Chapter 28

It's too much. I'm barely able to drive with the impact of Clara's words.

And I'm not even the one dealing with it, not really.

Clara is the doctor. She has to carry the weight of that loss on her shoulders.

The kid's parents. They have to carry the weight.

But I can see it.

I can see the blood, the gray dust from the stone walls as they broke. It's happening again like it's right in front of me.

The night sky is black. We're into the second half of the summer now, and the sun is setting just a bit sooner than it was.

Pinprick dots of light sprinkle across the expanse, and the curves of the highway unfold before me as I get us back to the penthouse.

But I'm not really there. I'm not really driving.

I'm running. I'm sobbing.

I'm holding the body of a child in my arms, probably around ten, but who can really tell when they're dirty and wearing their blood on the outside.

Bile crawls up my throat, burning my esophagus.

I did it. I killed him. Mistook him for a threat and squeezed that damn trigger too fast to see he was just…

A kid.

Somehow, I get Clara and myself home. It's already late by the time we're inside the penthouse.

She had a long shift today.

We don't talk much once we're in the dwelling. I don't mind. At least not tonight.

I don't want to chat tonight, and I can see she doesn't, either.

"I, um, I just want to go to bed. Is that all right?"

Clara's voice cuts through the quiet.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be there in a bit."

She just nods, and then I watch Clara walk down the hall to the master bedroom.

We've been sleeping in the same bed. We've been…close.

You're a damn murderer. You don't deserve her.

The thought socks me in the chest as hard as a wrecking ball. I actually gasp a little.

"Okay, breathe, asshole. Just…Fuck."

I stalk over to the fridge, opening it wide to see what I have available.

It's been a minute since I went shopping, but I still have a few beers left, so I decide to start there and see if I'll level out.

You can't level anything. She's going to see all this. She's going to know what a fucking mess you are.

They're not new words, but sometimes novelty isn't what makes an intrusive thought destructive.

She's going to leave.

It's just that it's there.

I notice at once that my heart is racing. My pulse is doing that thing where you can actually feel it instead of the blissful ignorance we have of our bodily functions most of the time.

My breathing is pretty damn shaky, too.

"You're having a panic attack. Just…yeah."

Being aware of something doesn't make it magically go away, so I start pacing.

Flashes of being overseas come back to claw at me.

I see Jay's leg getting blown off. I see Dom nearly dying because of a standoff with a terrorist cell.

It's awful and familiar, but what burns in my mind brighter than all of the rest is the kid.

The kid I killed.

Murderer. Killer. Soldier. It's all the damn same. And you're fucking useless. A damn alcoholic and a coward.

I snag a beer from the top shelf of my fridge. Cracking it open, I chug as much as I can before I get a brain freeze from the cold.

Warm beer is disgusting, but it is easier to chug down quickly.

I don't go far from the kitchen. I know I'll need another one of those beers soon enough.

So, I sit down at the table. It's just me at the head, this singular bottle on the smooth wooden surface, and silence all around me.

Yeah, I don't really enjoy the silence. But I know I won't be able to sleep yet.

I eye the TV across the large open space in the living area. I could watch something for a while.

Could help, right? Distract me?

Getting up and grabbing the other beer before heading to the couch, I try that breathing thing again.

Turns out that just breathing doesn't really help when you're fucking spiraling.

How 'bout that, Mr. Big Shot Therapist?

I'm bouncing my knee like an anxious teenager on his first date when I turn on the television and just choose whatever comes up first.

Then I down the rest of my beer as the silly movie plays. It's the latest flick from action central, and I realize too late that explosions probably weren't a great idea.

I'm flinching every damn time, so I change to something else. A comedy.

It's all dick and fart jokes. Just what I need, I think.

But I'm too deep.

Now, I'm just furious with them. The characters go about enjoying their lives and getting into fucking nonsense.

They don't deserve any of it.

You don't either, you piece of shit. You don't deserve her.

My eyes flick to the hall, knowing Clara is sleeping soundly in the bedroom.

"Shit, I can't. I'm done."

Standing up, I go to the bar, holding the other beer. It's not hard to chug it down, and then I pour myself a few fingers of the whiskey.

The buzz picks up, but I don't trust it. I need more than this if I'm going to get any sleep.

Taking the bottle back to the couch, I take several pulls on it over the course of the movie and wind up passing out on the couch.

I wake up a few hours later in a cold sweat, visions of violence dancing in my head instead of the preferred sugar plums or some shit.

"A child. I see him. I see the kid. He's right here."

Swirling, tangled thoughts knock me to the floor. I'm covered in his blood, but then I'm not.

Pounding roars through my skull and chest. I'm hyperventilating. I'm sweating again.

My skin itches, and I want to run. I want to get the fuck out of my body to make this pain stop.

But it won't.

Blinking is worse than ever, and all I get when I close my eyes is the memory of leaving him.

"You left him. You left that kid in that fucking building. They made you leave him."

It wasn't uncommon. We weren't about to bury every victim. And he was just a casualty of war.

That's what the commanding officer had said.

He was just a casualty to him, not someone's son.

My stomach clenches, threatening to empty its contents onto the rug. But I know I won't.

I'm not that lucky. I'll sit here in the nausea for hours before I actually puke.

My shaking is causing my fingers to tremble, and I get up and snag a bottle of water from the counter.

Finishing it off, I'm quickly back to the whiskey I left on the coffee table.

That's it, Luke. We're done. I'm getting you home.

I can hear Jay's voice ringing in my ears. He'd been injured shortly after, and we all went home.

Or did we?

I'd woken up so many nights after dreaming about being back, about our fucking father. And every time, the fantasy of the real world was just a dream.

I was still in that fucking hellscape.

Was I even back?

Was this all another dream?

"Fuck!"

Am I having a damn heart attack?At this rate, I'm really not sure.

"No, no, no. I don't want to. No."

I take the bottle in front of me and work to drain it dry.

I can't feel this. I can't fucking feel like this anymore. I'd do just about anything to make it stop.

Please, something, make this stop.

My mind starts to tunnel, blacking out over the edges, and I pass out again.

* * *

"Luke? Did you sleep out here?"

Clara's voice cuts through the feverish frenzy that grips me, and I shoot up into a sitting position.

The world spins, and my guts twist hard. I haven't felt this hungover in years.

Light from outside streams in through the glass doors, and it's way too fucking bright.

"Clara, I?—"

I'm hoarse as fuck, and I have to grip my head because it's throbbing.

"Are you hungover?"

She steps closer, and I can just make out the sight of her lifting up the whiskey bottle that was lying on the floor.

"I…"

"Jesus, Luke. What happened?"

Clara comes to sit next to me, and the shift of the couch has my stomach roiling.

"Oof, please be careful."

"Be careful?"I can hear the frustration in her voice, and it's really my only cue because I can't look up at her. "Look at you. Talk to me. Why did you get that drunk?"

"I'm sorry. I just…" You can't; don't say a damn thing. "Nightmare."

The loud sound of her heavy sigh hits me hard, and I try to breathe around the nausea gripping my stomach.

"Another one." Clara's voice is even and quiet. "Luke, these really seem to be a problem."

She's not wrong. In fact, the nightmares are pretty much my biggest problem.

But what am I supposed to say? Sorry, they're bad because I fucking killed a kid while fighting overseas, and I feel rightfully upset about it.

I'd just get referred to therapy again, and that shit doesn't work.

It's not like anyone gave me a damn instruction manual for how to handle all this. Hell, this is why I've only been casual fucking.

My gut tightens at the thought of just being fuck buddies with Clara—of her someday seeking all this out somewhere else.

I don't fucking want that. I know I don't, but Jesus, this is hard.

"Yeah. I know."

Clara sighs again.

"You…I don't think you can keep up with this." She squints at me, furrowing her brow. "You look so tired, babe. And the drinking…"

Silence hangs as neither of us make eye contact or even try for it. We're both way too uncomfortable for that right now.

"Just give me a few minutes. I'll be good to go after I have some coffee."

I move to stand, but the world swirls again.

"Dammit."

Clara's hand comes down on my shoulder, and it's only then I can manage to look at her.

"Look, I need to go." She pushes me back down to the couch. "But you don't need to drive me. You can't, not like this. And don't go to work, either. We'll talk when I get home, okay?"

There's nothing else to do, so I just nod. "Okay. I'll see you later."

And then Clara leaves.