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My eyes swim. The pale blue bits of sky melt away. The red haze dissolves as inky blackness encircles the edges of my vision, moving toward the center. My ears stop ringing as sounds fade.
Everything disappears.
Everything except the darkness.
CHARLIE
When Tom and Lila leave, I return to my desk chair with two hours until my first client appointment. Fully fueled with sugar and caffeine, I check my email to see what needs to be dealt with first.
My heart leaps as my eyes zero in on an unexpected gift – not just an email, but a video from Mark. A video means he’s alive and well, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
Pale blue eyes contrast with his tanned face, and the camera field captures his broad shoulders and desert camos. His dark blond hair could use a trim. Despite the fatigue etched in his features, he smiles, and it reaches across the miles like a reassuring hug. When he says, “Hey, Baby Girl,” his familiar voice soothes my ragged soul. The time stamp shows he recorded this right after my nightmare, as though he felt my distress halfway around the world.
I scribble a note to mail him more cocoa, socks, and his favorite cookies. I grip my desk and suppress a squeal upon hearing he might visit soon. When he calls Colonel Sherman “the old bird”, I laugh, missing the colonel’s faux-offended reaction when we’d call him that in private.
Then Mark hesitates, furrowing his brows and pressing his lips together.
He’s worried about me.
He knows something’s wrong, even though I’ve been exceptionally careful with my emails. I refuse to burden him with my struggles. He’s in a dangerous situation that demands his full attention. Being distracted by something he can’t fix jeopardizes his safety and the safety of those under his command. But Mark and I have had a special bond since we were kids.
I stare, transfixed, as he continues. “You can talk to me, Charlie. Always. About anything.” He glances away, rubbing his neck, his mind elsewhere. Then he looks back and smiles again.
“Anyway, I need to run. Tell Tucker and Lila I miss them. I miss you most of all, Baby Girl. Take care of yourself, okay? Love you.” He thumps above his heart twice before the frame freezes and goes dark. My fist lightly taps my own chest two times in response.
When his face fades from view, my soul aches, and I watch the video over and over, long after I’ve memorized every detail, every word, every expression on his tired face.
I wish Mark were here.
Military life isn’t for the faint of heart, both for the deployed or for those waiting at home. It’s hard when your best friend is on the other side of the world. It’s even harder when he’s in a war zone that’s no longer officially designated a war zone because of political machinations. It’s harder still when weeks go by without knowing if he’s dead or alive.
I never thought twice about it when I served because my parents were already gone, as were Mark’s. Neither of us had anyone stateside to worry. He and I only had each other. We enlisted together after my freshman year of college. I became a medic; he chose infantry. We both shipped off to the Middle East, but it wasn’t until several years later that I transferred into his unit. By that time, he was a platoon leader in one of the most dangerous regions of Afghanistan. That’s where I met Lila, a fellow medic, and her now-husband Tucker, one of Mark’s sergeants.
They say foxhole friendships are the deepest, and while we were never in foxholes, we were definitely battle-tested. The four of us are more like family than friends, and each of us would unhesitatingly take a bullet for the others.
Lila and I were medically discharged four years ago. Tucker followed the next year to join Lila here in Cedar Ridge, Colorado. They married several months later. Mark stayed in. Military life suits him – the discipline, the strategy, the control. He excels at seeing the big picture, at manipulating the pieces on the chessboard into proper positions. Just five more years and he’ll hit his twenty-year mark, though I can’t see him retiring. The Army is as much a part of him as breathing.
I think back to his pale blue eyes and easy smile, missing the man I know almost as well as I know myself.
I can’t wait to see him next month.
MARK
I slowly become aware something’s happening around me. There’s a familiar thrumming sound, but I can’t place it. I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids are too heavy.
Are those helicopter rotors? I need to check. My men need Air Evac.
My head pounds like a bass drum, throbbing in conjunction with every beat of my heart. I must be alive. Death would be far less painful.
Where am I?
I feel like I’m at the bottom of the ocean. Voices murmur in the distance, too far away for me to understand what they’re saying. Someone moves me, slowly rocking me to one side and then the other. I’m jostled sharply, and intense pain rushes over me. I think I groan, but I’m not sure. A deep voice speaks near my ear. His tone is reassuring, but I can’t make out his words.
Everything vanishes into darkness.
I surface partially at a blast of frigid air. Jumbled voices surround me, talking too fast for me to grasp their words. Strange, unidentifiable odors drift by, smells I associate with hospitals. There’s pain, terrible pain. My head feels like it’s going to burst and my right leg throbs mercilessly. I groan again, or at least, I think I do. I struggle to open my eyes, but I can’t. The blackness overtakes me.
