I had my reasons for leaving, reasons that are probably best left unsaid. I wouldn’t expect you to even begin to understand what was running through my head at the time. You know what I was going through back then, and at the time we were just two people in two very different places. But I digress … that is not what I wanted this letter to focus on at all.
I’m so incredibly sorry to hear about your father, and I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through. I know how close you two were, and just reading your words makes me ache so much for you, Katie. I’m just so very sorry.
How is your mom handling everything? And Bailey?
You know my pops walked out on us when I was just a kid and how devastated I was when he disappeared. I’m not trying to compare my situation to yours, not by a long shot. I only mean to say that after going through what I did with all of that, struggling with it like I did but still knowing he was alive and well at least, I can’t even begin to understand how you feel right now. I want you to know that, no matter what happened in the past, I will always be here for you. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or just rip into someone, I’m here. I even have email. You could totally bitch me out on there anytime you want!
God, so the man that hit you was a soldier? I wish I could say I’m surprised, but there is an abundance of substance abuse in the military. There are a lot of people numbing themselves, and I can’t say that I blame them. When we lose people day in and day out, watch our friends die, and take lives that we don’t want to take, how else are we supposed to cope? I’ve lost so many friends over here that I’m beginning to lose count. Just three months ago, my best friend was one of them. Jax bled out in my arms. He was a polite Mormon boy from Utah without a hateful bone in his body.
So to answer your question, are we all monsters? No, we’re not. We are fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. We are dreamers, lovers, and God-fearing men. Are some of us monsters? Yeah, we are. Some of these soldiers kill with a thirst, and others can gun a man down and not even think twice about it. Unfortunately, there are some who wear the uniform that do not live within the code of ethics our uniforms represent. But the majority of us are just like you … people dealing with something so traumatic, so heartbreaking, and so horrific that the heart never quite learns to mend. Many of us, including myself at times, have learned to patch together the broken pieces of our hearts using whatever means necessary—and yes, that sometimes results in harm inflicted upon ourselves and others.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve never driven drunk, but that would be a lie. I didn’t change much after leaving Tennessee. And as ashamed as I am to admit it, I got worse once I moved to Pennsylvania—and worse yet after my grandmother passed away. Mom lost her shit completely when grandma didn’t leave a penny to her name, and it all went downhill from there. I started smoking all the time and drinking. I fell in with the wrong crowd. I just wanted anything other than to be there with her in that fucking trailer.
It was my twentieth birthday, and I was on my way back from a bar with my buddy. I was drunk and nearly unconscious in the passenger seat when my friend, who was also plastered, ran into a telephone pole going fifty in a thirty-five. The doctors said the only reason I avoided major injury was because I was passed out and wearing a seatbelt. My buddy wasn’t so lucky. He broke his C-2 vertebrae and has been a quadriplegic ever since. His entire life changed that night, Katie.
Even though I walked away from the wreck, my life changed that night too. I’ve had tremendous guilt since then and often think about the harm we could’ve caused others. To think we could’ve done something like what happened to your dad—to your family–it rocked me to my core. It still does. I joined the Army soon after that. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I didn’t want to be defined by those actions, and although I knew you were long gone—that I had effectively pushed you from my life—I still wanted to be worthy of you.
The man who took your father’s life could have easily been me a few years back. What’s worse is that I hadn’t even experienced combat yet. We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived. We become numb, our emotions sedated. Death becomes merely a noun, something we neither process nor heal from.
I make no excuse for the man who killed your father. Maybe he is a monster, one of those who kill with pleasure. Maybe he’s a young, dumb grunt who has no regard for the sanctity of human life. Or maybe he’s one of many who drink away the pain they can’t begin to understand. No matter the circumstance, a life was taken—the life of a wonderful man—and for that I am so incredibly sorry. I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
I’m thinking right about now that I’ve probably done more harm than good. I hope I haven’t heightened the ugliness you see in all of us, me especially, because that wasn’t my intention. I only hoped to explain the potential side effects of playing Russian roulette with roadside bombs and bullets for an entire year. And then another year, and another, and another ...
Don’t treat your grief as we do. Don’t let it simmer until, before you know what’s happened, it’s boiling over the edge. Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be. Don’t let him own your existence.
I know it must be hard, Katie. I’m no expert; I just know I haven’t been doing it the right way. Hell, I don’t even know what the right way is. But I do know that by hanging on to all this stuff and burying it deep down inside, it’ll all catch up to me one day. I can feel the cracks forming already, and I know the foundation will eventually come tumbling down.
I hope to hear back from you. I really enjoyed your letter, although it’s possible that it might be the first letter in pen pal program history where a soldier was called a ‘fucking dick.’
But seriously, thank you for writing. And thank you for not letting the past dictate the future.
Sincerely,
Devin
[email protected]
The letter falls from my hands, the papers floating aimlessly until they come to rest noiselessly on the ground. My mind is racing at warp speed as I work to process his words, but I can’t. There’s too much, too many emotions, too many things he said that I wasn’t prepared to hear or read, and now I can’t seem to focus on anything at all except this overwhelming, indescribable emotion that’s creeping its way through me.
My brows furrow when I think back to the letter that I wrote him and the callous things I said without abandon. And yet here he is, this soldier—this man who should feel like a stranger but doesn’t—fighting for our country, living in his own version of hell every single day, trying to give me peace. He clearly has his own cuts that run just as deep, if not deeper, than mine, but he’s offering me comfort in the only way he can—with his words.
I don’t regret expressing my feelings in the letter I wrote, but after reading his response, I feel like I don’t deserve his compassion. I want it though. God help me, I want it.
I squeeze my eyes shut as his words drift around in my head.
So to answer your question; are we all monsters? No, we’re not. We are fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. We are dreamers, lovers, and God-fearing men.
But the majority of us are just like you … people dealing with something so traumatic, so heartbreaking, and so horrific that the heart never quite learns to mend.
Lieutenant Drexler’s face pops in my head. I’ve only seen it once, pictured on the news, but it’s been branded in my memory and now I can’t help but wonder. Does he have a precious little girl or boy running around who will now grow up without him? Will his kids mourn the loss of their father the way I have mine? Does he have a wife who is scared and lost and lonely? Is his mother crying herself to sleep every night because the son who safely returned from the battlefield will never really return home now?
Not once have I allowed these possibilities to enter my mind. I haven’t wanted to consider anything about the man who killed my father, and I’m still not sure I want to. But Devin’s words have opened a gate, and it doesn’t matter how hard I push, the damn thing won’t shut.
I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived.
Is Lt. Drexler’s pain as raw as mine?
Does he think about us as often as I think about him?
Pressure builds behind my eyes, making them burn, and a few tears manage to slip past the confines of my lashes and drip down the side of my face.
If I gave him the opportunity to explain or apologize, would he take it?
Is that something I’m strong enough to do?
A wave of heat washes over me, and without warning, a strangled cry flies from my mouth.
Don’t treat your grief as we do.
Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be.
Don’t let him own your existence.
Clutching at my stomach, my shoulders curl inward, heaving as my body expels three months worth of grief, pain, anger and guilt. “Oh, God,” I moan, slipping my hands in my hair, wrapping them around the windblown strands. Slow and steady, my body rocks back and forth as my mind replays all the times I’ve taken my emotions out on my family. I’ve ignored them, shut them out and refused their comfort and love. I’ve said hateful things in fits of anger and sorrow … things that I can’t ever take back. I tug roughly on my hair, needing to feel some sort of physical pain in exchange for all the pain that I’ve caused. My breath hitches when I suck in a deep breath and another round of sobs wrack my body.
Lifting my head out of my hands, I tilt my tear-streaked face up to the sky. Raw, nervous energy courses through me and I push to my feet, needing to move somewhere—anywhere. Walking toward Mac, I grab onto his reins and lead him toward the creek. “What is wrong with me?” I mumble, my eyes searching the clouds for some hidden answer. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” My chin trembles and I swipe away the tears running down my face, but they keep coming and I eventually give up.
Minutes tick by, or maybe hours, but the sobs finally subside. I’m exhausted—beyond exhausted—and already regretting the decision to pick up an extra shift at work tonight. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel as though I could crawl in bed and sleep for hours on end. I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out slowly, letting everything from Devin’s letter sink in.
I have absolutely no idea why his letter hit me the way that it has. His words are merely a different version of the same thing everyone else has been trying to tell me, but they feel different. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Devin. There’s a reason he was my best friend for so long. He was the first person I gave my heart and body to, and maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been able to shake this unmistakable connection to him—even after ten years.
There’s also a reason his name was on that pen pal list. I’ve been treading water in a choppy sea of guilt and anger, and he just inadvertently threw me a lifeline. If it were anyone else, I’m not sure it would’ve made the same impact. So, without thinking twice, I make the decision to grab on to that lifeline he tossed me, and I’m going to hold on to it with every ounce of strength I have left.
Something nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts, and I turn around and come face-to-face with Mac. Using his nose, he frisks my shirt for treats and I laugh, patting him gently on the neck. “Sorry, big guy. There’s nothing in there for you.” He lets out a soft huff before dropping his head to graze on the grass. My eyes drift to my bag that is propped up against the tree, and I notice that Devin’s letter is exactly where I dropped it. “There’s one more thing I need to do before we go, Mac.” I give him one last quick rubdown on the head and then make my way to the tree.
Sitting down cross-legged, I grab the letter and read over it once more. This time, however, my heart feels lighter and I can’t help but grin as different parts of the letter begin to stand out.
You know I loved you.
Those moments we spent together are the best memories I have.
Devin’s words slice through me, leaving me feeling more open and vulnerable than I’ve felt in a very long time. He has the power to hurt me again. How is it possible to feel such a strong connection with someone I haven’t even talked to in a decade? I mean, seriously, he treated me like shit, and yet after a very simple apology, I’m dying to reconnect, dying to tell him everything. That should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.
I have no idea who this man is anymore. Sure, I know the boy he used to be, but I have no idea what type of person he’s turned into. What happened after he left Tennessee? What was his life like in Pennsylvania? Did he meet someone else and fall in love? Did he go to college, and if not, why?
Sure he touched on some of those questions in his letter, but the woman in me—the woman who clearly still harbors some sort of feelings toward her first love—wants details. And lots of them.
A slow smile spreads across my face, and when I take a deep breath, I have an unexpected release of tension. There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power is at work here, and I smirk at the thought that I could very well have my dad to thank for this. Shaking my head, I close my eyes. It would be easy to hold on to my resentment and anger toward Devin, but when I look back on our friendship and all the things we’ve been through, I’m grateful to be given a second chance.
I’m not sure why, and maybe it’s foolish of me, but I have a feeling deep in my bones that I can trust him. A tiny voice pops in my head telling me I shouldn’t be feeling this way after everything that happened with Wyatt this morning—especially considering both of our pasts with Devin—but I push it aside.
The need to write Devin back grows with each passing second, so I grab my notepad and pen from my bag, intent on doing just that. He needs to know that I may have lost so much of who I used to be, but one thing hasn’t changed—my ability to forgive. Now, I may not be able to forgive Andrew Drexler, but Devin is a completely different story. I want him to know that the words I wrote, although true at the time, were written out of anger and confusion, but that his words have touched me. The process may be slow, but I will make things right with my family and with Devin.
So as my pen hits the paper, I open up the deepest part of me and let it all out, hoping against hope that I hear back from him again.
“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” – Jeff Buckley
I WAKE BEFORE THE SUN has checked in for the day and scan the tent, noting my men still sleeping heavily. My morning ritual, at least the days I have time to do it, requires a bit of privacy, and I make certain I have it before I begin. Most of these clowns will just jerk it from their cots in the middle of the night with the rest of us passed out around them. There’s always been something odd about that to me. On a regular basis, I've woken up to the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping skin, and it pisses me the fuck off. If I’m not dog-tired, they’ll get a boot heaved in their direction, aimed straight for the dick and with the express purpose of putting them out of business for a while.
No, jackin’ the beanstalk in public isn’t for me. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other place to do it—the Drop Zone. Porta-shitters, as we like to call them, sit for weeks without being emptied and capture every bit of the sun’s heat. It’s like a fucking greenhouse in there, and one breath in that motherfucker while beating off and your dick is in full retreat.
So there’s a trick to doing this just right; you have to prep him first. You get him up and going, and then you quickly finish in the shitter. For most of these guys, the bikini-clad chicks above their cots or the porno mags stashed in their bags are a
necessity for a proper jerk-off, but I'm an imaginative guy. I close my eyes and my mind becomes like a time machine of fuck. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot ... bam! … cum everywhere. Farrah Fawcett in her iconic red swimsuit bent over the counter... set the time machine and go.
This time my mind goes for none other than Jackie O. She’s spread-eagle, with my tongue lightly flicking her throbbing clit while she's begging for my dick. And, of course, I’m making her call me Mr. President. I laugh at the last thought but notice it's at least gotten the job started. Since my dick is half-mast and ticking its way to full form, I slink my way to the tent’s entrance.
Stepping out, I’m met by the sun creeping softly over the tops of the barriers, and I hurry toward the porta-shitters, positioned just past the Humvees in front of the eastern wall. This two-hundred-yard walk is the most important part of the process. You have to walk with speed but not urgency, in hopes that you don't attract attention from the few others also awake—all while the imagined porn still reels in your head.
I manage to make it into the shitter undetected and quickly go to work on my shaft while my left hand pinches my nose like a vise and my eyes squeeze tightly shut. Only this time it isn’t someone famous that I picture. It’s Katie.
Even as early as it is, the Drop Zone is like a sauna, and beads of sweat collect on my forehead. I try desperately to hold in my breath as the seconds tick down. Just as my lungs begin to demand air and my body stiffens, I toss my head back with a stifled groan. My body recovers from its high much quicker in this setting, but at least the job is done. Two weeks of combat stress gone, just like that.
A Lover's Lament Page 11
