Olivia
I wake and roll over in bed, groaning as each muscle in my body protests. God, do I wish I was sore from another kind of physical activity, but sadly the only activity August and I did together after we ate lunch in silence was glare at one another as we worked. Again, in silence. Last night had been just as tense. He’d left to pick up Bettina after daycare, but the two of them had returned, and Bettina had run around the shelter like a tiny mad woman barking as if she were a stray dog locked in a cage. August hadn’t said a word to me, but when he’d come back he was wielding a mallet and several tools to help knock down a wall. August had only just started on a few panels when Bettina complained about being hungry and I knew it was time to head back to Tanglewood. All I’d wanted to do was climb the stairs and take a long hot bath, but I’d promised the Cottons supper. Me and my big mouth. Instead, I’d gone straight to the kitchen, washed up in the sink and set about making steak and collard greens with fluffy mashed potatoes.
The tension at supper was so thick it could have been sliced, like a hot knife through butter. Bettina had been her super chatty usual self, but August and I remained quiet, other than to answer her questions or murmur our agreement. Not for the first time since I arrived, I’d wondered how ghostly this house must have been before I got here. After supper I’d waited in my room until Bettina had been bathed and settled for bed, and I’d snuck across the hall with a glass of wine and a packet of Oreos to run a nice long bath.
Now, all I want is another soak in the tub, but I have a shelter to build, and I’m pretty sure there’ll be no strong and stalwartly Marine to help me out today. So, stiff as a board, I get up and pad my way over to the shower. The hot spray loosens some of the tension in my muscles, and the house is eerily quiet when I return to my room. August and Bettina have already left, so I make a quick coffee that I drink out on the balcony, and on my way out I grab an apple from the kitchen. Jumping on my bike, I ride along Tanglewood Road and over the bridge through Magnolia Springs State Park near Highway 98, watching the sun as it filters in through the trees. It’s a perfect Alabama day, and I smile to myself as the shelter comes into view. The smile quickly vanishes when I notice the beat up Chevy in my drive. What on earth is he doing here?
I lean my bike against the side of the porch to a cacophony of noise. There’s an awful lot of banging and crashing, and I run inside to find him armed with a sledgehammer, attacking the wall with all his might. I study the way he works. With abandon. One slam after the other, as if he isn’t even here but far away. A lot of veterans get like that—they slip in between the cracks, fall into the chaos of routine. Slam, slam, slam. But this is different. The drywall is all but abolished. All that’s left is the sturdy wooden frame, and his hammer crashes into it as if it were cotton wool. Each time he swings the hammer, he lets out a cry more animal than human. August isn’t beating back his demons—they’re swallowing him whole.
“August.” I say, though I know he doesn’t hear me. He can’t hear me, because he isn’t in this room. His grunts are echoed with the sound of splintering wood, and my heart clenches with every bang because I’m afraid he’s going to bring the roof down on our heads with the brutality of each strike. He’s not that different from any of the men I’ve worked with in the past, so full of rage and demons, turmoil and loathing.
“August,” I say, louder this time. Still no response. Fragmented wood flies all around him. A piece glances off the side of his face and clatters to the floor. He doesn’t stop. I come up behind him, grab the handle when he swings it back. I’m pulled by his strength. My body slams into his back and within seconds I’m turned to face him, one hand wrapped around my throat, the other clutching tightly to the sledgehammer right by my head. Like a raging bull, his nostrils flair wildly as he looks right through me.
“Please,” I beg breathlessly, but the sound doesn’t make it past the hand squeezing my windpipe. My nails dig like claws into his hand, attempting to loosen his hold as I gasp.
“Olivia?” he whispers softly, and recognition slams into him. He releases me as if my touch could burn, and too dazed, too confused, and too weak to hold my own weight, I fall amongst the debris of splintered wood and particle board, gasping and coughing in a desperate attempt to suck the air back into my lungs.
“Fuck!” he shouts, lacing his hands behind his head and bending double, as much as his prosthetic will allow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I dry retch. Tears sting my eyes. I knew better, and I did it anyway. I was so desperate to save him from himself, from the demons inside his head, that I left no regard for my own safety. I scramble to my knees. I open my mouth, but no words come out, only a hoarse cry. August straightens and backs away from me.
“I’m sorry. Shit, Olivia,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
He leaves, and the tears fall down my cheeks. Stupid. So, stupid. You don’t approach a Marine when they’re mid PTSD blackout. I’ve known this since I began working with them, and yet just one glimpse of this man’s demons and all my sense flies out the window. I just wanted him to stop. I wanted to pull him back from that blackness. I knew, and I did it anyway, and now I’ve ruined any recovery he might have made so far just by me being in his house.
I swallow, and my throat screams. I do too, but nothing comes out. His truck door slams. He starts the engine and pulls out of the drive. My silent sobs are drowned by the noise, and I collapse back against the debris. For the first time in a very long time, I cry, and I stare at the long scars on my forearms because the truth is, August Cotton scares me, and that’s why I’m fighting so hard to save him. That’s why I fight for every ex-serviceman and woman in my program—because my own demons nearly destroyed me.