by Alli Sims
“Move back!” Desmond yelled. Ryan could hear the trembling in his voice.
“What’s wrong?” He asked as if he didn’t already know.
“I’m standin’ on one of the sons of bitches,” the man said with a laugh. “If I move this foot, boom! We both go up, buddy.”
Ryan was shaking his head furiously, sweat pouring down his face as he edged closer. “I can disable it.”
“Now, we both know that’s a damn lie,” the man said as he held out a hand. “Gimme a smoke.”
Ryan reached into his pocket, pulled out a hand rolled cigarette. He barely smoked, usually just after a successful mission, but he always kept one on hand. He stuck the tube between his teeth, struck a match and watched the smoke curl into the air. Taking a deep drag, he passed it over to Desmond with a trembling hand.
“Our last smoke together,” Desmond mused as he took in a thick breath, “I always said we’d quit together.”
Ryan nodded. He knew that it was his last smoke, no matter what happened. They smoked in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth until it was nothing. Ryan snubbed it out beneath the toe of his boot.
“Maybe I can go back, get help,” Ryan said slowly.
Desmond laughed. “Ain’t no hope for me and you know it. Do me a favor? Tell my wife what happened and check on her. Keep an eye on her and my daughter. Okay?”
“I will.”
“Good. Now, get the hell out of here.”
Desmond’s voice was rough, but the trembling of it betrayed his fear. Who wouldn’t be afraid to die? If it happened unexpectedly, that was one thing. It was what they’d signed up for. This way however, it was worse. The knowledge that as soon as you moved that you’d be dead was enough to rattle the bravest of men and Desmond was one.
“Get out of here!”
Ryan made up his mind that he would run back to camp. There had to be someway to help him. Someone would know. He turned, ran. As he trudged through the sand, he threw a glance over his shoulder. Desmond was winking into the distance, his back tall as he looked up into the sky. Ryan could only pray that he’d hold on a while longer. That he wouldn’t take that step.
Pushing, his lungs burning in protest from the smoke and sand, Ryan knew it wouldn’t be long. Camp wasn’t too far. The sun blinded him, made him sweat in sheets of salt. All the while the silent mantra ran through his mind. Just hold on. Just hold on. Just hold on. He heard it.
Boom!
Ryan turned, mouth open as a plume of sand shot into the air. The sound was deafening. From where he stood, Desmond’s spot was empty. He wanted to run back to him, but men were pouring out of the camp, surrounding him.
Hands held him in place. Ryan fought through the crowd. He was running back, the heat of the afternoon almost suffocating. He hadn’t heard the noise, didn’t see the men with their guns. Something struck his leg, made him crumble into the dirt. He was still moving, crawling towards Desmond when his vision began to fade. I’m going to die.
~
Ryan tossed his gym bag on the floor. He could hear Stacey in the kitchen, singing her heart out in time with the radio. He grinned. In a life that was overwhelming, Stacey was a constant. He walked into the kitchen.
She stood at the stove, a spatula in her hand as she flipped an egg. He watched her move. Stacey's curves were one of the things that always drew his eyes. Round hips, ample breasts, thick thighs and a plump belly. She grinned when she noticed him staring.
“Hi, honey. How was the gym?”
“Sweaty,” he mumbled as he wrapped his arms around her.
“Ew, take a shower then!”
Stacey squealed as he kissed her cheek. She waved him off to the shower making him laugh. His hands ran through her black hair before he finally gave in and headed to the bathroom.
“Lunch will be ready in two minutes. Shower fast!” She called as he rounded the corner.
Ryan turned on the water, let it steam up quickly from the Arizona heat. He knew she was serious, lunch would be ready in two minutes and she'd wait patiently for five. As he stepped into the water, he pushed blond hair out of his face. The water should have been relaxing, but it wasn’t.
As he squeezed shampoo into his hair, the memories flooded him. Heat. Desert heat. The threat of a land mine at every step. Ryan's throat tightened. Thinking about Iraq was always enough to send him into a panic. His hand curled around the soap. To keep from thinking about it, he washed quickly before he hopped out of the shower and dried off with a thick, green towel. After slipping into a blue tank top and jeans, he headed back to the kitchen.
Stacey was sitting at the table, his plate in its usual spot. He kissed the top of her head. The smell of rosemary and mint from her shampoo filled his nose. When he set down, he sighed.
“That's for lunch, honey.”
At the age of thirty-two, Ryan was still hard muscle from his days in the army. Tanned skin, blue eyes, blond hair, made him easy on the eyes. Stacey gazed at him as she popped a piece of fried egg between her plump, pink lips.
“Don't start,” he said before she even began.
“You don't even know what I'm about to say.”
“You're going to start in on that future and baby stuff.”
“Am I wrong for wanting more out of life? Am I so awful for wanting to know how you feel about me?”
Ryan sighed. “You know how I feel about you,” he reached a hand across the table. “I love you.”
“Then why aren't we married yet? I've been patient,”she said as she watched him stand with his plate in hand.
“We'll talk about it later.”
Ryan left out of the kitchen before she could protest anymore. He couldn't take the constant talk on the marriage and baby subject. As he settled onto the plush, blue couch in the living room, he sighed. He wanted to have a baby, but not right now. Not when the only thing that he could think of were horrible memories. His hand ran over his leg as if thinking about the memories triggered the pain of his old injury. He loved Stacey, but talking about a future only overwhelmed him at the moment.
Stacey sauntered out of the kitchen, curled up at his side. She laid her head on his shoulder as he ate, quiet. He could tell that she was thinking. When his plate was empty, he ran a hand over her hair.
“We will seriously talk about it later. I promise.”
Stacey sighed as she walked away from him. He watched her retreating form, instantly plagued by guilt. She’d been by his side since he’d been honorably discharged. The woman had stood by his bed through the nightmares, depression and the pain of him having to heal from a gunshot wound. Still, he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet.
Ryan rose from the couch. He wandered into the kitchen, pushing his plate into the sink. In the freezer, there was a bottle of scotch. He wiped the frost from it before carrying it over to the counter. Reaching up, he pulled down a thick glass and filled it almost to the top. Ryan settled at the table with it and the bottle.
Once upon a time, he’d have lit up a smoke to go with his drink. Not anymore. Even the smell of cigarettes made him sick. As he drank, he could hear the sound of Stacey shuffling around in the bedroom. He could imagine her folding the newly washed clothes angrily. She always cleaned when she was pissed off.
Halfway through the bottle, he heard the bedroom door creak open. The sound of her feet moving along the hardwood floor made him raise his head. She gazed around the kitchen, saw him sitting there and scoffed.
“I thought we were done with this,” she said as she moved to pick up the bottle.
Ryan snatched it out of her hand. “I won’t drink as much.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you’ve said before,” her eyes watered. “Seriously, Ryan,” her hand ran over his. “I wish you would talk to somebody about what you’re going through.”
He pulled his hand away, tipped the bottle into his glass. Amber liquid filled the cup, the longing that Ryan felt for the impending numbness enough to keep the guilt
at bay. Still, he reached a hand out and gripped hers as she started to walk away.
“I’m sorry. I’ll call Natalie tomorrow.”
Natalie was five feet, two inches of hell in heels. She was also his therapist. The red haired woman had been seeing him for some weeks now, but now Ryan kept putting it off. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened, didn’t want to think about Desmond standing out in that field, his eyes on the sky…
Looking at Stacey, he could see relief on her face. Ryan knew that despite her acting tough, she was concerned about him, always. She sat across from him, letting him taking her hand. It slowed down his drinking a bit at least.
The alcohol burned his throat, clouded his vision. When he could no longer pour another drink without spilling the contents of the bottle all over the table, Stacey took it from him. He could hear himself mumbling that he was fine, but she wasn’t buying it. He leaned against her as she led him down the hall to their bedroom. When he was in bed, she covered him with a light sheet before kissing his head. She turned to move away, but he grabbed her hand, held it tightly.
“Don’t go,” he mumbled.
She must have seen the distress in his deep, blue eyes. Pulling back the sheet, Stacey climbed in with him. He knew that she’d lay there, curled up beside him, until he fell asleep. Then she would wiggle her way out of the bed. He felt the guilt rise in his chest. He needed her. Ryan pulled her closer, tucked his arm around her waist as he drifted off.
The sound of gunfire made him jump out of his sleep. Sweat covered his body as he sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why the world was tilting and shifting. The thought of the Scotch came back to him. Ryan’s fingers ran over his temples as if he could rub away the headache that lingered there.
Sunlight made him squint his eyes tightly as he wandered into the living room. At least there, the curtains were shut tightly keeping out the hot rays. Stacey sat curled up on the couch, her eyes transfixed on the television. The sound of gunshots were more pronounced now, making him jumpy.
“What are you watching?” He called.
Stacey jumped. Her wide eyes softened when she saw him, but she quickly turned off the tv. When she stood up, he could see that she was in different clothes then she’d been in before, the soft, purple cotton shorts showing off tanned legs.
“I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were still asleep.”
Ryan nodded. “It’s okay. I’m starving,” he said as he kissed her waiting cheek.
“Well, you’ve only been asleep for a day so I don’t doubt it.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “A day?”
“You don’t remember,” she said shaking her head. “Please, make an appointment with Natalie today.”
He nodded, his mind far away. As he glanced at the coffee table, he saw the empty bottle of Scotch. Clearly he’d come back in to finish it off at some point, but he couldn’t remember doing it. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled face before heading towards the bathroom. Stacey was right. As much as he hated it, he had to call Natalie. Later.
Cleaned up for the day, he took Stacey out. They wandered around the mall, her hand slipped into his. The tension that resided in the house disappeared as they sat together with cups of ice cream in their hands. Stacey’s wide grin made him smile back at her. He could feel his heart speed up. There were no words to describe how much he loved her.
Stacey drove back as he closed his eyes in the passenger seat. His leg had started throbbing halfway through the mall. When they pulled up to the pharmacy, he hopped out. Ryan knew that if he asked Stacey to pick him up a bottle that she would refuse, but he needed it. The alcohol would numb the pain in his leg better than any drug ever could. When he slipped back into the car, she heard the clink of the bottle and looked over.
“What is that?” She asked pointing.
“Just a little drink,” Ryan replied, closing his eyes once again.
“Ryan, take it back.”
Something in his voice made him open his eyes to look at her. She was glaring, the anger burning in her eyes. Slowly, he shook his head.
“I’m a grown man, I’m allowed to drink.”
“That’s not the point and you know it. You said you were going to make an appointment with Natalie. You said you’d stop drinking. You’re promising all of these things, but I’m getting nothing from you.”
Ryan could see the tears brimming on her eyelids. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head quickly. “Sorry isn’t enough this time. If you drink that bottle, I’m leaving you.”
Ryan stared at her, mouth agape. “You don’t mean that.”
“I mean it!”
His eyebrows furrowed. “That’s a horrible thing to say,” he grumbled as he opened the car door. He slammed it behind him.
“Where are you going?” Stacey called frantically.
“I’m taking a walk,” he said without turning around.
He could hear her calling after him a few times before she gave up. The sound of the car pulling out of the parking lot made him turn to watch her leave. From the way that she was driving, he could tell that she was pissed off. His hand gripped the plastic bag a little tighter. She’ll be calm by the time I get home. Ryan uncapped the bottle of scotch, took a drink and started on his way home.
Stacey had not calmed down. When he stepped through the door of their apartment, the living room was a mess. Baskets of clothes had been moved to the space, their contents spilled all over the couch and floor. He squinted his eyes to see better. They were his clothes. He moved back towards the bedroom quietly. Peeking his head into the door, he saw Stacey frantically packing a black duffle bag.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“Leaving.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you if you had another drink I was leaving you. I meant it,” she said as she stuffed a few more clothes into the bag. The distant sound of a car horn blew. “My mother’s here.”
Ryan grabbed her arm. “Don’t do this.”
“I have to go,” she tried to move past him, but he wouldn’t let go of her arm.
“Please, Stacey. Don’t do this.”
The woman sighed. “You’re a good man, Ryan. And I love you. When you get your problems sorted out, I’ll be waiting, but I can’t live like this,” she pried his hand from her arm before she pushed past him.
“Stacey. Stacey!”
The front door slammed, rattling the glass in the windows. Ryan sank onto the bed, buried his face in his hands. His life was spiraling out of control. The bottle in the bag shifted, hit his leg with a dull thud. He looked at the bottle, dropped it as if it were a snake. She’s right. I have to change.
Ryan’s hand slipped into the pocket of his shorts where he found his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he hovered above her name. Natalie Barns. He put the phone down. I can’t do it. Just the thought of having to share himself like that was enough to make him shudder. The image of Stacey walking away however was more than enough to make up his mind. He pressed the call button.
Natalie’s office was decorated in an array of paintings, cream furniture and vases. He settled onto the couch as she sat in her usual chair. A salad was in her hands. She apologized as she dabbed at her lips with a napkin.
“I could only schedule you during my usual lunch hour,” she leaned forward to shake his hand before returning to her salad. “Now, what’s been going on. You sounded really stressed yesterday.”
Ryan took his time explaining things to her; his nightmares, his drinking, the arguments with Stacey. Natalie had pushed the remains of her food aside halfway through to lean closer to him. When he was done, she leaned back in her chair.
“I know we discussed it before, but have you given anymore thought to the medication?”
“You know I don’t like that stuff. It makes me feel like a zombie.”
“How about a support group?”
“Bunch of guys sitting around, talking about their feelings? No, thank you.”
Natalie shook her head. “It seems that you don’t want to get better Ryan.”
“I do!”
“Then act like it,” she snapped back.
Ryan sighed as he sat up. His hands ran over his face as he looked away from her. He knew that she was right, but it was hard to open up about the things that gnawed into him every moment of every day. Finally, he sighed.