Lost Battles
I let the night set in around me
I poured a whiskey, hard and pure
Maybe tonight, this booze will drown me
Maybe then I’ll find a cure
It’s been years since I’ve been happy
Before these shadows found my face
It’s like Pandora’s box has trapped me
And I’m the perfect picture of disgrace
And come tomorrow, if you hear tonight I died
I drowned in sorrow, it ate me up inside
I don’t know if you ever saw my battles behind my mask of pride
But I’ve been lost and drifting like a dingy on the tide
I let the night set in around me
Looking back on pictures of my friends
When the reinforcements found me
How come I lived instead of them
And though they’ve long been buried
They still visit me now and then
These ghosts I’ve carried
The scars beneath the skin
And come tomorrow, if you hear tonight I died
I drowned in sorrow, it ate me up inside
I don’t know if you ever saw my battles behind my mask of pride
But I’ve been lost and drifting like a dingy on the tide
I let the night set in around me
I pour a whiskey, hard and pure
And if it doesn’t drown me
Maybe it’ll drown my memories of her
And come tomorrow, if you hear tonight I died
I drowned in sorrow, it ate me up inside
I don’t know if you ever saw my battles behind my mask of pride
But I’ve been drifting like a dingy on the tide
~ Craig Dew
July 2014
I HAD BEEN OUT of the Army for going on three miserable fucking months. I hung around San Antonio, mostly because I really had nowhere else to go and no fucking motivation to look for anywhere else to go. My disability check and the money I picked up from odd jobs here and there when I needed it was enough to keep me in the lap of luxury here on the south side of SA.
Yeah, yeah, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. What the fuck ever.
My apartment was a tiny furnished efficiency. Absolute. Shit. Hole. I could see daylight from the uneven space under the door, which had been splintered and patched up with the knob and lock moved; total evidence of someone kicking it down. Sometimes I wondered if it was the cops who kicked it in or some other nefarious excuse for a human that did it. Most times I didn’t give a shit. When I was able to sleep, I slept with the lights on partly due to my fear that the cockroaches would take over and partly in fear that the darkness itself would take over. The AC ran nonstop it seemed, and yet it was still hot as fuck in here. The shades on the dirty-ass windows were broken and didn’t close, so most of the time I kept the dingy curtains drawn to keep the nasty, nosy motherfuckers around here out of my business—not because I was worried they would try to break in to steal anything.
I lifted the bottle of whiskey to my lips, draining the last of it. I tossed it in a drunken arch toward the trash, amazing my own drunk ass when it hit the trash and landed with a clatter of glass on glass. Lord knew if it was hitting beer bottles or liquor bottles. I stood up, wavering on my feet for a minute before I took the three steps from my bed to the fridge. Yeah, I said the shithole was tiny.
Pulling the fridge open, I peered in with bleary eyes to see if there was a damn thing to eat.
Hmm, questionable Chinese takeout, milk that was four days expired based on the date on the jug, and about a quarter loaf of bread—yeah, I kept that shit in the fridge out of fear the roaches would get to that shit too…
Yep, looks like a beer it is.
I pulled the next to last beer from the six-pack on the top shelf, telling myself I needed to make a run to the grocery store soon. I twisted the top off using the hem of my T-shirt, adding another hole to the rest of them. Fuck it.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed and took a swig of the beer as I reached my other hand under my stained pillow, pulling out the only possession I actually valued. I set my beer on the floor by my feet and followed my routine of checking the clip, ensuring a round was chambered, and checking the safety. I rolled the pistol around in my hand. Instinct had me raising it with insane precision and speed, thumb flicking off the safety, aiming at the door when I heard a thump against it. I slowly lowered it and flicked the safety back on when I heard laughing and voices indicating it was just a drunk neighbor and his buddy stumbling by. My heart was racing and adrenaline coursed through my veins at light speed.
Fuck. Just fuck.
The gun felt natural in my hand, the cool steel warming to my touch like a living, breathing entity. The brushed stainless barrel of my Ruger 45 glinted dully in the light of the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Flipping the safety off again, I stared at the pistol for what seemed like hours. My hands turned the gun over and over until the muzzle was eventually pointed at my face. I placed it in my mouth, aimed toward the roof and tilted toward my brain because I would never want to be a fucking vegetable. Slowly, I began to pull the trigger because habits die hard; you don’t jerk the trigger, you squeeze it… Hot tears welled in my eyes as my hands shook. I jerked the gun back out of my mouth, flipping on the safety and tossing it across the bed like I had countless times over the last few months.
Fucking coward! I was such a piece of shit coward! I had pussied out and left my battle buddies hanging when I got out. Accepting the Medical Board because I couldn’t handle the killing anymore, ate at me, yet a deep, evil, ugly part of my soul craved it. But I didn’t think I could pull the trigger on anyone in my drunken, fucked-up state, and I guessed that meant on myself too.
Knowing I was sitting here broken and worthless while my brothers were still at it back in Afghanistan every day fucking tore me up. I hated myself. I was a fucking mess. Breaths continued to rasp in and out of my body. Sometimes it literally hurt knowing I was able to breathe. I fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as hot tears trailed down the sides of my face, pooling in my ears before running to the bed below me. Something’s gotta give because I can’t live like this….