AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I reach down, seeking different textures with my fingertips. “The bench cushion feels warm and nubby. My yoga pants are soft like a T-shirt. The bench is cold and smooth.”
“Two things you hear.”
I concentrate. “The hum of the heater.” I listen harder. “And the wind is rattling the windows. And I can smell gunpowder,” I add, already knowing her next question.
I hear Tucker chuckle, and I wave halfheartedly at the camera. “Sorry, Tucker.”
“Don’t apologize. Do you need us to come over?” His deep voice echoes off my foyer walls.
“No,” I blurt quickly. I swallow, then aim for a more measured response. “No, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” I can almost hear Lila biting her lip through the phone.
“I promise, Lila. I’m fine. What time is it?”
“A little after four,” Tucker answers through a stifled yawn, and I cringe. This is the third night in a row I’ve woken them up.
“I’m going to make coffee and take a shower. I’m good now. Thanks, Lila. You too, Tucker. I’m really sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. And call if you need me,” Lila insists.
When they hang up, I get to my feet, still tremulous and sweaty. I pick up my red throw blanket off the floor and drape it over the bench before sliding my handgun into my spandex belly-band holster. I wave up at the camera again before heading to the kitchen to start coffee brewing. I need high-octane caffeine.
Actually, I need a lot more than caffeine, but it’s a starting point.
Upstairs, I blast old-school Eminem, finding an odd solace in his angry lyrics and pulsing rhythms while hot water pounds my body. I scrub ferociously, trying to scrape away the sensation of filthy hands, leaving my skin a furious pink when I emerge. Afterwards, I cocoon myself in a thick towel, leaving the mirror fogged until I’m fully dressed. I don’t look at my reflection until I’ve put on my layered bracelets. I’ve been wearing these particular bracelets for several months, alternating strands of green malachite beads that match my eyes with ones of bronzite, a warm brown stone flecked with gold, like my hair. My bracelets are part of my armor, like my clothes, concealing my scars from view.
They let me pretend to the rest of the world that I’m just like everybody else.
But it doesn’t matter.
Hidden or not, my scars are an inescapable, suffocating weight, as much of a prison as my night terrors. My gut-wrenching dreams aren’t dreams at all. They’re abbreviated memories that attack when I’m defenseless. For a while, I’d improved, only experiencing them once or twice a week. Not anymore. Now they’re happening almost nightly. These past few weeks have been the most intense since I was in Walter Reed. Even asleep, my night terrors fill me with rage, and I reflexively erupt. I wake up yelling. Sometimes I find myself crouching on the floor. Sometimes I fight.
And sometimes – most of the time, now – I fire my gun.
The interior walls in my living room and hallway have been completely rebuilt from chunky 6x6’s, and the layer of drywall on top of them gets replaced so frequently that the local hardware store thinks Tucker’s taking on contractor jobs as a side hustle.
I may be home, but I’m just as shackled now as I was over there.
Maybe even more so.
All I want is peace. It’s why I moved to the middle of nowhere, to a tiny town with fewer than three thousand people. I live in a big, quiet house surrounded by lush forests and mountain streams, with only animals for neighbors. Yet despite the serenity of my setting, inner peace is unattainable.
Peace is a unicorn, a beautiful fairy tale that never materializes. It’s not an option. I’m a train wreck masquerading as a functional adult.
I bring my coffee upstairs to sip while I get ready, twisting my shoulder-length hair up and securing it with a clip. I’m forced to spend extra time applying makeup. The lack of sleep and ever-darkening circles beneath my eyes makes me look paler than usual, demanding more attention to camouflage my wan complexion. I add a dusting of bronze eyeshadow and swipe mascara across my lashes to disguise my fatigue. I finish with lip gloss and gold hoop earrings before assessing my reflection. If I plaster on an artificial smile, I don’t look half-bad.
It’s still dark after my second mug of coffee, but I’m too edgy to sit still. I head through the breezeway to our clinic next door, disabling the security alarm long enough to enter. I perform the same routine I do when I return home alone, silently sweeping the building, gun raised, turning on every light and checking each room to ensure I’m safe. When I’m satisfied, I retreat to my office and tuck my gun in my desk drawer.
I designed my private office to be a sanctuary. The room exudes a spa-like feel with soft sage walls and fluttery white sheers that ripple along the floor with the breeze. Plants thrive on the cherry wood surfaces, sprawling across shelves and tables. A fountain on top of my credenza infuses the space with the soothing sounds of trickling water.
Like my home, my office is a serene setting, but here, I can lose myself in work and forget the rest, at least temporarily. Being at home has become increasingly difficult. I’m naturally introverted, and being around people drains my energy. I’ve always been like that, preferring quiet to chaos, and I need solitude to refill my tank. But for the past few months, there’s been an undercurrent of tension, and I find myself unable to relax and recharge. I’ve been running on empty for too long, with no end in sight.
I stifle a groan at the sight of my desk. I need an uncluttered work surface for mental clarity, but every evening, Tom, Lila, and I deposit our daily paperwork here for me to manage. Running a healthcare-based business means mountains of papers, from maintaining client records and billing insurance companies to sending updates to physicians. I have two enormous piles on my desk from this week alone, and it’s only Thursday. I ought to use this time to catch up before it becomes unmanageable, but I’m too keyed-up to focus on paperwork. I’ve slept fewer than three hours a night for more than a month, and my constant influx of adrenaline and caffeine leaves me feeling like a zombie on speed. At this point, my spirit animal is a squirrel.
Not just any squirrel, mind you. I'm not happily flitting from branch to branch, squawking at bluejays and chasing chipmunks. No, I’m the squirrel trapped in the middle of an eight-lane freeway, trying desperately not to get squashed by huge vehicles bearing down on all sides, driving me further and further from the safety of the shoulder.
But it’s not trucks spewing diesel exhaust that threaten me. It’s my crippling past. Like the safety of the roadside, my deepest desire is beyond my reach.
