Chapter 4

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I heard my father’s footsteps pounding down the hallway. Heavy, loud, full of fucking hate. I knew what was coming. Same shit as always. I curled up in bed, tried to make myself disappear, but that was a joke. The door flew open like he was busting down the gates of hell, face red like he was about to explode.

It was fucked-up cycle that would never end. Wake up, eat shit, go to school, get beaten up by the bullies, come home, get beaten up by my dad.

Fuck, my eyes were still stuck shut, feeling like someone dumped a bucket of sand in them. I could barely breathe, choking on the stench of whiskey and stale cigarettes that seemed to cling to every single hole in the rotten walls of my shit-filled room.

“You little piece of shit!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

Now, my father, wasn’t just any regular Joe. He was built like a tank, and he got those steel fists that could crush rocks.

So, when he hit me, it fucking hurted.

I flinched as he raised his hand to me, his fingers clenched into a fist. I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. He swung his arm back and then let it fly, connecting with my cheek and sending me sprawling across the bed.

I curled up into a ball, trying to protect myself as he rained down blows on me. I could hear him yelling and cursing, blaming me for everything that had gone wrong in his life.

His greasy, beer-bellied hand wrapped around my neck and I felt the rough, calloused skin digging into my tender flesh with an unrelenting grip that made my heart race faster than a whore’s skirts on a Saturday night.

“You’re the reason she left, you worthless piece of shit! If it wasn’t for you, she’d still be here, taking it up the ass. Look at what you’ve done!”

I wanted to scream back at him, tell him to go fuck himself, but my throat was raw, and all I could manage was a pathetic fucking croak. I was hurt, pissed, and scared shitless, but fuck me if I could do anything about it.

Then the real fun started. He lunged at me, fists flying, and I tried to dodge, but he clocked me right in the jaw. Down I went down like a sack of potatoes.

I struggled against his grip, tears streaming down my face. I knew better than to give him the answer he wanted — that my mother had left because he was an abusive, drunken mess. So, I said nothing, only whimpering in response.

He grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up off the floor like I weighed nothing. I screamed in pain, tears streaming down my face as he dragged me across the room, my head scraping against the rough carpet.

We reached the bathroom door and he shoved me in, hard. My shoulder crunched into the cold porcelain sink, and I bit down on my tongue as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking it back so hard that tears streamed from my eyes.

“You think you’re so innocent, don’t you?” he growled, his voice coated in venom. “You’re just like that bitch, always causing trouble, always leaving me to clean up the mess.”

And I believed him. I believed that I was worthless, that I was a piece of shit, that I was the one who had fucked everything up. I believed that I deserved that brutal, dehumanizing attack, and I believed that I was nothing more than a walking mistake.

He slapped me across the face, leaving a stinging, searing pain. My cheek felt like it was on fire under his clammy, sweaty palm.

He reared back, eyes wild and manic, then brought his fist down on my head. I saw stars, literally, my vision dancing in front of me like some trippy light show at a rave, and it took me a few seconds to realize just what the hell has happened.

Then I felt something crack — maybe my skull? — and a warm gush trickled down my face. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t really hear him anymore, just the sound of the porcelain against my head echoing in the tiny room, bouncing off the walls and the shitty old mirror that had a spiderweb of cracks running down the middle.

My father kept going, pulling my hair and bashing my head against the sink over and over again, like he was trying to carve a message into my fucking skull.

The pain was unbearable, but I was trying not to scream because that would piss him off even harder.

“Get up, boy,” he ordered, and I saw the fire in his eyes. “Get up and take your punishment like a fucking man.”

I knew if I didn’t get up, he’d only beat me worse. So, I forced myself to my feet, my legs shaking and weak from the pummeling I’d just taken.

"Dad, please, I—"

He slammed my head against that cold, hard sink, harder than any baseball pitcher ever dreamed of throwing a fastball. Blood was trickling down my face, and I could taste the coppery tang of it in my mouth.

“You’re nothing but a burden,” he sneered, but the words were lost in my head, which was ringing from the impact. “I should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago.”

My old man always smelled like some cheap ass Old Spice aftershave, but today, the stench was stronger than ever. It was like he soaked himself in the shit before coming at me. I could barely take a breath without almost vomiting.

I fought through the dizziness caused by his stench and with all my might, I brought my knee up, aiming straight for his groin. He was a good foot taller than me, but I was fast, and I’ve got anger on my side. He tried to swat me away like some pesky fly, but I was too damn determined.

I saw it in his eyes, the shock, the realization that his little boy just threw a punch back. But it was too late for him. My knee connected, and I heard the satisfying crunch of pain.

He staggered back, clutching himself. The look on his face was priceless. He let out a high-pitched scream that would have made a banshee jealous.

“That’s what you deserve,” I growled, relishing the sweet taste of revenge. “You thought you could control me? Well, think again, you sick fuck.”

As he doubled over in pain, I wrenched myself free, ready to make a run for it.

But then, just as I was about to break free, he grabbed me by the collar, his grip like a viselike trap. He yanked me back, and I crashed into his chest, winded.

“You, ungrateful little shit,” he shouted, his spit landing on my cheek. “I feed you, clothe you, give you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me?”

I struggled against his grip, feeling my desperation raised. Everything went dark for a second, and then I felt the pain, searing through my body, my back, my head, my fucking everything.

“Fuck you,” I snarled, digging my heels in, trying to break free.

His grip tightened even further, cutting off my breath.

“You’re mine, boy!” he bellowed, his words echoing through the room. “You’ll never escape me.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe I never fucking would.

I jolted awake, my body drenched in a layer of sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. The nightmare clung to my mind like a leech, my father’s rage still echoing, his grip suffocating me even in my sleep. I took a minute to catch my breath, scanning the dimly lit room, trying to shake off the shitstorm in my head.

That’s when I saw her—Doc, the one who patched me up. Her presence lit up the room like a fucking beacon, her flame-like hair cascading in a vivid glow against her porcelain skin. Emerald eyes locked onto me, full of that soft concern and understanding bullshit. But as she reached out a hand to comfort me, frustration shot through me, my instincts screaming for distance.

I flinched the fuck away, my body stiff as hell. I didn’t want to be touched, not after all the scars—both visible and hidden beneath the surface. Pain and betrayal had made me wary as fuck of anyone laying a hand on me. Human emotion, that soft pity in people’s eyes, it only made my skin crawl. I’d learned young that touch was never safe. My father’s fists had been the first lesson, each hit teaching me that closeness meant control, meant pain.

My mother’s soft touches hadn’t done shit to change that, barely a buffer against the fists, as if gentleness was too damn fragile to hold up against the violence. So I’d built up walls, layers thick as armor, and now, every time someone tried to break through, all it did was itch and burn, setting off alarms in every nerve.

“Easy now, Lieutenant,” she said, her voice cutting through the haze of my panic. “You’re safe here. It was just a nightmare.”

“I can handle my own demons,” I muttered, my voice sharp and detached.

She stared at me, holding that soft gaze for a second before backing off, giving me the space I was screaming for. A twinge of guilt tried to creep in, but I shoved it down. Self-preservation was the only thing that mattered now.

“I understand,” she responded, her voice stained with a hint of disappointment. “Just know that we’re here to help, whether it’s through physical contact or not.”

I didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat shit. She flinched at my harshness, but I wasn’t here to make anyone comfortable.

Her words barely registered, my eyes drifting away as my mind retreated into its own damn fortress. Solitude and isolation became my damn comfort zone, shielding me from the pain and vulnerability that lurked outside its walls.

“How long was I unconscious?” I asked, my voice cold and expressionless.

Doc stared at me, her brow furrowing. She hesitated, like she was trying to figure out how to break it to me without getting chewed out.

“Approximately three days,” she replied, sounding exhausted herself.

I took a deep breath, burying whatever was left of the vulnerability trying to bubble up. The walls around me grew thicker, that old rhythm of shutting the world out kicking back in.

“About your team...” she started, her voice heavy. “You were the only survivor,” she said instead. “Now you’re being held in a medical camp near Kandahar.”

I stared right through her. No flinch, no emotion, just stone. I already knew. I saw my team get ripped apart, blood and guts all over the fucking place. I didn’t need her to tell me shit. I had seen shit that would make the toughest motherfuckers piss themselves.

And it didn’t faze me. Not like it should have.

I met the doctor’s gaze with a cold, distant stare, my eyes revealing none of the damn turmoil brewing inside me. I became numb, like a corpse, detached from the world around me.

“I’m aware,” I responded bluntly, my voice devoided of any emotion. Doc’s eyes widened slightly, concern and disbelief trembling across her features.

She reached out a hand, but I instinctively pulled away, my aversion to touch resurfacing once again. She took a step back, her face pale. She probably expected some sort of emotional breakdown, but all she got was the cold, hard truth. I was empty inside. A shell of a man who’s seen too much and felt too little.

“I understand your need for self-preservation,” she said softly, with a hint of sadness. “But remember, it’s okay to let yourself grieve. You don’t have to face this alone.”

I scoffed at her words, my cynicism seeping through. “Grief won’t bring them back,” I retorted coldly.

She tried to play the savior, offering me some bullshit comfort I didn’t want. I’d perfected the art of shutting people out. She wasn’t going to change that.

“Very well,” she said, accepting my truth with resignation. “Your bandages need to be changed. A nurse will be in soon.”

I gave a nod, barely moving. My soul had sunk deep into that dark pit where I felt nothing. No sadness, no peace—just void.

“Who brought me here?” I asked, my throat dry and voice flat.

“Your unit rescued you from the talibans,” she firmly responded, standing at the edge of my bed. “To be precise, the few that remained at the base, brought you here after they bombed the terrorist’s hideout.”

I nodded slowly, the fragments of memories starting to piece together. Flashes of being forcefully dragged into the abyss, locked away in a room to croak.

“I’m gonna need a ride back to base,” I stated, not really asking, more like demanding. “Immediately.”

“Not until you’ve healed,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re in no condition to travel.”

“I can handle the pain,” I grumbled through gritted teeth, “so you can spare me the lecture on being recovered.”

“You have two bruised ribs, a gunshot wound in your abdomen, and cuts, scrapes and bruises all over your body,” she rattled off, not missing a beat. “It would be reckless and irresponsible of me as your doctor to let you leave in this condition.”

I grunted, already fed up. “I don’t recall asking for your goddamn opinion,” I snapped, attempting to sit up, only to be met with a searing pain that made me wince, biting down on my lip to contain the stream of curses building up inside me.

Then, my eyes landed on my wrists, still fucking bound to the hospital bed. My anger shot through the roof.

“Seriously?” I whispered, clenching my jaw as I tried to break free.

“Lie down, soldier,” she ordered, unfazed. “The nurse will be here in a moment to change your bandages.”

“This is ridiculous,” I yelled, still yanking at the restraints like a caged animal.

The frustration was eating me alive, especially with her walking off like she didn’t give a fuck.

The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the worn-out wooden floor. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly, fading away as she moved further and further from me. It was infuriating, the way she effortlessly glided away, leaving me behind without a second thought.

She sure as hell knew how to piss me off.

I lay back, glaring at the ceiling, every muscle in my body tense as hell. The door creaked open, and the nurse walked in, her steps silent as a mouse. Not that it mattered—I knew she was there anyway.

Her lame-ass hazel eyes were sparkling with bullshit and fake kindness, while her brown hair was falling down her shoulders, framing her plain face, trying to look sexy but failing big time.

Fucking vulture.

It was the same one that helped Doc patching me up. She approached me with that kind smile, her eyes scanning my battered body like she was circling fresh roadkill.

And then I saw the perfect opportunity to appeal to her empathy. It was a risk, but I’ve always been one to take chances.

“You’re here to change the bandages, huh?” I asked, trying to sound vulnerable, playing the game. “Rough day, and these cuffs ain’t helping.” Her eyes softened, sympathy creeping in. Fuck, she might fall for it.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. I’ll do my best to make it as quick and painless as possible,” she said, her voice sounding sickly sweet.

I sighed, letting a bit of that weariness creep into my voice, just enough to sell it. “I appreciate it. You know, being stuck here, unable to move or do shit, it’s like having my freedom ripped right the fuck away.”

And then there was the goddamn catheter. That thing was the worst. Made me feel like some decrepit old man who couldn’t even control his own fucking bladder.

My fists clenched as the nurse’s gloved hands brushed against my skin, her fingers grazing my torso like she was trying to be delicate or some shit. She worked quietly, removing the filthy bandages, her touch light but annoyingly efficient. Every part of me screamed to jerk away, shove her off, but I forced myself to stay still. This crap was for my own good, I reminded myself.

I fucking hated being touched, especially like this—when it wasn’t in the middle of a fight. Every graze of her fingers felt like nails on a chalkboard, unsettling and wrong. But I pushed through, gritting my teeth, focusing on my breathing to stay grounded, trying not to snap.

I knew she was watching me, her curiosity lit up like a neon sign. She probably thought I was some pitiful case.

So, I leaned into it, let myself look a bit more vulnerable. I winced, maybe a little too much, as her fingers brushed over my injured stomach.

“Shit, that hurts.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. Real professional. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, with more routine sympathy than actual feeling. “We’ll do what we can to help manage your pain, but…” She hesitated, her gaze darting briefly to the nearly empty supply cart before meeting mine again. “Supplies are limited right now, so we’re a bit stretched thin. Just hang in there, okay?”

It wasn’t the first excuse I’d heard since ending up in this shithole, and I doubted it’d be the last. Managing my pain—what a joke. Without the good stuff, all they had to offer was a smile and some weak-ass platitudes.

I nodded, my gaze meeting hers, a glimmer of desperation convulsed in my eyes. Inside, it made me sick to my stomach. Playing the weak-ass, grateful patient was the kind of thing that made me want to vomit, but I had to go with the act. If there was any chance of her loosening those straps and giving me the opening I needed, I’d have to keep pretending I was some helpless little lamb in need of her damn sympathy.

“Thank you,” I politely said, but not entirely sincere. “Your care means a lot to me. It’s just... I feel so trapped, so helpless in this situation. Is there anything that can be done?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I could taste the bile in my throat saying that shit. Acting like a whiny little bitch went against every fiber of my being, but desperate times, right?

Her eyes softened, her empathy kicking in like clockwork. She was actually considering it, maybe even thinking about bending the rules.

“I understand,” she replied softly. “It must be hard, feeling so limited. But sometimes, we all need a little help to heal, to regain our strength.”

I nodded earnestly, keeping my gaze locked with hers. “That’s exactly it. And sometimes, that help can come from unexpected sources.”

My mother’s annoying voice echoed in my head, always comparing me to Hugh Grant, the epitome of British male attractiveness according to her. I heard that shit a million fucking times, but it never meant a damn thing to me.

“You have his eyes,” she’d say a million fucking times. I got her blue eyes, sure, but that was about all I inherited before she disappeared like a ghost.

My father? That was a different story.

The bastard’s attitude was burned into my DNA. His coldness, his lack of mercy—it seeped into me like poison. I saw that same emptiness in myself, and it scared the shit out of me, more than I’d admit.

His cold and unforgiving demeanor was something I knew all too well, the same behaviour that always left my mother with tear-stained cheeks and a trembling voice, making me flinch and avoid eye contact whenever the asshole was in the room.

I knew how people saw me. Knew I could use that shit when I needed to. Tall, muscular, rough around the edges—chicks always fell for it. This one was no different. Her eyes kept drifting down to my body, lingering on my abs like she couldn’t help herself. She was trying to keep it professional, but I could see the faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

She paused for a second, looking at me with those big, brown eyes. I could tell she was tempted, but she was trying to play it cool.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr...” she trailed off, obviously not remembering my name.

“Rogue, sweetheart,” I replied, smoothly. “And I think you know it’s a damn good idea.”

“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, sounding hesitant but not fully committed to saying no.

It took everything I had to keep up this pathetic act. I forced myself to look weak, helpless, like some lost puppy. Fucking ridiculous.

“Please...” I uttered, trying to sound desperate.

“Sir, I can’t go against the doctor’s orders...” she said, a flare of embarrassment crossing her face.

“Come on, love . I don’t kiss and tell,” I said with a wink so cheesy it almost made me gag.

That did the trick. Her cheeks flushed bright red, and her eyes flickered between me and those damn restraints. I waited, my heart pounding in my chest as she debated it. Finally, after a few seconds, she gave in, just like I knew she would.

“Alright,” she complied, reaching for the restraints that kept me tethered to the bed. “But please, be careful and don’t push yourself too hard.”

Fucking finally.

I flashed her a devilish grin as she smiled shyly, brushing a hand through her chestnut hair like she was trying to play coy.

“Thanks for the help, love. I’ll be on my best behavior,” I lied through my teeth, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I’d never been one of those pussy-ass decent motherfuckers, not by any moral standards. I’d done some real fucked-up shit, and I’d never feel a goddamn ounce of remorse or regret for any of it.

If God truly existed, then I deserved nothing less than eternal damnation in the fiery pits of Hell.