I lift the half-empty glass to my lips and drain the beer that remains as I hold my hand up to the bartender, signaling for another.
It’s about ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the small-town Texan bar, Saddles, is overcrowded, hot and noisy. Some country band is playing on the stage at the opposite end of the room, but I can’t tell what song it is. I don’t really care, either. Instead, my plan is to keep my ass firmly planted to this hard bar stool, drink my beer, and ponder where my life went so wrong.
Married when I was just eighteen years old to a young, fresh-faced blonde girl, Grace had been everything I could want in a woman: virginal, sweet, and compassionate. It was no surprise my grandmother had conspired with her father to marry us off.
Unfortunately, like all marriages, we had our problems. Ever since I was just a kid, my grandmother told me stories of my heroic father who fought so bravely in World War Two to defend our country. I’d grown up with every intention of following in his footsteps.
Grace had never seen it that way, though. On the day I told her about my dream, she’d given me an ultimatum: The Army, or her.
That was just the way she was. I suspect she didn’t want to see me injured.
I tried to be a good husband, and put the idea of the Army from my mind. But after the attacks on September 11th, my mind was made up. Despite her tears and childish tantrums, I’d enlisted in the Army and left the next month to begin the standard ten-week boot camp training that would prepare me for life as a U.S soldier.
When I eventually left for Afghanistan a few years later, Grace tried to make the best of our situation. But she’d been so young and beautiful. She wanted to live, not be held down, waiting for a husband who would, as she put it so often, recklessly endanger his life, and may never return to her.
I’d been in Afghanistan just two months when I received the notice of intent to divorce.
I tore it up.
My parents died in a car accident when I was just a few months old, and I’d been raised by my maternal grandmother. She was a no-nonsense sort of woman, with a heart of gold and everyone loved her. It was a quiet day among the ranks when I was handed an obituary statement. She’d passed away of breast cancer the year after we arrived in Afghanistan.
With my marriage dissolved, I’d thrown myself into my duties, rising through the ranks to be Staff Sergeant Ethan Stone.
Based in Afghanistan for more than ten years, I’d seen my fair share of horror - men beheaded in the streets by rebels, girls as young as twelve married to the highest bidder, and so many other gruesome sights associated with conflict.
Nightmares just aren’t for kids. I’m thirty-two years old and I still dream of a real-life horror. A girl of about sixteen years old and I couldn’t get to her without risking my own life . . . something I selfishly wasn’t prepared to do. Every time I close my eyes, I see the vile scene play out. Her captors holding her down while they take turns violating her in front of me as I hide behind a pile of empty boxes. I’ve never felt as helpless as I did in those moments.
I’ve never forgotten her.
“Stone,” a voice says beside me. I glance up to see my best friend and fellow Army brother, Damien Keets, slide onto the bar stool next to me.
I say nothing, simply raise my half-empty beer glass in a brief, silent greeting.
“Whiskey,” Keets calls to the pretty, young bartender, who pours us both a glass before moving to serve a young couple at the other end of the bar.
“How much have you had to drink?” Keets asks, his voice barely audible in the loud bar.
I look at my half-empty glass then at my friend. In answer, I raise the glass to my lips and down the remaining beer before pulling the new glass over to me.
“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” Keets scolds. “You’ve been home three months, and I’ve yet to see you sober.
“What do you fucking care?” I finally snap, slamming the glass down on the bar. Whiskey splashes over the edge and hits the back of my hand, but I ignore it. “I’m here, and I’m getting drunk.” I can hear my voice slurring as I raise my glass, gesturing around the room. “Just like everyone else.”
“Not everyone else has seen what you’ve seen,” Keets states, draining his whiskey and signaling for another. “Look, man, I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t keep beating yourself up over this. You know you couldn’t save her.”
I glance over at my friend. Keets is the only soul I’ve ever told the details to about that horrible night. I’d spent six hours curled up behind some boxes as I listened to her screams grow fainter. They hadn’t been small men; she’d never stood a chance. I couldn’t help the constant feeling of guilt that I should have at least tried to help her.
I finish my whiskey and stand up, steadying my hand on the bar as the room sways around me. I pull some money from the pocket of my jeans and throw it on the bar before looking at Keets. “I’ll see you later,” I say. I’m so fucking tired all of a sudden. I just want to go home.
I try to walk away, but my legs are becoming increasingly unsteady. I must have had more to drink than I thought. I limp toward the front door of the bar, but a woman’s scream above the music behind me makes me pause. Slowly, I turn back around.
“Let go of me!” the pretty, blonde barmaid is yelling, slapping away the hands of a man who’s clearly had too much to drink.
“Come on, love. You can’t expect to go waltzing around this bar in those tiny shorts and not let me get a feel,” he sneers, his crooked teeth standing out as he grins. He’s sitting at a table with three other men. They are laughing amongst themselves, encouraging him. “I bet that ass is as soft as it looks.”
I watch as she recoils from the man’s lust-filled gaze, and something inside me snaps. Once more, I’m back in Afghanistan, hiding behind some boxes as the young woman is terrorized. This time is different, though; this time, I can stop it.
I straighten up and take three steps toward the men. They never see me coming, never see my fist until it connects with the first jaw.
From there, it’s an all-out brawl. I need to save her… have to save her. I throw punch after punch. Someone is grabbing me, but I fight them off. A fist connects with my throat and I drop to my knees, clutching at my neck as my lungs burn and threaten to explode. I can’t breathe, the dusty room fading into red as the blood pours down my face. I manage to wipe a hand across my eyes and I’m once again in the bar, lying on my side as a small crowd gathers around me. The bar is deathly quiet; even the band has stopped playing.
“Stone,” I hear Keets call out as he kneels beside me. “Stone, can you hear me?”
The pain in my chest is so severe, I can’t answer him. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer and hit me across the ribs a few dozen times.
The pain intensifies until I see white spots in front of my eyes, and I close them for a moment of relief. There’s a ringing in my ears and the voices around me become fainter and fainter, until they finally disappear altogether.
The ringing in my ears is so much more intense this morning, and I groan as I open my eyes, wincing at the light. My left eye is swollen almost shut and my mouth is as dry as cotton. There’s no denying it: this is the mother of all hangovers. I slowly lift my head, groaning again when the first wave of nausea washes over me. Christ, how much did I drink last night?
With great effort, I get to my knees, frowning as I realize I’m still in the bar.
What the fuck am I doing here?
The place looks as though a tornado hit it. Chairs are upturned, broken bottles are strewn everywhere and tables lay in pieces.
The front door opens, and I instinctively turn my head to see a beautiful blonde in tight, black jeans and a white tank top step inside.
Her large eyes round as she stares at the mess.
“What the fuck happened?” she gasps, stepping over a broken chair as she moves behind the bar and begins moving glasses around.