coming out of the bathroom, I crash into the spare bedroom door. Looking around the room, I see how much she’d already started to prepare. Since we live near a base, people are constantly having yard sales with baby stuff. She told me she’d been buying stuff. There is a crib and a cradle looking thing, some stuff I’m sure Shannon gave her. I storm out of the room, not ready to deal with this, but not before knocking some items off the dresser. I pick up a framed picture of the two of us in one side and her ultrasound picture in the other. Hanging my head, I find my way back to my couch, also known as my cocoon of safety.

  A few days later, I’m sitting in my living room, drunk again. A knock at the door gets me up from my spot on the couch. Opening the door, I see Shannon and Kale. I lean against the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

  She tries to smile. “I came by to check on you. No one has heard from you in over two weeks.” I see Kale trying to reach out to me, but Shannon is trying to control him.

  “Well I’m fine, as you can see. I just want to be left alone,” I grumble, causing Kale to tuck himself into his mom. Shit, I scared him.

  “Damn it, Sergio, I can smell you from out here. Have you eaten anything? You look like Hell.”

  “Well I’m in fucking Hell! So what’s it to you?!” I step back and slam the door.

  How can she smell me when all I can smell is Mac? I have to get that smell out of here. Grabbing a trash bag, I go to our room. I strip our bed, stuffing the sheets, pillows and blankets into the bag. I start grabbing anything I put my hands on and shoving it into the bag. Our mothers were right, all of this shit needs to go. Everything that reminds me of her and our child. I keep moving through the room like a steamroller. I know I won’t be able to go in the other room as pissed as I am with Shannon; I need her to do that. If I go in there, I’m going to break every damn thing in sight.

  Another knock at the front door brings me from my room. I swing the door open, prepared to battle with someone else. It’s a pizza guy. “You’ve got the wrong place.”

  “Sir, a Mrs. Meadows ordered this and paid me to deliver it. There is a note attached.”

  He simply hands me the pizza with a note attached and runs back to his car.

  Looking at the note, it says:

  Sergio,

  Eat the damn pizza.

  Shannon

  Damn crazy woman. Though this pizza does smell amazing and my stomach decides to growl, letting me know that it agrees with Shannon. I need to eat.

  Sitting on the couch, I throw the box open and snatch a piece of the pizza out, taking a bite. Fuck. This is awesome. How long has it been since I’ve eaten? What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t the way I’ll get away from here and get back to the desert. I need to go see the damn shrink they want me to see, tell him what he wants to hear and get the fuck out of this apartment.

  Come on, soldier, you need to pull your shit together and do this.

  Stage Three - Bargaining

  Come on, God, just let me get through these appointments and get back to the desert. I can sleep through bombs and gunfire. I cannot sleep through ghosts and emptiness.

  So starts the rapid fire questions

  “What brings you here?”

  “Have you ever seen a counselor before?”

  “What is the problem from your viewpoint?”

  “How does this loss typically make you feel?”

  “What makes the loss better?”

  “If you could wave a magic wand, what positive cha
nges would you make happen in your life?”

  “Overall, how would you describe your mood?”

  “What do you expect from the counseling process?”

  “What would it take to make you feel more content, happier and more satisfied?”

  I don’t even remember what I’ve answered. I just need to finish this shit up.

  “Look, Doc. I know I’ve had a great loss, as you would say. I would be happier if I could get back to the desert. I need to go to work. I need to leave that apartment.”

  “Sergeant, this isn’t the way to deal with things. You need to actually deal with your loss, not ignore it,” my counselor, Thatch, says. I know his name sounds like a pussy name, but he’s actually a former Marine.

  “I know what’s best for me and getting back to work is what I need to do. My work is no different than some jackass in a suit,” I motion to him, “going into his office every day from eight to five. My office just happens to be in a desert.”

  He nods as he takes notes. “I see.” He sits forward. “I could suggest that you stay back on post and take another instructor job until this rotation is over.”

  “I’m not a fucking pussy; I won’t leave my unit in a bind. I have a mission that I need to finish.”

  He sits back in his chair and folds his hands together, bringing the tips to his lips. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  I’m a little shocked. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Nichols.” He pauses. I know I should leave before he somehow makes me stay, but I don’t. He watches me, then on a sigh, leans forward again. “Maybe going to work is what you need. Maybe it’s not. Soldier, the only thing I know for sure right now, is that I can’t help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I can’t help you because you aren’t ready to help yourself,” he says simply, standing up and walking from the room. I sit there in shock for a moment before one of his assistants steps in the door with a piece of paper.