A Lover's Lament

by K. L. Grayson

  “I need the ‘terp. I’ve got one of the IP radios. We need to call these fuckers ASAP … see what the fuck is going on.”

  I pass the radio off to Adams and he chucks it to “Mike,” our interpreter, then orders him to make the call. Before Adams can get another word in, I take off in the direction of my own vehicle, my heart attempting to punch a hole through my ribcage.

  Looks like it’s gonna be another long day in hell.

  “Weight of the World” – Young Guns

  COME TO FIND OUT THE shots were fired by a bunch of frightened IPs in response to the explosion. This led the checkpoint down the road to assume the other one was being overrun. Sure, why not fire blindly toward another checkpoint based solely on assumption? Dumb fuckers.

  After helping the IPs load the dead and wounded onto new trucks that arrived, we eventually made our way back to base. The whole mess took the lives of fourteen Iraqi Police and one dedicated suicide bomber. It stole six hours of our day. As we quietly cruised the road back to base, I couldn’t help but wonder which of those made me more upset. I’m a little ashamed of that.

  After reaching base and debriefing from our mission—and getting my ass chewed out by Dixon for taking matters into my own hands—my squad and I took up our usual spots on lawn chairs around a fire pit in the center of the three tents our company stays in. It’s not so much a fire pit as it is a giant ashtray¸ since protocol dictates that we can’t have fires at night.

  A smattering of blue chemical lights cast a glow around us. The moon dominates the night sky, shining flawlessly with the absence of pollution. We have canteens full of oversweetened Kool-Aid and a carton of cigarettes between us. We won’t smoke them all, but after missions we wish we could forget, we certainly give it a valiant effort. The Army owns almost every hour of every day we spend in this place, but this time … this is ours.

  About two canteens deep, my squad’s conversation turns to ‘sickest anal stories,’ but I tune them out. I’m lost in the moment. I’m lost in that shining freckled orb in the sky. I’m wondering who else could be looking at it too … at that very moment. With my legs outstretched and hands behind my head, I nearly forget I’m even in a combat zone. I lose myself in thought as the conversation flickers around me. I shut my eyes and drift far, far away.

  I'm reading Cormac McCarthy on a Hawaiian beach. The story is about a man and a boy on a journey in a desolate wasteland. The ocean is as blue as I've ever seen it, and so clear I can spot dolphins playfully jousting in the distance. A beautiful girl sits beside me. A romance novel is cradled in one of her hands, while the other rests against my chiseled abs. I love her touch. Her frequent glances and heartbreaking smile make my body numb. She tells me she loves me. Twirling a strand of her hair between two fingers, she bites the edge of her lip, then she tells me I’m her everything. This is perfection. This is my oasis. This is—

  “Time to go, brother. Going to be an early morning.” A swift kick from Navas is the sobering thud that jolts my eyes open, and immediately my heart sinks back into its resting place. I groan and rise to meet him. He’s right. Five a.m. will be here in no time.

  After a quick field shower, which pretty much consists of baby wipes and bottled water, I make my way to my bunk. In the tent where we sleep, our cots are lined up one beside the other with equipment strewn about. Posters of half-naked women are duct taped against the tent’s walls, and a stale, dingy aroma sits heavy in the air. It’s not much, but it’s our home for now.

  When I reach my cot, there’s a letter positioned on my pillow. I turn to Navas, who has entered behind me, and ask, “We get mail?”

  “Yeah, man. The radio dispatcher just dropped them off. Who the fuck is writing you anyway?”

  “I’m assuming just some random person from that pen pal shit,” I say, thinking back to the program I reluctantly signed up for a few months back. I’m not even sure why I did, since I haven’t bothered to read any of the letters that have come to me, but it’s hard seeing these guys get letters and packages from home. And don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them, but I’m envious too, and I fucking hate envy. It’s such an ugly shade on anybody. So I do my best to hide it.

  I pick up the envelope, and just as I’m about to toss it with the others, I notice the name and address. My heart lodges at the base of my throat.

  Katie Devora

  1224 N. Main St.

  Rock River, TN, 62442

  “Holy fucking shit!” I exclaim, drawing Navas’s attention.

  “What’s up, man?” he asks, but I ignore him.

  Katie has been on my mind a lot over the years, and even more so after spending some time in this hellhole. But I never thought I’d hear from her again … not after the way I left her. And how did she even find me? A dull ache stabs at my chest, and I blow out a slow, labored breath.

  I feel an immediate urge to open the letter, a force too powerful to deny. Katie fucking Devora! Slipping a thumb into the nook of the envelope, I slide it open quickly and pull the letter out. Almost immediately, I’m hit with the smell of perfume … Katie’s perfume. The smell is faint, not like she sprayed it on but as if it were simply passed from hand to paper.

  For better or worse, my nose has become quite sensitive to the smell of women in just these first few months of deployment. We often stop at the main operating base located on the Green Zone to drop off detainees, and many of the female soldiers stationed there wear some sort of scent. We animals could smell them from a mile away.

  But Katie’s perfume brings an onslaught of memories that make my legs go weak and causes me to stumble back. I take a seat on my cot to compose myself. I don’t unfold the letter right away, instead choosing to let the soft floral essence float around my nasal cavity for a bit. I close my eyes and breathe it in slowly, letting the fragrance remind me of my biggest regret. My only regret, actually, and one I’ve never quite gotten over.

  From the second I saw her, I knew I was a goner … and that was in the first fucking grade. Two pigtails swung freely from either side of her head, and when she turned around and locked her large brown eyes onto mine, I just knew I had to steal her pencil. I wanted her chasing me, because if she chased me, it meant she liked me. The second she dove onto my back and brought me tumbling to the ground, I knew I’d met my match.

  And boy, did I ever. In the years that followed, it became crystal clear that Katie would be the woman I was going to marry—a woman who would take my bullshit and throw it right back at me, a woman with a stubborn will and the kindest of hearts. And I knew, the first and only time we made love, that I was a complete goner. From that moment on, Katie Devora owned me.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I allow myself to remember that moment … the feel of her mile-long legs as they wrapped around me, pulling me into her and digging her heels into my back if I tried to move away. I see her perfect, tear-dropped tits waiting for my eager mouth.

  My dick throbs in my uniform bottoms, and I look down at it as if it’s grown a face. What the fuck is wrong with me? Ignoring the feeling, I unfold the letter and begin to read.

  Dear Devin,

  I’m not sure the best way to start this letter, but considering our past, I feel the only way is with complete honesty. So … here goes.

  I’m not writing you because I want to; I’m writing you because I need to … well, at least that’s what my therapist says. She wanted me to connect with a soldier, so she sent me a potential pen pal list. And although I vaguely remember someone telling me in passing that you had joined the military, I think I’d blocked it out. So you can probably imagine my surprise when I saw your name. Seriously, what were the chances?

  I’ve been having a hard time lately, and connecting with a soldier is supposed to help me heal. At first I thought seeing your name was some sort of sign, a tiny ray of hope from the man upstairs. Because if anyone knew how much you helped me before, it would be Him. But now that I’m actually sitting down and writing this, it’s doing nothing but
bringing back all of the insecurities and anger that I was left with nearly a decade ago.

  You left me. Without a single word. I’m pissed at you for that, and honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be anything but mad at you. You made a decision to leave me with no way to reach you or find you. You left me at home to drown in my own heartache, and that’s what I did. I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye … just like with my dad.

  You probably haven’t heard, but my dad was killed in a car accident. I was with him, and his death has completely destroyed me. In fact, according to my therapist, I’m not grieving the loss of him very well. She seems to think that writing you—or any soldier, for that matter—might help me let go of some of my hurt and anger. But I can see now that reaching out to you probably wasn’t the best idea.

  Anyway, I think Dr. Perry has a screw loose and has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. However, I am desperate to find closure and move on, because the woman I’ve become is not the woman I want to be. You would probably still recognize me if you saw me, but the carefree, happy girl you once knew … she’s gone … buried right alongside her dad in a cold, dark grave.

  Despite what you’re probably thinking right about now, I’m not a completely angry, closed-off bitch. Writing you just seems to have pulled that out of me. Honestly though, I don’t care what you think, and I can’t bring myself to give a shit about anything, really.

  I’m getting off track, and that’s the exact opposite of what this letter is supposed to do, so I’m going to do what’s best for me right now. I’m going to tell you what happened, but for my own sanity I’m going to pretend that Devin Ulysses Clay is a complete stranger … shouldn’t be too hard, I guess, considering I haven’t heard a word from you in years. So here goes nothing.

  Six weeks ago, my dad and I were on our way to dinner when a car in the opposite lane crossed the center divide and slammed into us head-on. I woke up two days later in the hospital to find out that my father had died on impact, and the man responsible for his death was a soldier home on leave.

  Sergeant Clay, my dad was my best friend—my biggest supporter—and now he’s gone. And instead of grieving his loss and remembering all of the great things about him, I’m consumed with anger and resentment toward the young man who so carelessly stole my father’s life. He was a soldier, for Christ’s sake. Aren’t soldiers supposed to be strong, upstanding men? Aren’t they supposed to be trained in the art of discipline and control? Or has the military gone to shit and now they’re producing nothing but careless, uncontrollable monsters who think it’s okay to get behind the wheel drunk?

  Who does that anyway, driving drunk? It makes me angry, and I hate this anger that has somehow taken over every aspect of my life. But I can’t seem to move past it. It controls me in ways that I can’t even explain. It’s an entity, in and of itself, growing inside of me to epic proportions. It’s the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night and the first thing I think about in the morning, and on most days it occupies every minute in between.

  Bailey tells me that the first step is forgiveness, but please tell me how in the hell I’m supposed to forgive a “mistake” that destroyed my entire world? How do I move on from this? How do I erase this deep-rooted hatred that has spread from a smolder to a full-blown inferno inside my soul? Honestly, I’m not sure I can erase it, or move on, and that terrifies the ever-loving shit out of me.

  My dad was a good man … a kind man. He was a hard worker and the best damn father a girl could ever ask for. He was my hero, and nothing and no one can bring him back. But it sure will be satisfying knowing that Lieutenant Drexler will rot in prison for what he took away from me and my family.

  Can you even relate to what I’m going through and what I’m feeling? Of course you can’t. Because what I’m feeling is a gaping hole of emptiness in the spot where my heart should be.

  I haven’t told anyone about these feelings, except my therapist. Sure, my mom and sister know I’m having a hard time, but they’re oblivious to the things that cycle over and over in my head. They don’t know that there have been days I’ve thought about what it would be like to leave this earth, and I hope they never do because I don’t want to disappoint them more than I already have.

  So, do I feel better after writing this letter? I’m not so sure. If anything, at least it will appease Dr. Perry, and it’s given me the opportunity to tell you that you’re a fucking dick and I hate you for what you did. Most of all, I hate that I don’t know why you left. What changed to make you pick up and leave the way you did?

  You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t care.

  Have a good life, Sergeant Clay.

  Sincerely,

  Katie Devora

  My breathing is ragged and my heart is racing at a pace that seems inhuman. My fingers grip the letter tightly as if the longer and tighter I hold it, the kinder the words will become. Her letter absolutely gutted me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe leaving her without a word was a dick move, but she had no idea what I saw … the way she looked at Wyatt, the way she turned to him with her problems. I would never be able to compete with the likes of him. I could feel it in my bones, even before talking to her dad, that Wyatt would be her knight in shining armor. Sure, at the time I didn’t want to believe it, but I could feel it.

  Katie may have loved me then—fuck, I know she did—but I had every reason to believe that my love for her wouldn’t be enough.

  Without permission, my mind drifts to the last night I saw Katie. The night I promised her we’d find a way to make it work. The night I ultimately walked away, shredding both her heart and mine in the process.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.” She giggles when I cup the back of her neck and bring her mouth to mine. Reluctantly, I let go, and with a smirk, she walks away, only looking back once to give me a little wave. My eyes stay fixed on her until I know she’s safe inside the house.

  Katie lives out in the country, and it’s much darker out here than in town. So dark, in fact, that a light tap against my passenger-side window causes me to instantly go into panic mode. Spinning around, I pin myself against the driver’s side door. Mr. Devora’s enormous frame comes into view, but even after I realize it’s Katie’s dad and not some masked murderer, it still takes several moments to collect myself.

  He throws a hand up in apology and then motions for me to get out of my car. My eyes dart to the door Katie just walked in and then back to Mr. Devora before I finally do as I’m asked and climb out. He walks around the car and puts a hand on my shoulder; I feel like if he applied any pressure at all it would rip my arm right off. The strength he’s acquired from working on a farm has never been more apparent than now as my teenage arm disappears under the grip of his hand. He flashes a bright white smile beneath a thick brown mustache that even Tom Selleck would be proud of.

  “Sorry, buddy, did I scare you?” His voice comes off much softer than you’d expect from such an intimidating figure. He always has a way of instantly making me feel comfortable, though a quick change in facial expressions and I’d be back to cowering like I’m fourteen again.

  Mr. Devora and I have always had a pretty good relationship. He knows how I feel about Katie, and for years I’ve helped them both around the farm. He also knows about my home life and has often made a point to act as father figure toward me. I’ve always appreciated him for that.

  “No, it’s okay, I just didn’t see you. It’s dark out here in the country.” I try my best to not sound like a child, but I can’t help but think I do anyway. I guess that’s just a repercussion of knowing him since I was a toothless little boy. He’ll always be Katie’s scary dad to me.

  “I just wanted to talk with you real quick. Do you have a few minutes?” My mind runs through all the things he could want to talk to me about, and I come to the same conclusion each time—he knows I just had sex with his daughter!

  Chills rack my body when I remember just how man
y guns this man owns, and for a split second I considering jumping in my car and taking off because I’m sure that this will be the end of me. I’m going to die at the hands of Katie’s dad, and he’s gonna bury me in some secluded spot on his property, never to be heard from again. Well, fuck, it was a fun ride, I guess.

  “Yeah.” My voice squeaks and I swallow hard, hoping he didn’t hear it. “That’d be fine, Mr. Devora. What’s going on?”

  “Head over to the fire pit, and I’ll go grab a couple of Buds.” I clear my throat and can only manage to nod my head as I make my way to the side of the house where the fire pit sits, four chairs surrounding it, with only a few embers still smoldering. He makes his way inside and I grab a seat, my entire life running through my head. I wonder how long it’ll take my mom to notice I’m gone … and how long it’ll take her to sell all of my shit.

  The back door slams shut and the soft glow of the fire casts a massive shadow as Mr. Devora approaches. In my head, I’m saying as many Hail Marys as I can, but I’m messing up half the words. I’m thinking right about now that this is going to get me a first-class flight to hell. Leave it to me to try and find religion just seconds before my life ceases to be.

  I see his hand lift amongst the shadows and I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the bullet to pierce my skin and leave me bleeding to death in the dirt. “Well, you gonna take it, or you gonna make me drink ‘em both?”

  His voice with its slight drawl forces my eyes open, and I see he’s holding a Bud Light out for me to take. I immediately relax and accept it from him. Popping the top off, I toss it back, hoping the alcohol will calm my nerves. I down about half the bottle before noticing him looking at me as if to say, ‘you better slow it down, boy.’ I’ve always loved that Katie’s dad would give me beers from time to time, and I have his old-school cowboy ways to thank for that. But he’s never been a fan of my tendency to drink them entirely too fast. Little does he know, it’s my fear of him that makes me guzzle it in the first place.