Even when my beard started itching like fuck, I refused to shave it off. And with paranoia becoming a worsening problem, I felt as if I could hide behind it. My buzz cut had grown out as well. No one would guess I was a Marine. A former Marine. Fuck.
I was supposed to be continuing with my therapy sessions at a vets hospital, but I refused to have anything to do with it. If the Marines didn’t want me, fuck ‘em.
“What the fuck do they know about it, Caro?” I shouted when she mentioned it again.
“A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.
“Former Marine. Former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”
She shut up then.
But the next day, she tried a different angle.
“Sebastian, have you thought any more about when we’ll get married? Or where? Because I don’t mind if we go to San Diego and…”
No, no, NO!
“I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” I roared. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”
She didn’t ask me again.
I knew I was struggling, but I didn’t want to give in. Instead, the PTSD began to swallow me up: mood swings, raised anxiety levels, flashbacks that were so fucking terrifying I’d end up cowering on the floor, not even believing I was back in the US. So I drank. I worked my way through Caro’s small collection of wine, ignoring her when she tried to stop me.
My usual responses were shouting and yelling, or just zoning out completely. I was hanging by a thread, and sometimes I thought it might be easier to let it break. I was close.
It was the stupidest fucking thing that kept me clinging on: that tiny heart-shaped pebble that Caro had given me back in Geneva. I kept it with me all the time, rubbing my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the motion soothe me and remind me that the ocean was timeless and endless, making my fuckedupness meaningless.
One day, late in the summer, Caro suggested that her friends come over to ‘cheer’ me up. Was she fucking insane? Oh wait, no … that was me.
“Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” I snapped, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”
“Sebastian,” she said calmly, “they’re my friends. They want to meet you, and they want to see me. You don’t have to put on a performance for them.”
That was a fucking lie. If they saw the real me, they’d wonder what the fuck Caro was doing putting up with my pathetic ass.
“Sure, let them come, but I’m staying in the fucking bedroom.”
They didn’t come.
She started going for long walks by herself. That’s what she said she was doing, but I wondered. I’d spend the hours she was away staring out the window, desperate for her to come back, but as soon as she did, I couldn’t help snapping at her again. I think I was making her hate me; that was okay, because I loathed the piece of shit I’d become.
The nightmares were getting worse, and I didn’t think that was possible. I woke up screaming every night, and once I lashed out, nearly hitting her. I stopped at the last second, appalled by the fear in her eyes. I wanted to gouge my own eyes out, so I never had to see her looking at me like that again.
I hated it. I hated not feeling safe anywhere. I didn’t leave the house, but I didn’t feel safe inside either. I started checking that the windows and doors were locked two or three times a night before we went to bed, and I had a panic attack every time someone came to the house, even the fucking mailman. Once, he tried to deliver a parcel for Caro, and I hid in the kitchen, armed with a set of steak knives.
And then she just stopped.
The forced calmness that she put on every morning shattered. She wouldn’t buy me any more alcohol.
“If you want a fucking drink, then get your fucking ass off that couch and go get yourself one, Sebastian!”
She slammed out of the house and I didn’t see her for three hours.
I thought about killing myself, because then both our problems would be over. But that stupid fucking pebble stopped me. I kept thinking what it would do to Caro to come home and find my body. As much as I hated myself, as much as I hated what I’d become, I couldn’t do that to her. But I was so tired. So tired of being me, of all the thoughts that ran through my head incessantly, torturing what little sanity I had left. The memories, the fucking awful memories. I just wanted it to stop. But it didn’t.
So we were trapped in a hell of my own making, and I had no idea how to climb out of it.
Something had to break. As it turned out, it was me.
Because Caro refused to buy me liquor, I started dosing up on caffeine, staying awake for days at a time. It was the only way to stop the nightmares. But she got wise to that and started buying shitty decaf. Then she found that I’d drank all of the cough syrup. She was pretty mad about that too, but I was almost past caring. Almost.
But that afternoon, all I wanted to do was to make it into the kitchen to make myself a cup of lousy decaf. I couldn’t even do that.
Although I’d managed to switch from crutches to a walking cane, I was still fucking useless.
I lost my balance crossing the room, then tried to grab hold of the smaller of the two bookcases, and ended up falling onto the floor, crashing my bad leg against the coffee table. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain, but swearing up and down, cursing like it was going out of fashion kept me conscious.
So I was lying on the floor, surrounded by Caro’s books when she found me.
“What happened?” she asked breathlessly, as she ran into the room.
“I fucking fell!” I snarled at her. “What does it look like?”
She bent down to help me up.
“Leave me alone! I’m not a complete fucking cripple.”
That was a lie, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t let her help me.
She bit her lip, her expression pained as she watched me struggle to sit up and lean against the couch. I hated, hated being so fucking helpless, and I lost my temper every time Caro tried to help me. I knew I was hurting her, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t fucking stop.
Still on the floor, I made it as far as leaning against the couch, the effort leaving me drained. Silently, Caro bent down and started picking up the books nearest to her. I watched for a moment, then reached down to collect the ones that were within my reach. But when I picked up a copy of ‘Lolita’ by its cover, an envelope fell out, fluttering to the ground. Caro leaned down to take it, but for once I was faster.
“What’s this?” I asked, studying the envelope. “It’s got my name on it.”
Then my eyes widened in shock and I looked up at her.
“The date on it … that’s the day we first…”
The day we first made love. The day I lost my virginity to Caro ten years ago.
“Yes, I know,” she said quietly.
I remembered that night so clearly. I’d had another fight with my asshole father. This time because in those days I had long hair—surfer hair—and he hated it. He hit me in the face the second I walked through the front door, and attacked my hair with scissors, cutting out long chunks. Then he’d tried to beat the shit out of me, but I’d gotten in a couple of good punches before I ran out of the house.
Caro had found me bloody and bruised in the park. And she’d taken me to her home and took care of me. She talked to me, patched me up, and shaved my hair into a buzz cut for the first time.
And then I told her that I loved her. And then she’d let me … oh God, she’d let me make love to her.
So many memories…
I had no idea what was in the envelope; I only knew that night had changed both our lives. I didn’t know why the envelope was important, but as I studied the yellowing paper, I knew that it was.
She pressed her lips together.
“Open it.”
I propped myself up against the couch then heaved myself upward, dropping back against the cushions. I fumbled trying to open the sealed envelope; my left hand was still fucked—that wasn’t going to change.