Page 75 of The Man I Hate

Anna

Day eight

“Where’s the fucking Corpsman?” Braxton shouted. “He’s going to bleed out. I need a Corpsman and a fucking medevac.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. His voice was much different than normal. Deeper. More authoritative.

There was a brief moment of silence, and then the screaming began again. “God damn it, Wilson!” he bellowed. “I need that fucking Corpsman! I’ve got three wounded! Two critical!”

A few seconds of silence followed. I drew a deep breath, hoping that his nightmare would end.

“Wentz!” he barked. “Grab that M40 and get on that fucking sniper.”

“Hold on, Pratt,” he said in a much calmer voice. “That bird’s on the way. Hear it? It’s coming, Brother. Just hold on.”

“Where’s that fucking Medic!” he wailed, sounding as if he were in tears. “I need that medic, goddamn it!”

He’d been screaming on and off for eight hours. Some of it made sense. A good part of it was in lingo I couldn’t decipher. I paced the floor and prayed that he’d fall back into a deep sleep. I felt miserable that there was nothing I could do.

After a few moments, he began moaning. I had no idea if he was in terrible pain, or if the moans were nothing more than his reaction to less vivid dreams. It continued for an hour.

The room fell silent.

His rhythmic breathing followed, leading me to believe that he’d finally fallen into a sound sleep.

Exhausted, I took a seat at the end of the couch.

I had no idea why our lives had collided, but I was grateful that they had. Despite the disease, his condition, or how he’d treated me before we made peace with one another, I enjoyed Braxton’s company.

His charisma lured the unsuspecting toward him. From my interpretations of his dreams, he must have been a figure of authority in the Marines. I imagined the men who were following him into battle did so without hesitation, question, or remorse.

There was no doubt in my mind that men died in his command. I told myself that had anyone else been in charge, the loss of life would have been much worse.

No matter where we ended up when everything was over, I’d cherish the time I spent with him. Furthermore, I’d never forget listening to him day in and day out while he was sick.

I nestled into the corner of the couch and peeked through the window. Much to my surprise, it was dark outside.

The last I knew, it was 5:00 pm.

I told myself to get up and eat. I needed a little rest first. A small one. Just to close my eyes for a few minutes. I was asleep the instant my eyelids fell closed.

I was awakened by Braxton’s moaning.

I sat up in my seat. The sun was rising over the top of the home across the street. I glanced around the room, uncertain of how much time had passed. I realized it had been hours since I’d heard anything from Braxton. I thanked God that he, too, had a few hours of sound sleep.

“I need a drink,” he moaned. “Pratt, give me…your water…buffalo. Mine’s empty.”

He made smacking noises with his lips, moaned a little more, and then went silent.

It dawned on me that he might not have anything to drink. I assumed he did, but it was highly likely he didn’t.

The only way for me to know would be to go inside his home.

If I did, I’d expose myself to the virus. I could possibly become infected, fall ill, and die. As ridiculous as it seemed to admit, I didn’t care. Doctors and nurses came in contact with infected patients all day, every day. They’d been doing it for months.

If they could do it, I could do it.

All I needed was the courage. I prayed for God to provide me with an answer. A nudge. Anything.