Fade to Black - Proof

by Jeffrey Wilson

  The covers were pulled up nearly over the head of the body in bed with him, but he knew immediately that something was wrong. The sheet on the back of the motionless figure was soaked in blood, the circle growing as he watched. The breathing of his wife changed to a harsh, wet snore, and the body beneath the covers shook badly. Jack slowly reached out a trembling hand for the stained and dirty sheet. He saw his own hand was filthy with black grime beneath the broken fingernails. He wanted to stop his reach, but couldn’t. The events unfolded outside of his control, and he watched in disbelief as his dirty hand grasped the corner of the sheet. He watched the shaking hand pull the cover slowly back to reveal what he already knew was there.

  The back of the head was gone and a gaping hole stared back at him, rimmed with jagged white bone and ragged scalp. Inside the hole, reddish-grey brain matter gaped back at him. Blood spurted in little arcs from a small pumping blood vessel in the center of the gory crevice and onto the back of his hand, dripping in puddles onto the sheets.

  Kindrich.

  As he watched, his hand frozen in midair, clutching the sheet, the sand and dirt began to swirl around him, faster and faster like a growing cyclone. It became thicker, spinning a dirty tornado around his head which blinded and choked him. Jack looked up at the ceiling and saw, without much surprise, that it was gone. The bedroom walls remained in place, but opened into a purple sky above. The twisting sand grew thicker now and the dust obscured the sky, until he could see nothing except a wall of spinning sand, twisting around him faster and faster. The sand filled his mouth and lungs, suffocating him. He felt a burning grow in the center of his neck and then felt the bed get softer beneath him. He tried to scream, but there was no air. The bed disappeared beneath him entirely, and he collapsed slowly into the center of the swirling dirt. It sucked him downward and his hands clawed out, looking for something solid. But the downward pull became more violent, sucking him into the vortex of madly spinning sand. He felt his body begin to twist and spin in the cyclone of sand as he was pulled down farther and farther, like unseen hands pulled him into a spinning grave from below. His body whipped around in circles faster and faster, until finally the earth stopped twisting and swallowed him up. It closed in on top of him and he was buried beneath the now still sand.

  And then it was still. And quiet.

  And dark.

  Like a grave.

  * * *

  Jack struggled to open his eyes again, fighting the darkness and the sense of being buried alive. Thick clouds of dust and sand swirled around him, kicked up by the blades of the helicopter. The blackness continued to envelop him, although he felt quite certain that his eyes were open now. He lay flat on his back, uncomfortable in his body armor. His Kevlar helmet was off, his head in the dirt, but he didn’t really care. He was only vaguely aware of the sound of gunfire, like noise on a TV in another room. He could also hear voices and was aware of activity all around him. Someone held his hand. He could feel a horrible burning in the center of his throat and heard a raspy gurgle whenever he sucked in a breath.

  “They’re coming around this side.”

  “Clear that space as a path.”

  “Hold his head! Hold his head!”

  “Corporal, light up that fucking window and silence that Hadji sniper!”

  A burst of gunfire.

  Screams in the distance.

  “Dustoff in 3 minutes, sir!”

  “Casey! Hang in there, bud. Helo’s coming! ...Casey!”

  Casey? He was unsure why that sounded wrong, somehow. He felt a squeeze from the hand in his and he tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t be sure if he had. He saw spots of light in the dark—small, but bright. He felt that should mean something to him. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand and felt them move.

  “That’s good, Sar’n. I’m here, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  Casey tried again to talk, but his effort brought only frustration and more pain deep in his throat. This was all wrong. Casey thought of his wife. What would she be doing right now? What time was it there? Was it day or night at home? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he wanted desperately to be there. Where was the dusty tornado that was supposed to take him home? Casey was unsure what that meant, but it seemed both right and important.

  Pam wanted him to get out of the Corps. She wanted him to go back to school with his GI Bill, and to stay at home with her and Claire. He remembered the tearful conversation, how she had said she would even go back to work if he wanted. But Casey couldn’t imagine going to school, having his wife working, and a young child at home. Plus the Corps had become like a home. He loved being a Marine, especially now. Now he was a sergeant. Now he had a shot at making the Corps a real career. He had stood out as a leader, and the Corps had been there to let him try and reach his potential. How could he explain it to this woman, whom he loved so dearly, so completely? He wanted desperately to be at home with his girls, to sit with them, to watch them, to play with them. He hated being away—hated it more that he could ever make his one true love understand. But being a Marine was no longer what he did. It had become who he was. He couldn’t imagine what he would be without the Corps, not anymore.

  And here I am in this dusty-ass country, dying in the street seven thousand miles from home.

  What had he done? How could he make her know? He loved them both so much. He had to get to them. He needed so much to tell them that he never loved anything more than them, but that he believed in what he did. That he did it for them as much as for the rest of the country. More. It was for them that he was fighting.

  Pam, Claire…I love you so much!

  “Bird’s on the ground.”

  “Great.” Doc’s voice. HM2 White, the Navy corpsman. “Doc Barton on board?” Barton, the battalion surgeon.

  “He’s here.”

  Another squeeze on his hand. He felt so fucking weak, but squeezed back. His mouth was so dry. He wanted a drink of water—wanted it with desire bordering on hysteria. Casey blinked his eyes as he saw red lights approaching. Flashlights. Then there was a loud explosion, close this time, and he felt Doc White lean over him to keep the blowing dust from settling on his face.

  “Shit! Jesus, where did that come from?”

  “No! Goddamn it, no. Check left! Check left!”

  He heard short bursts of M16A rifles, then the loud burp of a squad assault weapon letting loose a ten‐ or fifteen‐round burst. There was shouting as well, farther away.

  “Holy shit! How long has his neck been that big?”

  Barton’s voice? He felt fingers probe the left side of his neck, which sent a shocking burst of pain up into his jaw and head.

  “Goddamn. Got the carotid artery for sure. If that thing lets loose we’ll sure as hell lose him.”

  “Doc, he’s awake. He can hear you.”

  “Sergeant Stillman? Casey? It’s Doc Barton. You’re gonna be ok, buddy.” He felt a squeeze on his left shoulder, but was not reassured. Casey felt a strong terror growing inside him. He didn’t want to die here in this shit hole. He didn’t want to die at all.

  “Pam…Claire,” he mouthed the words but there was no sound. He had to get back to his family. He had to tell them how much he loved them. Casey felt the world getting dark again, felt again like he was tumbling, falling to the left. It was nauseating and he felt a horrible sharp pain grow in his left temple. He could also feel tears run out of his eyes and down his grimy cheeks.

  I just want to go home. I want to go home to Pam and Claire. I just want to go home.

  Then he felt himself being pulled down into a warm darkness, like the night was wrapping around him in a comfortable blanket.

  Pam.

  Chapter

  10

  “PAM!”

  It was a bloodcurdling scream, and it came from his own throat. Jack sat up, clawing at the air. Again his heart pounded in his chest. Again he was bathed in sweat and his breathing came in harsh, raspy grunts. Again his eyes darted a
round madly, looking for his Marines, for Doc White, for Simmons, for the enemy.

  The house was quiet as his scream faded away. It was light and he was on the couch, a blanket over his thighs, the TV off. He was home, home with Pam and Claire Bear. Jack got slowly and stiffly to his feet, letting the blanket fall to the floor in a heap. He walked to the hall bathroom and shuddered as a chill ran up his spine. The light in the bathroom was off, and he reached awkwardly around the corner searching for the switch, afraid to go inside until he found it and clicked it on.

  Normal. No blood in the sink or on the walls. No grimy tooth on the floor. No urine or gore in the toilet. He felt a bit more calm and walked through the kitchen and found the back door closed. He looked cautiously out the window, lifting the frilly blue curtain with a finger. Nothing. No young Marine sat in his yard, grinning his toothless grin from his half face. No red trail.

  Jack leaned his forehead against the window and enjoyed the cool on his face. Then he heard the front door open and felt a moment of growing panic. Simmons?

  “Jack? Baby, we’re home!”

  Pam.

  “Daddy!” Claire squealed as he walked as casually as possible into the living room.

  “Hey, guys,” he said, kissing Claire on the cheek, then Pam lightly on her lips.

  Pam looked at him critically, concern again in her eyes.

  “Are you ok, baby? You’re pale.”

  “Fine, honey. I’m fine.” He hugged his family tightly. Then pulled back and looked at his wife. “I just missed you guys.”

  Pam kissed his chin.

  “We missed you, too, Jack.” She placed Claire into his arms and he Eskimo kissed her, making her giggle. “I need to fix her dinner, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. Pam frowned.

  “You sure you’re okay? Did you have a nightmare? You weren’t watching the news channels were you?”

  Jack squeezed her hand and they headed for the kitchen.

  “No, baby. Just woke up and you weren’t here. I’m great now.”

  Jack followed his wife into the kitchen, his baby girl warm in his arms. Thoughts of Iraq, of Simmons and Kindrich, of the horrible pain in his neck and throat, swirled around his head like ghosts. He did his best to shake them off, but felt their pull no matter what he tried.

  His fantasy that all he needed was a pill in the mornings to dissolve the nightmares slipped through his fingers. He needed more—much more—if he was going to save his girls from this horror. Tomorrow he would take another day off. He would call this Dr. Lewellyn and try to get an urgent appointment. Tomorrow he would try and make this madness stop.

  Chapter

  11

  Jack sat uncomfortably in the waiting room of the slick and expensive-looking office and flipped through a magazine without seeing the pages. He was hot. The dark leather chair looked luxurious but felt uncomfortable, at least to someone nervous and fidgeting. Every time he shifted positions, which he did frequently, the chair made an obnoxious farting sound that made him glad he was alone in the small room. He had filled out the patient information sheet (Do you have thoughts of suicide? Have you ever had thoughts of harming someone else? Are there any sexual problems? How much alcohol do you drink per day/week? Do you use any recreational drugs? Why are you here today?) and set it on the armrest. He briefly fantasized of bolting from the room and taking his soft yellow patient information sheet with him. Only his need to get his insurance card back kept him in this little room, fidgeting in his large farting chair.

  And the need to save my family from my madness. Let’s not forget that one.

  The door cracked open and the sharply dressed receptionist poked her head in.

  “Hi, Jack,” she said softly, as though they shared some secret. “Dr. Lewellyn is ready for you now.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said and followed the receptionist down a short hall, lined with expensive-looking and brightly colored art, intended no doubt to fill him with happiness. They came to a dark wood door with “David Lewellyn, Ph.D.” engraved on a gold plate at eye level. The receptionist opened the door quietly and ushered him into a well-lit and spacious office.

  “Dr. Lewellyn, this is Jack.”

  David Lewellyn looked a bit younger than he had expected. He was very fit and dressed in expensive dark slacks, a white dress shirt, and a yellow tie. He was smiling broadly, his hand outstretched.

  “Hi, Jack. Come on in.”

  Jack took the outstretched hand and shook it, the grip firm and confident. Dr. Lewellyn looked familiar somehow, at least in the way that the smartly dressed models in GQ looked as if you had seen them shopping in the mall.

  “Please sit down.” Lewellyn motioned vaguely towards the two chairs and couch. Jack stood there a moment, unsure.

  “Where?” Jack asked.

  Dr. Lewellyn laughed warmly and clapped Jack on the back with his well-manicured hand as his receptionist closed the heavy door behind them.

  “Wherever you’re most comfortable, Jack. It’s not a test.”

  Jack smiled, embarrassed, and felt himself relax a little. He walked over to the couch and sat down awkwardly. The psychologist sat in the large chair closest to him and crossed his legs. He pulled out a pen and picked up an expensive‐looking leather folder, but didn’t open it. Jack wondered how he had known where he would sit, but then noticed that the little wood and marble tables next to the other chair and at both corners of the couch all contained identical folders. Clever. Lewellyn smiled softly.

  “So,” the psychologist said, and looked at him expectantly.

  “So,” Jack answered, unsure what else to say, then felt like an idiot.

  Dr. Lewellyn leaned forward, still smiling.

  “Jack, relax. I’m not testing you or trying to analyze you.” He sat back again. “Just think of me as a friend with a helpful education. Maybe I can help you sort some things out. The way this works is I am just here to talk to. Together we’ll help you figure out for yourself what we can do to help you feel better.” He smiled that warm smile again. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Jack said, not much relieved. He looked around the office awkwardly, not wanting to meet the doctor’s eyes.

  “Well,” Lewellyn said, “I’ll start. Jim Barton tells me that you’re having a lot of nightmares. But I want to start with what made you call today. You seemed quite eager to come in.” He looked at Jack again, his notebook now open in his lap, his pen ready to turn Jack’s mind into scribbles on his legal pad. He looked relaxed, but expectant.

  Jack had decided yesterday, after the terror on the couch, that he needed to commit to complete disclosure with the psychologist. He needed one person he could tell everything to, and it might as well be someone who could help make sense of all this crap. Doc Barton trusted this guy, and he liked and respected Barton. No more putting it off. If he was nuts, he was nuts. But better to know and let the chips fall where they may.

  “Well,” he began, shifting, grateful that the leather couch was less fart prone than the chair in the waiting room. “Jim says he has several patients with this kind of thing,” he felt pretentious calling Doc Barton “Jim,” but no going back now. “I have these bad dreams—”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Well, yeah. Nightmares, I guess. Jim thinks it’s some kind of stress thing, I think he called it, related to all the war shit I’ve been watching on TV, in the paper— you know.”

  “Let’s start with the first thing that happened that caused you distress. The first time you felt there was a problem. When was that?”

  “Last week,” Jack answered. He liked this better. Simple question and answer. Hard to fuck that up, right?

  “When last week?”

  “Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday, I think.”

  “Okay, what happened?” Lewellyn watched him again, still patient, unhurried. Jack tried again to relax.

  “Well, that was when I had my first dream—nightmare, I guess.”

  “Okay,” the doctor scrib
bled again. “Tell me about the nightmare as best you can.”

  And Jack did. He tried his best to give every detail of the late afternoon in Fallujah. He began slowly and with difficulty, trying to read Dr. Lewellyn’s expression (there was none, really), but as he told the story he relaxed, and it poured out of him more easily and more and more quickly. He told about Kindrich taking a round in the head which split his team and drove him, Bennet, Simmons, and the others behind the wall. He gave a detailed description of Bennet taking a round then dying beside the wall. He told Lewellyn of his plan to get his guys across the road to join up with the rest of his platoon and of the RPG round that had buried Bennet’s body. A few times the doctor interrupted him for a brief moment, trying to catch up on his notes. Then he would nod and look at him without speaking. He seemed fascinated by the story. During the pauses Jack became aware of the tears that streamed down his face, of the tremor in his voice. He didn’t care. Now that he’d started, there was no stopping. It was all he could do to pause briefly while Lewellyn caught up his notes, then his trembling voice would begin again, and out it would come. He told him every detail of the bullet he took in the chest, of struggling back to his feet, and then the feel of the second round that tore open his throat. He wept openly now as he told of the terror of not being able to speak, of the burning pain, of the fear that he was dying. He told him about wanting desperately to get to his wife and daughter. When he was done, he collapsed backwards, exhausted.

  Dr. Lewellyn finished writing and sat back as well, watching him without speaking. The pause seemed eternal, and Jack felt himself grow more uncomfortable again. He began to fidget and looked around the room nervously.

  “What happened then?” the psychologist finally asked.