Hard Trauma

by Franklin Horton

  Not knowing how long he’d be inside, he thought he’d better go ahead and take the call. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his workout, knowing she was burning up his phone. He slid back in the truck, shut his door, and took the call. "Hello?"

  "How was work?" she asked, an odd, clipped tone to her voice.

  Ty sensed an underlying tension. She’d likely heard the story on the news and, having a child roughly the same age, it hit home to her. "Shitty day. I guess you saw the story on the news?"

  "No, I haven't seen any news today, Ty. What was on the news?"

  "There was a girl who went missing from the truck stop. I thought she’d just wandered off from her mother but we never did find her. There were cops and search teams all over the place. They’re still looking for her. They think she might have been abducted."

  "Don’t they have security cameras? Didn’t they pick up anything?"

  "We have them but the quality isn’t great and the place was overrun with kids at the time. There was a bus with a softball team and all their parents. The last footage we got showed her going outside despite her mother’s instructions. We don't know why. There was no shot of what she did when she got outside and we didn’t find any more footage of her."

  "How old was she?"

  "Ten," he replied.

  Deena was silent at that. Ty was certain she was processing the exact same thing he had, with Gretchen being so close to her own daughter's age. So close that it was hard not to put herself in that mother’s shoes. Where was the mother now? What was she going through? Was she alone in some hotel room, having to call people and tell them what happened? Were they judging her, thinking she was a bad mother for letting this happen? Would there eventually be a happy ending to this story or was this woman’s life over?

  Those were the things racing through Ty’s mind, the places he assumed Deena was going too, but he was wrong. She had her own concerns and she couldn’t hold off any longer. "Well, the reason I haven’t watched any news today is that I spent a good deal of the day on the phone. I had a few fires of my own to put out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ty replied, unable to imagine that her day had been any worse than his. He tried to be a good brother and listen, though his emotions were so screwed up anymore that he didn’t know how to respond half the time.

  "So how was the movie last night?"

  He immediately got a sinking feeling in his gut. "Um, same as we told you last night. It was a goofy kid’s movie. Aiden loved it and I was glad she loved it. I didn’t get half of the jokes but that didn’t matter because she had a good time." Yeah, he was leaving out a few details. He knew that but he wasn’t yet certain that she knew that.

  "That all you have to say about it?” The way she said it confirmed his worst suspicions. She knew.

  "Yeah. That’s pretty much it." Wrong answer.

  “That’s far from it, Ty!” she said, her voice rising. “This morning I found myself tagged in a video on Facebook. Apparently another parent shot a little video on her phone at the Movie Mall Twenty yesterday. She tagged me because she thought I should know that my daughter was nearly in the middle of a brawl."

  Ty chuckled, an automatic reaction. Suppressing it would probably have been the smart thing to do but he didn’t catch it in time. "It was hardly a brawl, Deena."

  "I don’t know why you’re laughing because there’s nothing funny about it! Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

  "Have you talked to Aiden about this?"

  "I have,” Deena replied. “She's grounded for lying to me. I certainly hope you didn't put her up to that."

  "I didn’t put her up to anything. I would never put her in that position. She suggested that we probably shouldn’t tell you about it and I didn't object. We decided it was the prudent course of action."

  "You what? You seriously thought an eleven year old child's judgment overrode the need to tell her mother about something like this?" There was utter disbelief in her voice. “What does it say about your judgment that you agreed with her?”

  "She's not your average eleven-year-old, Deena. She’s a sharp kid.”

  "That’s no excuse. So what even happened this time, Ty? She said she was ordering popcorn and everything went quiet. She turned around to look for you and you’d dropped some guy like a ninja. You had him on the ground choking him out in front of his family."

  Ty sighed, trying to push the anxiety out, but it wouldn’t go. "From a child’s perspective that's a reasonable description of what took place, but I didn’t actually choke him. I used a hand on his neck to guide him to the ground. It’s different."

  "But why? How the hell does someone go to a children's movie and end up choking another parent in the popcorn line?"

  “I was feeling a little freaked out and he put his hands on me. You shouldn’t touch people you don’t know. That’s a basic rule of civilized society."

  “I’m not sure you’re much of an expert on the rules of civilized society, Ty.” Deena lowered her voice and hissed at him. "Is this is a PTSD thing?"

  Her tone made it sound like some kinky habit she was loath to ask him about. Although it was a legitimate medical condition, her tone was far from that of his sister asking him how he was dealing with an illness. It was accusatory and angry. He'd been luckier than most in that his PTSD had not isolated him from his family. He'd remained close to his sister but he understood that was not the case for everyone. Many others with the condition hurt and alienated the people around them until they had no support system left. That was where the real trouble began. Then there were fewer voices to compete with the ones telling you to hurt yourself.

  "Ty, are you even listening to me?"

  He snapped back. "I'm here."

  "Being here is not the same as listening."

  "I'm...listening," he replied with a firm voice. "But I am not in the mood to be lectured. You were not there."

  "No, I was not there, but I’ve been to the Movie Mall many times and you know how many choking incidents I’ve seen? NONE! No beatdowns in the popcorn line. None! Ever!"

  "Okay, I understand you’re angry. What's the damage and how do we fix it?" It was a very practical, military way to respond to the situation. It was done. It had happened and there was no fixing that, no taking it back. It was time to move on and do what needed to be done in the way of damage control. Perhaps he could help with that.

  "Ty, I was tagged in the video because they recognized Aiden. All the parents at her school have probably seen it. I tried to get the woman to take it down but it’s too late. Other people have posted and shared it. It’s probably spread through the whole community by now. People have a sick fascination with those kinds of things.”

  Ty was behind the curve on social media. Much of the public obsession with it had taken place while he was deployed and had larger concerns, like staying alive. Even though he’d gotten into it over the last couple of years, he felt like a novice sometimes. Yet he did understand the basics of his sister’s concern. If she had been tagged in the video, people connected to her could see it, and it could be shared indefinitely. People she worked with could see it, Aiden’s friends might see it, their parents would see it, people Aiden played sports with could see it.

  "I have to go," he said. It wasn’t like he had somewhere to be but he was done talking. He was at the point where ugly things were going to come out of his mouth. Rationality was about to go out the window. It was time to cut this off.

  "Ty, we’re not done here."

  Ty’s frustration boiled over. "Look, there's nothing I can say that's going to make you happy right now. I don't know what to tell you. The guy put his hands on me and I lost my shit. I was stressed out because there were so many people around and so much noise. I apologize. If that’s not good enough for you..."

  Deena sighed, understanding that she’d pushed as far as she could. "Okay. Do you think you should consider going back on the meds, though? You weren’t nearly as angry then."
<
br />   Yeah, he wasn’t angry then because he could barely function on those meds. In fact, he could barely hold a thought in his head. They turned him into a drooling idiot. “I’ll consider it, Deena. I have to go.”

  “Good night, Ty.”

  They ended the call and he sat there simmering in the parking lot. He accepted she was right to an extent. What he couldn’t tell her was that the anger was part of what kept him alive anymore. Those drugs that calmed him also left him less able to resist the demons. Some of them even listed increased risk of suicidal ideation as a side effect. He’d quit taking the meds because he sensed he was losing the fight. It could be that there were better drugs that the doctors hadn’t tried yet.

  Something told him that, in his case, meds weren’t the answer. They might be a bandage but they couldn’t fix him. Whatever that solution was, he’d have to find it himself.

  8

  Ty had some second thoughts about working out after his call with Deena but decided it was probably the only thing that was going to make him feel better. He spent two hours burning through a heavier than usual routine, and the simmering rage inside him fueled his muscles. When he left the gym, the sun had set and it was nearly dark. His body was completely spent. His legs were wobbly and he couldn’t imagine there was a muscle group he hadn’t exerted.

  Despite the endorphins generated by his workout, his symptoms began creeping up on him as he walked across the dark parking lot. Whatever respite he’d been granted by the day’s events was short-lived. He’d parked in an isolated section of the lot and there were no other cars around him. That was comforting in that it offered no place for people to hide. If anyone was waiting on him, he’d see them coming.

  He used the remote to unlock his door and slipped inside the truck, immediately locking it. He opened the center console and confirmed his Glock was where it was supposed to be, started his truck, and drove home with a constant eye on his surroundings. If someone followed for too long, he slowed until they were forced to pass.

  When he reached his townhouse apartment, he parked in his usual spot and studied the lot. It was late and most folks were settled in for the evening. The lot was well-lit and, as far as he could tell, it only held the same vehicles he was used to seeing every day. Ty was wearing his clothes from the gym and there was nowhere to conceal a Glock. He removed it from the center console and laid it in his open gym bag, leaving it unzipped in case he needed quick access to the weapon.

  He climbed the steps to his townhouse, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. When he relocked the front door he did not turn any lights on. He retrieved his Glock from the gym bag and activated the weapon light. His unit was two stories and he efficiently cleared each room. Although it wasn’t something he had to do every day, he found it easier to relax when he was certain there was no one else in the house. He lived alone and the house had never been broken into. Nor had there ever been anyone in the house uninvited. He had no reason to feel the way he did, yet that didn’t change anything.

  Everyone had little rituals that helped them feel comfortable and got them through the day. This was one of his.

  More comfortable now, he left his handgun on the coffee table and unpacked his gym bag, throwing his dirty clothes in his laundry basket. He took a quick shower, put on clean clothes, then went to the kitchen to find some food. Because he was too tired to make any significant effort, he dumped half a box of cereal into a large mixing bowl.

  He added the necessary amount of milk, grabbed a spoon, and headed for his computer. Ty didn’t have a lot of local friends. Actually, he didn’t have any. He’d only moved there to be close to his sister after his discharge. As a result, his online community constituted the bulk of his social life. Most of his friends were not people he’d recognize if he passed them on the street. Many of them he only knew by the avatars or thumbnail images that represented their account on Facebook.

  Ty crunched cereal while his laptop booted. He was aware cereal wasn’t the healthiest option, though it was a staple of his diet. He should be making a protein smoothie. That was what his muscles were asking for, but it took more energy than he had on tap at the moment. Besides, this was supposed to be the healthy kind of cereal. There were no bright colors, no prizes inside, and it looked like livestock feed.

  When his computer booted, he logged into his email and then Facebook. He had dozens of new emails, all of them either bills or junk. He had ten new private messages on social media and over fifty notifications. Ty used social media to keep up with some of the folks he served with. He was part of several groups set up for veterans. Some were specifically for members of his unit, while others were targeted toward the special operations community. Some groups were public, others private.

  By far, most of Ty’s online interactions were in a group called Wasteland for Warriors, or as it was affectionately known by its members, “the Wasteland.” The group had an enormous membership, over 30,000 members, though most were simply lurkers. The group was focused on people who’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  The group had a particular vibe that would probably not be understood by folks who hadn’t shared their particular set of experiences. One thing pointedly different about the group was the abundance of dark and morbid jokes. It was battlefield humor and beyond. There were jokes about dealing with the VA system and military life. There were friendly jabs exchanged between different branches of the service. There were memes about spouses cheating while a loved one was deployed, and members compared medical conditions and symptoms.

  There were also jokes about the most disturbing aspect of having served in that conflict. That was the high suicide rate among the returning veterans. It was truly at epidemic levels. Not everyone responded to counseling. There was a general dislike of mood-altering medications, though they worked for some. There was a nearly universal disdain for having to deal with VA medical centers, which could often be as depressing as the condition itself. For many the only thing that kept them sane was the ongoing support of their community, the brothers and sisters who’d gone through the same thing.

  The Wasteland, and other groups like it, despite their irreverent approach, actually saved lives. Not a day went by that a veteran didn’t post a message he was having a particularly trying day and needed folks to talk him off the ledge. The use of the word “Wasteland” in the title of the group did not refer to the field of battle. Instead, the Wasteland was the mutual terrain of damaged relationships, struggles with family, difficulty maintaining employment, and the fight to survive when those whispering voices told you it might be better to go ahead and end it all.

  Sometimes an especially desperate plea would be posted in the group. A member would share that the demons were winning, they were done fighting, or that it wasn’t worth it anymore. Everyone knew what that meant. It meant the desire to end one’s life had become irresistible.

  In such a case, despite the haphazard and callous nature of the group, they pulled together like a team, just as they’d been trained to do. They mobilized with the single-minded intention of dragging their lost brother or sister back from the precipice. They started by using Facebook to track down people who knew the at-risk person in real life. They would scour their friends list for people who could make a call or go by and visit them.

  If they couldn’t locate anyone with a personal relationship, they had computer-savvy members who would take it to the next level, working to find a home phone number or physical address. If they were successful, members of the group would start calling in an effort to get the person on the line. If someone got through, that person might spend hours talking to the member in distress. They would post constant updates to the Wasteland that the individual was safe. Meanwhile, while that one person had them on the line, other group members would continue to work toward finding local people, whether friends or family, who could further assist.

  It was strangers helping strangers. Ty had done it too. More than once, he’d climbed into his
truck in the middle of the night and driven hours to a member’s house because of a Wasteland post. These were not people he knew. Acting off addresses obtained by other Wasteland members, he’d shown up and knocked on doors, fully knowing that there was a man behind that door with a gun in his hand, ready to end it all.

  When all else failed, as a last resort, they would involve local law enforcement and ask them to do a welfare check. It seemed like an extreme step but the measure had saved lives. They knew this to be a fact because several members later posted to the group that the lifeline thrown to them by their fellow Wastelanders had been the only thing that kept them alive. It was a strange thing, that such a group with its crude humor and dark posts was a ray of hope for so many.

  As he scanned the posts, Ty found no especially distressing situations taking place that night, which was good. He wasn’t certain he had the emotional energy left to assist with something too challenging. That was okay too. Had there been someone in trouble, there were plenty of people ready to step in and help.

  Crunching cereal, he read posts and commented on them. He answered the private messages. Most were from people with whom he’d formed a bond. They were friends and kept tabs on each other every day. While Ty knew some people didn’t consider online friends to be real friends, he saw it differently. It was the closest thing he had to a community since leaving the military and these people were the closest thing he had to friends.

  Ty yawned and realized the day’s adrenaline surge was finally winding down. It was like someone had yanked his plug from the wall. He needed to go to bed. He closed his internet browser. The wallpaper on his computer desktop was a picture of him and Aiden making goofy faces. It reminded him of the call with Deena.

  He wondered if he should go take a look at the video she was tagged in. He didn’t want to, but perhaps it would help him understand her reaction. If nothing else, he should probably see how bad it looked.