3
Kevin
Iflip off the ignition and idle in the big, familiar parking lot. This old clunker is nothing special or noteworthy. I blend in with the wave of vehicles since I sold my sports car to pay my legal bills. Just another thing I’ve lost.
It isn’t long before I see Emily. She walks from her car as she heads toward her apartment. I smirk because I know she’ll go back and check to make sure it’s locked. She always did that, as if she had no faith in herself unless she felt it with her own hands. I stare at the long auburn hair grazing the back of that familiar work uniform. I remember how it smelled—like coconut and vanilla. I almost feel it swirling around my nose, comforting me.
I pull a flask from my pocket and take a hearty swig. The liquor burns my throat. I swallow hard, letting the liquid singe everything else on its way down to my stomach as a few flakes of snow swirl around my car and land on the windshield. They melt almost instantly.
Just as I expected, she lifts her hand, swivels on her heels, and walks back toward the car.
There it is.
She grabs the handle and tugs at it. When she looks up, I sink into my seat, pouring more alcohol into my mouth at an awkward angle. I’m unwilling to stop drinking, even if it gets me caught. After a few tense moments, I peek over the dashboard. She walks through the lot with swaying hips that make my mouth water. It shouldn’t, but it does.
Despite everything I did to her, she forgave me so willingly. If that doesn’t show just how special she is, I don’t know what does. Where do you even find another human being like that?
You don’t.
I think of my last interaction with Emily. I apologized to her for three reasons. First, my therapist recommended it. Second, I wanted her to know I wasn’t the big bad wolf. And third, I had some sliver of hope—no matter how tiny—that she might take me back. My therapist is a fucking asshole. Seeing Emily only made me feel hope where there was none.
I watch with a scoff as he pulls beside her car soon after she gets home. I curse myself for hesitating. I missed another chance to talk to her. I do this every damn time.
I curl my lip at the sight of him. He looks disgustingly healthy. Shit, maybe even more muscular than me now.
“At least one of us is sober,” I say, chasing the words with a gulp of liquor.
Fuck him.
I go for my gun without thinking, finding nothing on my hip but a belt. Oh yeah . . . that’s why I can’t own a firearm anymore. Fair.
David stops at the bottom of the stairs to tie his shoe, and a shroud of guilt cloaks the opportunistic thoughts wading into my mind. Without him . . . no. Don’t go there. I’m not a killer.
Anymore.
It’s time to go. Every time I see her, it brings all the feelings to the surface, where they simmer and brood.
I turn the key, and my engine sputters and tries to stall. “Don’t you dare,” I command through clenched teeth as I grind the key harder into the ignition. It sputters again before roaring to life.
I head back to my apartment. The home I had? Also gone. I moved into the building just a couple blocks from here. Close enough to drive by their apartment every day. Every single day.
My heart aches for her. Sometimes I wish it would stop beating so I could stop longing for something I can’t have. David could be dead and fucking buried, and she still wouldn’t be with me. I know it, but try telling that to my piece of shit heart. Does she ever think of me like I think of her? Am I ever a thought in her mind? Does she still hurt because of me? I hurt because of her.
No, I hurt because of me.
I take another swig of alcohol, my flask emptying its final drops into my mouth. I toss it into the backseat, and it clatters against the cheap plastic. With every passing police car, my stomach drops. My nerves are rubbed raw. If I get pulled over, they’ll smell the alcohol on my breath, and back to jail I'll go. Do not pass go. Definitely do not collect two hundred dollars.
I can hear my therapist now, telling me I'm participating in “self-destructive” behaviors.
Dick.
I pull into the parking lot and get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. Rust flakes away and floats to the ground. My legs are like lead weights. I don’t feel drunk, though. A fleeting moment of numbness, maybe, but I haven’t gotten drunk in a very long time. There’s no enjoyment anymore, just a need. Like breathing.
I twist the lock and open the door to my apartment. It smells like stale wood and cigarettes. No matter how much I’ve aired it out, it always smells like an old person smoked non-stop and died in there.
I glance around the kitchen. Piles of dirty dishes crowd the sink, and fast-food containers line the counters. How does one person make this much of a mess? When did I last clean up?
I shrug. The prospect of cleaning is too daunting, so I head to the couch and drop down with a huff instead. Memories haunt me all over again.
Memories of the sun as it burned our exposed skin. I wiped sweat off the back of my neck. We walked onward, surrounded by a cloud of nervous energy. A thunderous eruption exploded with sound and light. Warren dropped to the ground with a thud, sand rising in a cloud around us, blurring my vision. The explosion left a high-pitched whine in my head, but there was no time to check if my ears were bleeding, though they probably were.
I blinked with heavy lids, trying to see past the dust. In the nauseating quiet after the detonation, pained moans and screams shattered the silence around me. It was hard to listen to the fear and pain while unable to see the state of my soldiers. At least the ones who were making noises were alive. It was the silent ones I worried about.
Shrapnel sent stabbing pain through my thighs and hips. Warm liquid dripped down my legs beneath my pants.
The sand began to settle, and I spotted Warren’s fallen body—lifeless and legless. I glanced around for his missing limbs, but they were just . . . gone. I took painful steps forward. Pieces of him and two other soldiers were scattered around me in an ominous graveyard of body parts.
The acrid taste of bile jumped into my throat, and I fought it back. I half limped and half ran to help my comrades. I had to ignore the pain. There was no time to worry about anything other than keeping alive those who survived the blast.
I lifted a screaming soldier. Frayed skin and exposed bone were all that remained beneath one of his knees. I pulled out a tourniquet and tied it high and tight as he cursed me and my mother. I deserved it, but it had to be done. The blood went from gushing to dripping. I radioed the base.
IED. Casualties. Injuries. Send help.
* * *
When I open my eyes,I gasp and pat my thighs. Scars line the skin beneath my pants. My body remembers the pain where shrapnel embedded itself in my flesh—a haunting feeling of desperate burning within my muscles. My mind remembers the body parts strewn across the desert—a haunting reminder of the destruction of war.