Chapter Text
A rising tide and a bright sun woke me up. A thin layer of sand covers half my body, and my head feels as though someone struck it with a hammer multiple times. I look around, trying my best to recall how I ended up here. My memories are fuzzy and messy, but clear enough to get a rough idea of what happened last night. Doing my best to focus, I piece together the string of events that led me here and the climax of a colossal fuckup.
With my inhibitions dulled by the alcohol and my accumulated frustration getting the best of my patience, I ended up making some rather unfortunate comments.
And Fang broke up with me.
Huh.
I lay on the sand, taking my time to breathe in the chilly morning air, uncertain about the reliability of my memory. Echoes of each word replay in my mind.
Would I say something like that?... maybe not sober? I wasn't sober. Dammit. It got past my filters.
Another five minutes pass; the background noise of waves assists my scattered brain in recollecting itself.
Maybe this is for the better: one less headache.
"Anon, Trish was right about you."
Sure thing. I can't believe I apologized to that cunt after the doxing.
Bitter thoughts take shape in my mind, but the annoying feeling of sand on my skin stops them. I shake my head and do my best to get rid of all the small silica particles on my clothes and body. After fifteen minutes, most of it is gone. I look down at myself and, satisfied enough with my level of cleanliness, I start walking.
And so begins a hungover hike back to a shitty apartment in an even shittier part of town.
Twenty minutes of smelling the acrid smell of rotting garbage turns out to be better than any coffee at waking me up and fully bringing me back to my senses. Opening the door to my apartment, I'm greeted by the usual, simple room. Sighing, I walk over to the bathroom after locking the front door, praying for some semblance of lukewarm water.
Goddammit!.
Cold, ice-cold.
Now I'm definitely awake.
Shivering, I dry myself with an old towel and put on a clean pair of jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and a green shirt.
At least this makes buying in bulk easy.
I walk over to my bed and drop myself on top of it. Lying down, I stare at the ceiling, considering my options after what happened last night. Checking my phone, I see a couple of messages, some from people I would rather not see again. Catching myself before I can thoroughly read any of them,driven by a weird determination to leave them be. As if they didn't matter.
Maybe repeating that line enough times will make it true.
But as my phone sits on my desk, my curiosity grows, and I decide to skim over the last message under each name, not reading a lot, but enough to confirm my suspicions. This is a giant can of worms. Insults, questions, rants. Noise.
When the semester started, I just wanted to be invisible, to disappear without making a fuss.
I toy with the idea, considering why I even interacted with Fang or her circle. Thinking of her stings a little.
Was it simply because Naomi got involved?
I try recalling what happened after the incident in the auditorium; it was awful at first, but after a couple of days, the snarky remarks and jokes died down to almost nothing. Students are quick to forget and move on to the next novelty; the conclusion is obvious. If she hadn't gotten involved, this would not have happened; my original plan would have worked once the novelty of a human in the school had worn off.
Maybe that’s not such a bad approach after all.
I try recalling my interactions with everyone else to try and understand where things went south. But I can't quite put my finger on it; I was there for Fang as best I could, maybe I'm just not equipped to deal with issues like hers. Apologizing was an option, or at least it was until I heard that last comment from her back at the beach; now it felt like admitting something I wasn't ready to. Somehow, that was all the unconscious part of my mind needed to reach a decision, a final one. I could have heard that from anyone else, and I wouldn't have cared, but she had to be the one to say it.
I stay on my bed for what feels like ages, only getting up to grab a glass of water and snack on some stale, sugary cereal once in a while, too focused on brooding over last night's events.
As I linger atop my mattress, my mind begins to wander toward the future, thinking of what I will do next. With a couple of months left until graduation, I still have to go to class, and most likely cross paths with the band and Naomi. I really don't like that idea; something tells me that Trish won't react in a good way to what happened at the beach.
"College or the army, I don't care which one."
My father's ultimatum pops up in my head, offering me a solution. College is out of the question, especially taking into account how long I would have to endure an awkward environment in class, something that would absolutely have a negative effect on my grades. But the army, on the other hand, only requires a high school diploma or something similar. I'll get food and a place to sleep, plus a meager paycheck. All in exchange for risking my life and living in frugal conditions, the last part I'm already doing.
Such a big commitment scares me; just stopping to think for too long about what could go wrong makes me doubt myself. So I try my best to avoid dwelling on the possibilities, on the "what ifs", specially when death is a likely outcome during deployment. If I waver, if I remain as passive as always, I'll lose this perfect chance.
If my dad made it through, then so can I.
Fuck it, we ball.
An idea finally crosses my mind; turning toward the old computer next to me, I exhale and get up to turn it on. Thirty minutes of research gives me exactly what I am looking for.
A GED means no more classes, and I don't need permission to sign the paperwork to drop out — bingo. This is my way out.
A rather extreme option, but doable for sure. Keeping it from my parents should be easy enough; it's just a matter of convincing Spears and avoiding everyone else. I hesitate for a moment, but a little voice in the back of my head pushes me forward. Most likely, a mix of stubbornness and tired acceptance.
People don't change.
What's left of the day passes by in the blink of an eye. I eat a miserable dinner, play some games on my Xrox, and go to bed.
The next Monday, I go directly to Spear's office, armed with an odd resolve to get things done today. I try my best to avoid the eyes of other students and somewhat succeed; there is no sign of my acquaintances — perfect.
Now, in front of Spears's office, I take a deep breath and knock on the door. The knot in my stomach tightens.
"Who is it?"
A loud voice asks from the other side.
"Anon, sir. There is something I want to discuss with you."
Getting those words out proves more difficult than expected.
"Come on in."
Spears seems taken aback by my sudden, unscheduled visit, but a brief explanation of my "plan" seems to be enough for him to get it.
He frowns and crosses his arms after hearing that I want to drop out. But the mention of going for a GED seems to calm him down enough to reason. I don't say much, trying to avoid the messy details of my drunken stupor, but enough for him to understand that I want to leave, get away; that I'm done. His expression shows a conflict of emotions: pity... and understanding?.
Spears huffs and grabs a fancy fountain pen from one drawer. Following a brief back-and-forth to clarify the details, he finally relents and signs the necessary paperwork. Something inside me smiles; it's finally done.
He hands me half a dozen documents, his gargantuan hand making mine look like chicken wire twisted into the shape of one. I reach forward to grab them, but before I can, he speaks.
"Anon, I understand the situation can be tough, but I'm glad that you're still pursuing your academic goals. If you need help with studying, I know great private tutors."
I consider the proposal for a moment, but I'm quickly reminded of my financial situation by the feeling of a very thin wallet in my left pocket. This is something I have to do on my own.
"No need, sir. I'll be taking the tests in a week. The sooner, the better."
He raises an eyebrow and leans forward on his desk.
"The sooner, the better? And why is that?"
Why is that? A good question, but not one I can really answer, even if I ignore who is asking.
"I'm joining the army; I've got to make it in time for the next deadline."
I say, with as much conviction as I can muster, trying to convince him and myself. He looks at me while tapping the desk with his fingers a couple times.
"I see... well, the door to my office is always open. I wrote down my phone number on the back of one of the papers; call me if you need assistance with your studies."
"I will, sir."
"It seems like you've already made up your mind. Good luck."
He says it in a solemn tone. The man might be a wall of muscle, but there seems to be some genuine care for his students there. Maybe one day I'll give half as much of a damn.
I shake his hand as I grab the paperwork and head out. Peeking back at Spears, I get a glimpse of his face as I leave; he seems a bit sad.
Me too, big guy. But it is what it is.
The following week is hectic, to say the least. I devote most of my time to studying, and I carefully budget my grocery money to pay for the tests. The beauty of being an army brat.
At least it will toughen me up, he says. Let's hope so.
At some point in my feverish academic pursuit, the buzzing of my phone proved unbearable, and I went out to buy a new SIM card, giving my parents a bullshit excuse and my new number before throwing away the old one.
I stop for a moment to consider how I am going to cover this up. With graduation not that far away, I think of just telling them I plan on joining the Army, a half-lie that should work well enough.
It's not like they check on me often.
Before I know it, it's time. I'm nervous, almost nauseous; a week certainly wasn't enough to build up the necessary confidence. But I'm already there.
Somehow, I make it through every single exam with more than decent scores. After getting the final result, I called Spears to relay the information. A part of me felt bad about leaving him in the dark about it. The prehistoric man seems satisfied with my results and gives me some words of encouragement, most likely taken from what would be his speech at graduation, for sure. A small smile creeps its way onto my face.
Thanks.
Now that the tests are done I'm more than sure of my choice, mostly because of the complete lack of options. I've lit a fire under my ass; the only way is forward. I might be afraid, and if I stopped to think about it for too long, chances are I would go back on my decision if I could, but that's not a possibility anymore. It's done. I got my golden ticket.
With the equivalent of a high school diploma in hand, I find the nearest recruitment center and enlist without a second thought. The recruiter makes it very convenient. Of course, they have a quota to fulfill.
I sign on the dotted line, and that's it. A few days later, I'm off to basic.
My lanklet body is pushed to its limit during the following eleven weeks; the food is too much, to the point where I can barely keep up. The training is torturous, but apparently effective; the numbers for sure go up. Slowly but surely, I adapt, as a human should. And before I know it, I've gained a decent amount of mass, learned how to use a rifle, and made some "friends", or rather, battle buddies. I find the feeling odd, but reassuring in a way, a nice structure to my disinterested way of life.
We have no access to our phones, something that helps me deal with that other annoying voice in the back of my head telling me I should have at least tried to clear things up before leaving. I'm quick to kill it, not willing to get distracted when I'm barely holding on.
You dated for, like, two months—no big deal.
While in training, I quickly learned to shut up, actively doing my best to stop my mumbling by literally biting my tongue. A necessary sacrifice to avoid extra work for talking shit about command.
Basic is over faster than expected, and the rather complicated situation in northeastern Africa forces us to deploy. No time to reconsider, do or die. Twelve months of pure fun await me.
I let my parents know with a quick phone call, doing my best to answer the incessant stream of questions from my worried mom. My dad, on the other hand, seems slightly proud of me; an odd sight.
"Write to us as much as you can, okay, sweetie? And don't forget to take your malaria pills.”
"I will, Mom. And I don't think there is malaria there; I'll be fine. We'll deploy for a year, give or take a month.”
"Be careful and come back in one piece."
Her tone is sad, almost pleading. It makes me regret my decision a little, but there is nothing I can do.
"I will, Mom, promise... But in one piece? I don't know; having a robot arm sounds cool.”
"Anon, don't joke about that!"
I hear the muffled voice of my father in the background.
"Sorry, sorry. I gotta go, Mom. Goodbye, love you.”
"Love you too, sweetie. Goodbye."
I hang up and prepare myself to leave the country I was born in to go God knows where.
The twelve months of deployment turn out to be not as awful as I expected. My baptism of fire had no casualties on our side. Engagements are numerous, but not catastrophic; an IED here and there, an ambush once in a while. But not enough to take many lives or resources. I suffer a couple of minor injuries, but they heal fast and leave behind scars that will make for good stories.
As we move around we take every chance we get to visit local markets and collect trinkets from the different locations we visit, things like small ornate knives, jewelry, doodads, and accessories; I even got myself a vintage hand warmer to deal with the cold desert nights.
The hostile environment and strict routine gradually help me shape my mind and body. I like this; I know what to do and when; there is no need to waste time wondering. The adrenaline rush is also a nice perk.
I sort of get it now, Dad.
The old man was partially right; I did need to toughen up a bit more. But maybe this wasn't the best way to do it; a bit too drastic.
One morning, while transporting some supplies, we're ambushed by a large group of enemy combatants. Too many for our squad. Things get too ugly, too fast, and I'm forced to rack the gears in my brain, desperate for a solution to our dire situation. In the blink of an eye, the leading vehicle disappeared; nothing but warped metal and pink clouds of organic material left behind. The smell of burnt plastic and sulfur assaults my nostrils, accompanied by the deafening sound of bullets hitting steel.
Knowing that RPGs are five hundred bucks cheap and that more are on their way, I make a drastic decision. I yell at my buddy on the wheel to go off-road and around the destroyed Humvee. I go up to man the MG, laying suppressive fire on enemy positions. Multiple rounds fly past the turret's armor and hit my plate carrier, but I don't relent. The gun continues spitting lead almost as fast as I can spit curses.
The next four minutes prove to be the most difficult of my life, making previous experiences pale in comparison. Iron keeps crashing against the armor on my chest, some shrapnel twisting and biting into my flesh; somehow, my lungs don't collapse, and I keep firing. After what feels like an eternity, we finally escape enemy fire. With barely any ammo left, we manage to peel away from the destroyed vehicle and drive back to the base. As soon as we reach it, as if knowing we are on safe ground, I pass out.
A day later, I lay on a bed as a doctor explains how they had to dig shrapnel out of my body and how many blood transfusions were necessary to keep me alive. I'm thankful that my plate carrier caught the worst of it.
As he talks, I look around and see the other mechanics in the distance; they seem to be working on the Humvee, or what's left of it; it's completely trashed and riddled with bullet impacts. I'm sure my body doesn't look much better. That sure was a big fight.
The incident surprised top brass, who were not expecting such a well-organized and bold attack from the enemy. They considered our survival a miracle. Maybe we'll getting some medals for making it out alive.
Easy.
Apparently, our borderline suicidal actions drew enemy fire away from the rest of the formation long enough to keep the rest of my squad safe.
The following week, with nothing else to do, I just killed time playing cards and talking with the other soldiers in the infirmary. It seems like their injuries will take longer to heal for them than they would for me. Having a slower metabolism must suck; at least their scales are a bit tougher than skin.
At night I take advantage of the silence to think about what happened. Many of the survivors seem really affected by it; I'm saddened as well, good men died that day, but I'm not as shaken. I question myself; should my feelings about this be stronger? Is this something that hits once you get back? Have I gotten too used to it after twelve months in the field? I meditate about it; we are soldiers; isn't this part of the job, a risk we all accepted?. I can't reach a concise answer.
Is this just how my mind works?
At some point during my second week there, the same doctor who woke me up shows up and starts talking to me using terminology that a corporal has no chance of knowing. The meds they must be pumping into my bloodstream make following what he's saying an arduous task — too many tough words spoken too fast — but I get the gist of it. The damage is severe enough to require a longer recovery.
"Mr. Mouse, this will take time, at least six months for a full recovery. And since your deployment would have ended in less than a week, were it not for this incident, they will send you back home in two days."
The doctor, a Carnotaurus with an air of authority, speaks. I nod, too shocked to muster a response. I had already gotten used to being here. And now I'm going back home.
Home?
The flight and drive back feel surreal, as if someone is going to pull the rug out from under my feet at any moment. My first choice was Volcadera. And as I get off the bus, I'm hit with a sobering realization: too distracted by what had happened, I forgot to look for an apartment and call my parents. I scramble for my phone and call my mom; she's quick to pick up.
"Hey mom"
"..."
She seems surprised by the sudden call. Taking a second longer than usual to answer.
"Hi honey, you're coming back soon, right?"
There it is. Something tells me she has been counting the days while hoping for the best.
"Uh, yeah, about that, I'm already back in the States."
"What? What do you mean? Don't you have two weeks left?"
Surprise and confusion, sort of what I expected.
"I got injured and honorably discharged. I'm in Volcadera."
"Volcadera? What are you doing there? Do you have a place to stay? Wait, what do you mean, injured? For Christ's sake, send me a picture; I want to see that you're not missing any limbs"
She hits me with a stream of questions, and I can barely keep up.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, really. I sort of answered without thinking when they asked me where I wanted to go. And I'm figuring out that last part. Look, Mom, don't worry. I just wanted to let you know I'm back and in one piece."
I quickly take a photo of myself and send it back to her to give Mom some peace of mind. Good thing I'm wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a jacket.
"That's good to hear; you kept your word. When are you going to visit?"
"In a week or two, for sure"
"Perfect! we'll be waiting for you—hold on, your father wants to talk with you"
Now I'm the one who's confused; Dad is rarely this proactive.
"Hey kid. I overheard the conversation, so I thought I should let you know. We’re retiring soon, and your mother and I will be moving to a small town near Volcadera. I don't know what business you have there, but that's very convenient; you'll be able to swing by often."
He says, almost stating the last part as a fact.
"Sure thing, Dad, look, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Do you have the number of my old landlord? I need a place to stay, and fast."
"Hm, I do, yeah. I'll send it to you ASAP. You'll have to tell us what the deal is with that medical discharge when we meet in person."
"I will for sure. And thanks for the contact."
"You're welcome. Bye, Anon."
I can hear Mom saying goodbye alongside my dad, and he hangs up. A couple of minutes pass, and I get a text message from him with the information I need.
After a quick call and some arrangements, I got my old apartment back, dirt cheap, with no hot water, and in the shittiest part of town; exactly like I remembered it. No wonder it was available, or maybe I'm just that lucky — as if.
I called a cab and bought some food on my way to my place. I'm back. A weird sense of déjà vu invades me as I open the door; I drop my duffle bag and the groceries next to it and lock it.
No bed, so I'll be counting sheep on a sleeping bag for now. A bit of a downgrade, but good enough in my book. Can't be worse than sleeping in a ditch in the sand.
With everything urgent taken care of, I relax, feeling the exhaustion from the day setting in and mixing with the dull pain all over my body. I need rest to recover. I roll out my sleeping bag, put the few groceries I bought in the fridge that came with the place, and lie down on my makeshift bed, once again staring at the same ceiling as a year ago.
"What goes around comes around. Huh?"
I say to myself before falling asleep. My first night of rest since I came back goes by with no dreams or nightmares.