I blasted the volume on the television, trying to drown out the noise from a goddamn frat party down the street. Loud music, water splashing in the pool, girls laughing maniacally—the sounds of people enjoying their lives. At least the racket sounded better than the clamor running through my head.

The ricochet of gunshots, my friend screaming in pain, his agonizing cries during his last seconds of life—that was the clatter that racketed through my skull. And I could never turn it off, not even when I slept.

Why had I been the one to survive the battlefield? The survivor’s guilt was almost worse than my physical scars.

And now, I’d been deemed a fucking war hero. At twenty-five years old, I was the youngest living Medal of Honor recipient. I’d met the President—even shared a beer with him in the Rose Garden.

He’d invited me to be the guest of honor at an upcoming Marine Corps Ball in Hawaii that he would be attending. Sounded great, but I needed to find a date worthy of meeting the leader of the free world. I couldn’t exactly bring one of the porn stars I’d recently fucked to meet the President.

My commander-in-chief had given me one piece of advice—get an education. Sounded great in theory, but only one of my eyes worked, dirt from the attack was still embedded deeply in my wounds, and the burns on my skin itched so fucking badly that I spent my free time gouging my own flesh off. And those were just the physical problems. Mentally, I was a complete fuckup. I couldn’t shake the premonition that I was headed for some sort of Final Destination fate, doomed because I’d cheated death. The littlest noise made me as skittish as one of the wild dogs in Iraq. I couldn’t focus on any task for more than a minute, and I struggled daily trying to heal from my injuries.

College wasn’t an option for me now because the thought of sitting in a room filled with people scared me more than jumping on that grenade. I wouldn’t have time to attend even if I wanted to. For the past two years, I’d endured intensive physical therapy, nonstop burn and facial reconstruction surgeries, not to mention PTSD treatment, which was the most painful experience of them all. And I’d be too drugged up to focus. My docs forced me to try a bunch of meds that gave me at worst a limp dick and at best massive headaches and sleepless nights. I’d done group therapy, individual therapy. Fucking bullshit. I’d rather get a skin graft than talk about my feelings.

The only benefit from this fucking hell that was my life was that every time I had left my place, I’d been swimming in a sea of pussy. Women couldn’t wait to get a piece of me, like being fucked by me made them some type of patriot. But that was all they wanted. One night riding a hero, and by morning they were quick to bail, find a man who didn’t look like he escaped from the circus, a man who could take them to a fancy dinner without freaking out and having a flashback. I enjoyed all the attention at first, but sometimes I yearned to find someone who actually liked me for me.

The voices down the block grew louder. I peered out the window, and could see the party raging, a bunch of rich, spoiled college kids dressed like superheroes.

Kickass. I could do this. The old me hated costume parties or anything with a theme—I’d much rather get wasted with my buddies. But since I looked like Frankenstein now, masks suited me just fine.

I pulled out my razor because I didn’t want my beard scraping against my mask. I rarely shaved because I couldn’t stand the sight of myself in the mirror. I’d never get used to looking at my face.

A freak. A monster. A beast.

My face was now split in two. On one half, my eye drooped, my skin sagged. On the other, I looked like the man I used to be.

Now I had a face only a mother could love. Too bad my mom had abandoned me years ago.

Could anyone ever stand the sight of looking at me every day? Or would I always remain some type of novelty—a patriotic pity fuck?

I dug out my favorite costume—the Hulk—stained my body with green camouflage paint, pulled on my shorts, and tugged the latex disguise over my head.

Normally, once I told a woman my name, she’d start fawning over me, and thank me for my service by sucking my cock. But tonight I wanted to try something new. I was up for a challenge. I wanted to keep my scars and my identity a secret. Maybe I’d be able to meet a girl tonight who would get to know me first before judging my appearance and my actions. Someone sweet, caring, and classy. Someone I could invite to the Marine Corps Ball. A woman who wouldn’t be scared of getting to know the real man behind the mask.