Chapter 13
Fisher’s Therapy Journal
Memory Date: April 8, 2014 – 1:45 PM
“Maybe we should look into counseling again.”
Lucy’s words over breakfast run on a loop in my head. Tossing back another shot of whiskey, I hurl the empty glass across the kitchen. It shatters against the cupboards and the pieces scatter across the floor.
I’m broken, just like those fucking pieces of glass. I know it, and now Lucy knows it. Counseling isn’t going to work, nothing is going to work. She looked at me this morning with pity and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t want her fucking pity.
I hear a loud bang outside and drop to the floor, covering my head with my arms. My breath comes out in gasps as I lie there waiting to hear the sound of gunfire and the sting of a bullet piercing my skin. When no sound and no pain come, I open my eyes and realize I’m lying on the kitchen floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid asshole?” I mutter to myself as I push up from the floor and stalk over to the counter to grab another glass and the half-full bottle of whiskey. I pour the amber liquid halfway up the glass and down the entire thing in one swallow.
She can’t be here anymore, she can’t see me like this. She’s just kidding herself if she thinks me sitting in an office with some quack in a suit judging me and what I’ve been through is going to help me. I’m beyond help. The faster she realizes that, the faster she can get the hell out of here and away from me.
My hands shake as I forego the glass and just bring the bottle of whiskey right up to my mouth. A creaking from somewhere upstairs makes me jerk the bottle away from my lips. I smack it down on the counter, get into a crouch and quietly move through the house, darting in between doorways and silently racing up the stairs, just like I was taught. The only thing missing is the heavy weight of my rifle in my hand.
“WHO THE FUCK IS UP THERE?” I shout, as I get halfway up the stairs. “I WILL END YOUR SORRY LIFE, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Kicking in the bedroom door, I charge into the room, seeing desert sand and Humvees in front of me instead of a bed and a dresser. I drop to the sand and army crawl, knowing I’ll be safe if I can just get to the convoy. Reaching down to my side to grab my gun, I feel nothing. I don’t have my weapon. Why in the fuck am I without a weapon? A Marine should never be without his weapon. I hear gunfire and explosions in the distance and I crawl faster, keeping my body low and my head down.
“COVER ME! SOMEBODY FUCKING COVER ME!” I scream as I claw at the sand and move as fast as I can.
My head smacks into a desert rock and I close my eyes and shake the pain away. When I open them again, I see cream carpet under my body and a king-sized bed covered in pale blue blankets right in front of my face. Not sand, not a rock, not a Humvee and not a convoy. Nothing but the bedroom I share with my wife.
“Oh, Jesus, oh, my God, what the fuck is happening to me?” I mutter as I push myself up from the floor and take in my surroundings, blinking to make sure what I’m seeing is real.
“I have to get her out of here. She can’t be here anymore,” I mumble as I race to the closet and pull two suitcases from the top shelf. Running over to the bed, I toss them on top and quickly unzip them, flipping them open.
I go to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and grabbing socks, bras, underwear, whatever I can fit into my arms, before I race back to the bed and dump everything in to the first suitcase.
“Fisher, what the hell are you doing?”
The voice from the doorway startles me and I jump, automatically reaching down to my side for my gun. When I see Lucy standing there staring at me in confusion, I almost drop to my knees with the force of my shame. I reached for my gun. I reached for my fucking gun! If it had been there instead of locked up in a gun case in the living room, I could’ve shot her. I could’ve pulled it on her and put a bullet right through her chest.
“You’re leaving. Right now. I can’t do this anymore,” I tell her, the vision before me flashing between her standing in the doorway and an insurgent standing there with a gun aimed at me.
The insurgent disappears as quickly as he came and all I see is Lucy, my beautiful Lucy, standing in the doorway with tears filling her eyes.
“Fisher, please, don’t do this!” she begs as the first tear spills down her cheek.
I ignore her voice, even though it cuts right through me and makes me want to change my mind. I turn and run to the closet, ripping everything she owns off of hangers and piling the skirts and dresses, jeans and shirts in my arms. I come back out and stop again at the dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer and grabbing whatever else I can hold.
I toss all of that stuff into the second suitcase and watch as it morphs into an IED lying in the sand. I shake the image from my mind and try not to throw up all over the place.
“We’re done, this is over. I’m packing your shit and you’re leaving.”
I’m sorry, I love you, please forgive me.
She grabs onto my arm and I yank it out of her grip. I can’t let her touch me right now. Everything will come crashing down if I let her touch me. I need her touch, I want her touch, I don’t know how I will live without her touch…
But I need to protect her more.
She begs and pleads with me, asking me to talk to her, just talk to her. She has no idea that I can’t. I can’t tell her all of the things that are so monumentally fucked up with me right now.
“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s perfectly clear what’s going on here. Everything is fucked up, don’t you get that? It’s ruined, all of it is ruined and you need to fucking leave!”
I’m so sorry, I love you, please forgive me.
Her voice fills the room as she tries to get me to stop and listen to her. I can’t take it. I can’t take the sound of her voice, it hurts too much hearing all the loving words she gives me. They rip right through me and gut me like a fucking fish. I know she’ll never leave. She’ll never walk away from me like she needs to, like she HAS to. She needs to be safe, and I need her to understand that this is the only way I can protect her from what I’ve become.
Hurtful things, so many hurtful things I spit at her.
“You need to get a life.”
I’m sorry, I love you, please forgive me.
“All those sad, pathetic letters…”
I’m lying, don’t believe me, please don’t believe me. I loved your letters, I kept them all and I cherish every one of them.
She presses her soft, sweet hands to my face and I rest my forehead against hers. I’m weak, I can’t help it. I need to breathe her in one last time. I need to feel her close to me and remember why I’m doing this, why I’m doing all of these awful things to her. I need her to walk away. I need her to hate me enough to leave so she can be safe. I’ll do anything to keep her safe. Every word I speak kills more and more of me, until I’m sure there’s nothing left but an empty shell. She slides her hands under my shirt and I’m immediately hard for her. Her mouth makes its way down to my neck and I want to growl with my need for her when her lips and her teeth press into my skin. I need her. I love her.
But I can’t have her or I will wind up killing her.
“I prefer women with a little more experience…”
I don’t mean it. I don’t mean any of it. Knowing I’m the only man who has ever been inside of you makes me feel like a fucking king and the luckiest man alive. I’m sorry, I love you, please forgive me.
She tells me she hates me and that empty shell crumbles to pieces and I know there’s nothing left.
“It doesn’t get better when I come home to you…I hate this life…”
I’m lying! Every word is a lie. I love our life and I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. I love you, I love you, I love you.
I grab her suitcases from the bed and toss them to the floor before I change my mind. I walk right past her, not saying a single word, even though I want to pull her into my arms and beg her not to leave me. It’s too late for that now. Looking at the devastation on her face, I’m certain that all the lies I told, all the things I said to her to play on her insecurities and make her hate me…it worked. It worked just like I wanted it to. It worked so well that I know there’s no hope of ever getting her to forgive me.
I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I never deserved her to begin with, so now she’ll be free to find security and happiness without having to worry about the broken man she married who can never be fixed.