The Void

by Bryan Healey

  I need to move...

  Footsteps...

  Move, goddamn it!

  And silence...

  Move!

  Footsteps and dust...

  She has left me; she has left me here alone...

  Move!

  Oh, God, please, move!

  I plead with my muscles, begging them to prove that I am, that I am here, that I am alive, that I am worth keeping, that I should be saved...

  Fucking move!

  I would cry, scream, had I the ability...

  Move! Move!

  "Move!"

  Suddenly my head is breaking, searing, burning in furious agony. My hand thrusts to my skull as a sudden burst of dust and ringing bells behind me lifts me to my feet and throws me back to the dirt. My body feels utterly broken as it tries to stand once again, against the better judgment of my mind.

  "Max, get on you feet!"

  That sounds like Frank...

  ...is that Frank?

  "Right now! We have to move!"

  Something grips the back of my jacket and pulls me up, onto my feet, and then bends me forward, seemingly unsure of where they want me. When my head comes back up, I see not Frank, but Staff Sergent Jason Mierez. We graduated boot together...

  But where's Frank?

  "Where's Frank?"

  "Let's go!"

  Jason takes off without another word, his hand firmly gripped onto his weapon, sprinting toward a building that I notice is suddenly before me. Had that building always been there?

  Where the hell am I?

  I am following Jason...

  "Where is Frank?" I repeat.

  My mind is returning. The ringing bells are fading, the shouting of men and clamoring of boots are now dominant, penetrating and thumping in my chest like an excited radio broadcast extolling a victory.

  "Where is Corporal Todd?"

  "Frank's gone," he finally manages.

  "What?"

  "I don't know where he is!"

  "What the fuck is going on?"

  "IED."

  "Where?"

  "One car up, north-northwest. Cover and wait."

  "ETA?"

  "Two minutes."

  I hear shouting, and then a whizzing sound.

  Bullets...

  "Who else is out there?"

  "The rest took shelter across the road."

  "How many?"

  More whizzing, flying dust and sweat.

  "Five, maybe more."

  Breaking glass and my shoulder is set aflame.

  "Jesus!"

  I collapse back;

  I'm on the floor.

  I didn't even feel the floor. I can't feel much quite suddenly. Have I been thrown to the floor? How did I end up on the floor?

  "Jesus!"

  I clutch my shoulder and feel it squish.

  "Keep the pressure!"

  Jason is at the now shattered window, weapon aimed, tat-tat-tat-ing bullets in a slow and methodical sequence, eye focused on something, but I don't know what... My shoulder really fucking hurts...

  "Max?"

  "You still with me?"

  "Max?"

  He keeps his focus.

  I wish I had his focus.

  "Max?"

  Why am I not talking?

  "Corporal Aaron!"

  "Where is Frank?"

  He doesn't answer me;

  I hear men shouting, closer...

  Closer...

  "Oh, Max," a softer voice, into the void.

  My heart should be pounding; is it pounding?

  I listen for the rhythm in my ears...

  It's not pounding...

  It should be pounding...

  I can still smell the dust and the sweat...

  "I'm going to miss you."

  Sarah; Sarah is here...

  Where is Jenny?

  Must be night.

  Why can't I keep track of time anymore?

  "I don't know how I'll manage without you."

  Without me...

  A world without me...

  "I'll have no one-" and her voice breaks...

  You must be so heartbroken over Michael...

  "I'll have no one left," she completes.

  Oh, don't say that, Sarah! That's not true!

  "No one..."

  You know that's not true...

  "I don't know what to do."

  Just carry on, Sarah. That's what you do, what you always do; you carry on. There is always more for you waiting in the aftermath of tragedy. It's the only comfort in life; it always gets better, at least until there is no more life left to live. And when that moment comes, there is no reason left to worry on it, because you have no means to care.

  So, always carry on...

  "I don't think I can handle this."

  You can! You most certainly can!

  I have faith in you...

  "I can't sleep. I work all night, I go home and he wakes up and I have to be with him. I can't sleep. I need to stay awake. And we talk, and it's so great, and then he sleeps and I go to work and it's hell. I can't keep doing this. I need some sleep."

  Get some sleep. I won't tell anyone.

  I'd laugh, nervously, if I could...

  "I should just sleep right here," and she giggles.

  Be my guest! I won't feel anything...

  But then she's silent...

  So very silent...

  Are you in the room still?

  I hear nothing. I should have heard her leave.

  She must be here...

  Sarah?

  "I-" and then a cough, a sob, another cough.

  She's trying not to cry...

  "I-" she starts again, and further silence.

  My heart is breaking for her. All the times she bragged over her brother, over his rising career, his jokes, his fancy education, his dashing good looks; he was training for a marathon; how does a man who is training for a marathon now die of cancer?

  Life is too cruel, disinterested.

  And then she let go...

  At first it was a gentle, almost serene whimper, a somber cry, but then devolved, brutalized, and she shrieks. I can feel all her pain and anger and horror spill forth in a single deluge, no dam to contain it, her world crumbling; and only I am around to hear it.

  A heart shatters in the night...

  "Max!"

  And the air is hot again, dusty again, the vocal fury now decidedly male and purely anger. The sun is directly in my eyes as I sit, hand clutching my shoulder as blood pours between my fingers. I feel tired, sweaty, and withdrawn, further so with each passing moment.

  "Max!"

  Jason was no longer standing at the window.

  "Oh, Christ..."

  Where is he?

  Jason?

  Where could he be?

  Are my eyes even open?

  No, they're not...

  I need to open my eyes...

  Another bell rings out.

  What was that?

  Open your eyes!

  I force one lid up. Quickly scanning, I see Jason, in the corner, head down, arms at his side, a deep red streak across the side of his head, down his shirt, and across the floor. The back of his head looks... wrong, shredded, like hamburger.

  More shouting...

  I look up, and a man is there, a man I don't know, wearing clothes I don't recognize, shouting in a language I don't know. A weapon in his hands, a gun I can't, yet should, recognize, the barrel pointed at me, he thrusting it for
ward and back as though he believes he was stabbing me with it.

  Two worlds collide...

  A blitz of coherence and I roll to the right, my hand at my jacket, my handgun suddenly in my right hand and I raise and release as many rounds as my finger can trigger. I don't know how many, but it seems enough as the man crumples away, the sun back in my face suddenly, and a fresh spray of red is across my shoes and pants.

  With all the energy I have left, the gun plops onto the floor and I slide across the wall until my face touches the dust and blood, and I fall effortlessly, gently, seamlessly into the void...

  "Good morning, Max," and I hear my doctor.

  My doctor never says good morning.

  Why is he saying good morning?

  "I'm afraid it's just me this morning."

  Where is Jenny?

  "You're still looking good, as always."

  Why isn't she here?

  It's morning...

  He said it's morning...

  "You have at least a few weeks left with us."

  She should be here!

  "We'll disconnect you in a few days, once all the paperwork and whatnot is taken care of."

  This isn't right!

  "Odd how much paperwork it takes to die."

  I need her...

  "Anyway, until the plug is pulled, we'll keep on checking up on you, keeping you stable."

  I miss her...

  "Your nurse will be in in a few moments." And the sound of his steps rise and fall, followed by silence.

  I love her...

  Divine punishment can hold no horror greater than the fury of my inability to cry...

  "Is he going to be alright?"

  A new doctor, looking stern and serious, stands before me, Jenny, our son behind glass, being watched carefully and treated gingerly by equally stern and serious looking nurses. He has some device over his mouth; I was told it helps his breathing.

  "We're monitoring him. His lungs weren't fully developed, so he'll need to be here for a few weeks."

  "Is he going to be alright?" I repeat.

  He sighs.

  "Well-" and he pauses, fingers now fixed to his chin. "His lungs should be fine. We just have to keep his oxygen levels high enough until he can breath on his own. It's mostly a waiting game now."

  "I don't like waiting," Jenny says.

  "I understand," he answers, with an awkward, mostly out of place smile. I imagine he was trying to calm Jenny, but it assuredly failed.

  "Is there anything we can do?"

  "You two should go home. Your son will be here for a while, and he is in excellent hands. You two need some rest. We will call you if anything changes."

  "I'm not leaving."

  "I would strongly-"

  "I'm not leaving."

  The doctor says nothing further. He locks eyes with Jenny, keeps even with her gaze for several uncomfortable seconds, and then nods, turns and walks back down the hall; I assume he is off to do more doctoring of some kind.

  The two of us turn back to the glass, our son clearly visible; he is the only one that appears machine like, surrounded by technical equipment. He looks so small and frail and about to break. He barely moves; on occasion, his arm will move up, ever so gently, shaking and shivering, and then back in place.

  I have never heard him cry.

  I need to hear him cry.

  When Jenny became pregnant, a million fears and scenarios flashed through my mind, racing, racing, almost all day long. College; teaching him to ride a bike; his first girlfriend; what if I'm not a good father?; when he gets his license; I need life insurance!; I wonder how old he'll be when he learns to walk... On and on and on the thoughts came and went, no pattern, no predictability, random.

  But I had never considered this.

  I never thought I might have to watch him die.

  And now, it is all I can think of.

  I fear every morning. What if I came to find a somber nurse, reluctant to break to me the terrible news? How would I be able to handle it? How would Jenny cope? How could I help her? What would we do? Would we have a funeral for him? He's so young; do you hold funerals for little boys?

  It's not fair; he should be allowed to live.

  He should taste air, learn to talk, learn to sing, admire the world, find true love, bury his parents and live the life we gave him. I shouldn't have to be here, watching him struggle for a chance to live in the world. I should be holding my son, smiling brilliantly with my wife, arguing over who gets to hold him next; I should be watching him breastfeed, listening to our parents swoon over his beauty, waiting anxiously for the return to home, to no sleep, to late, dark nights pacing across the living room, trying desperately to get my son back to sleep so my wife can get just a bit more rest...

  I need to turn my mind off.

  But I can't...

  And so we stand, motionless, appearing devoid of perceptible thought but raging inside, watching our son, waiting for a change, waiting for the doctor, waiting for anything... waiting...

  waiting...

  "Hey dad."

  And I hear him! My boy!

  He sounds sad...

  "How are you?"

  "He looks good." That's Jenny. I missed hearing her voice; my heart leaps at it's melody.

  "Yes, he does." I hear footsteps. "It doesn't seem fair that he looks that good."

  "Yeah," Jenny sighs.

  "I'm sorry I haven't been around more, dad."

  You don't need to apologize to me, Brian.

  "I missed you."

  I missed you, as well.

  "I'll always miss you."

  I don't know what to think of that...

  "Mom hates to see you like this."

  I hate not seeing her at all...

  "Tell him about Julie."

  Oh, Julie... Yes, please!

  "You'd love Julie!"

  I'm sure I would!

  "She's beautiful and smart and funny. You'd love her. She's a civil engineering major, finishing the same time as me. She's planning to move here when we graduate, maybe build a house together."

  Graduation...

  Another thing I will miss...

  "I think I might love her, dad."

  My boy, in love...

  "I wish she could meet you."

  I wish I could meet her, as well...

  "You could bring her here, Brian."

  "No, I don't want to freak her out."

  "She won't freak out-"

  "Mom, don't push it."

  "Okay," and Jenny sighs. It sounds as though they had discussed this before...

  "Anyway," he grumbles, "you'd love her."

  If she loves you, then that's all that matters.

  "She's studying for a mid-term now."

  Mid-terms? Which class?

  A fatherly thought, for sure.

  "I finished my last mid-term yesterday."

  I hope you did well!

  Another fatherly thought...

  "I've been thinking about you a lot lately, dad."

  I love when he calls me dad...

  "You used to be so big. So strong."

  I used to run daily, long before my foray into combat. I was always lean, tall and fast. The military bulked me up, gave me rows of muscles, a physique I was proud of. I kept that body through everything; not sure how I did so when the worst of it came, but somehow I never shriveled and shrank.

  I must look a waste now...

  "It's okay, Brian." Jenny sounds desperate.

  I hear a sni
ffle.

  Oh, Jesus, he's crying...

  "I'll miss you so much, dad. You'd think all these years with you... like... this... I'd get used to the idea of you being gone, but... this... is different. This is truly gone. I guess..." and his voice breaks, a pregnant pause, then a fitful start, stop and start- "... I can't stand the thought of you not... being there... anymore."

  "Brian..." Jenny whispers.

  "I know I don't visit enough."

  I'm in agony...

  "I know everyone dies," and the ruffling of sheets, furious; was he changing my sheets? Is my nurse in the room? "I knew that, as your son, I was going to bury you someday," and an end to the ruffling.

  "Brian..." an even softer whisper.

  "But not yet. Not now. Not so soon."

  Brian...

  "I love you..."

  I love you, too...

  And then a sudden, unexpected giggle. "At least you can see grampy soon."

  I can... Wait-

  "Say hello from me, I guess."

  I can see grampy soon?

  "When you get there, I mean."

  What happened to my father?

  "I'm sure he misses you.

  What happened to my father?

  "It's okay, Brian..." Then silence.

  Such silence...

  Please, oh God, please, tell me more about my father! What happened to him? Did he die? How did he die? When did he die?

  What about my mom; is she still alive?

  Why did no one tell me any of this?

  Oh, God...

  "It's snowing again."

  The great tragedy of my life now is that I can only know, only learn, of that which is said around me, to me, near me. I don't know why Jenny had never mentioned my father passing, but she never did, and I want to scream.

  My whole life has been stolen from me...

  My whole fucking life...

  "Are you okay?"

  The words are shouted at me, over the sound of roaring jet engines. The seat I'm now on is metal and flat, my back aching as the world around me bounces and heaves. The inside of this metal bird has none of the expected luxuries of consumer travel.

  My arm is in a sling.

  It hurts.

  "Yeah," is all I muster.

  The man across from me I don't know at all. I don't even know his name or rank. And yet he seems utterly concerned, his eyes low and sallow. How must I look to elicit such worry?

  Before me, before him, between us, are several flags, a drapery of stars and stripes, lay across many rather large metal boxes. In front of me is a small handle, protruding from beneath the fabric. I don't know who this is, who this was, but somewhere in the vast cargo is Frank and Jason, heading home to see their families and friends for the final time.