Chapter 21
Bennett
KNOWING THAT post-traumatic stress disorder existed, and even understanding what it was, didn’t make sleep come any easier. With more free time now that I was no longer educating Princess Jillian about life outside her kingdom walls, I spent it learning more about myself. I’d researched the research, compared study after study, and listened to tapes upon tapes of interviews from soldiers whose experiences made my tour look like a vacation to Disney World.
But when the dreams came hard and fast, within five seconds of my head hitting the pillow, none of that made a lick of difference.
I was transported back in time, held hostage by my own mind as I relived the attack again and again. The horrors of that day were clear, a movie playing on a screen in 3D. How was it so easy to hear the shriek and hiss the missile made when it was airborne and feel the blazing inferno when it made contact?
The putrid stench of charred flesh swarmed around me like angry bees, making the acid in my stomach churn. Everything within sight was engulfed in flames and my only saving grace was Chance, whose lifeless body shielded me from the catastrophic destruction that fell on all sides. I gagged, almost laughing at the irony that I would survive an attack of this magnitude, only to choke on my own vomit and die because I had a weak stomach.
Each breath became more difficult to draw and I estimated only a few minutes, maybe less, before I succumbed to whatever injuries I incurred in the blast.
It didn’t seem right, though. I watched as the men searched; dragging themselves from body to body, using every ounce of energy they had left to check each of the scorched bodies, but none had survived. Who could survive a blast like that? With the men of my unit forever branded by the hate and injustice of war, I watched life as I knew it die in that crumbled desert sand.
“Man, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen prisoners of war come back looking better than you do right now.” Mr. Lowe, or Chance, what he now likes me to call him, just shook his head as he spoke. And he probably wasn’t far off.
I ran my hand over my impossibly tired face. “I’d like to blame it on the brutal beating I took from the STAT final I probably just failed, but I looked like this before that.” I grabbed one of the tissues I’d stored in my coat pocket to wipe my ever-dripping nose.
“Yeah, I noticed. I stuck some cold medicine in your room and Lillie made a few meals and such for you. I stuck them in your freezer. I hope you don’t mind that I went in there, but there wasn’t room for them in the break room.” I was shaking my head before he even finished speaking.
“No way, are you kidding me? Mi casa es su casa… literally.” Chance smiled. I may have tried to, I’m not sure. The head shake had set off a domino effect of pain across the top of my skull and I grabbed the edge of the circ desk to steady myself.
“Go to bed, boy. I’ll check on you tomorrow. But don’t forget, we’re headed out to Arizona on Friday to see Lillie’s family.”
I may have grunted.
“Yep, I know you’re jealous. I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend ten whole days with the same in-laws who spent six months trying to convince their daughter that she was too good for him?” Poor Chance. I found it hard to believe anyone could dislike him.
“Well?” That time I did manage a grin.
“Oh, yeah, I totally agree, she’s way too good for me, but I needed to get that ring on her finger before she realized it.”
The first week of December was known as Dead Week, meaning classes were cancelled and, if you were responsible and studious, you used the time to study for final exams. I tried very hard to be that person, but found myself easily distracted.
“Alright, bed for me. One final tomorrow, then two on Friday. I’ll see you.”
That night, in my Nyquil-induced coma, I didn’t dream about the desert, the missiles, the blood, or the death. I dreamt about Jillian, but that was almost just as painful.
How had I let myself become emotionally attached to someone from another world… one so far away from mine that I’d need one of those NASA telescopes to even see it? She was beautiful, smart, strong as any soldier I knew, and most importantly, she deserved better than the likes of me. Not to say she deserved an ass like Gareth Johnson, but someone in his league. She deserved someone who could give her the life she was used to, someone who could make all her dreams come true. Even a blind man could see that I wasn’t the man for the job.
I’d hoped by taking the statistics final on Wednesday, I’d be getting the hardest of the four out of the way early. I’d also hoped, when the stress of that final was out of the way, I’d start feeling a little better. I was wrong on both accounts.
And with Murphy’s Law in full effect, on the walk home that evening, the slight drizzle became icy rain. Gale force winds swept between the buildings, turning the sleet into projectile needles. The day had gone from gloomy gray to dark and sinister in a matter of moments, the temperature dropping dramatically in the process.
But my whole body was trembling, dripping with sweat. I had a fever—there was no debating that fact—and I had for a few days. Just when I thought I was on the edge of death and couldn’t feel more miserable, the next day came and proved me wrong.
I was never so grateful as when the front doors to the library came into view through the haze of winter. Every breath felt like a sword was splitting my lungs in two, and at more than one point in the mile-long walk, I’d been forced to stop to catch my breath. The eight stairs leading to the doors may as well have been the Matterhorn, but I set my sights on the book depository at the top of the staircase and soldiered on. I’d get in my warm bed, relax after the bizarre semester I’d had, and go home for Christmas in a few days.