I wake up in the middle of the night.

Loud noises. Everything is disjointed.

I’m disoriented. Confused.

Gunshots echo around me.

My heart is thumping as if I’ve just run a marathon.

Shouts come through the dark. People cry out in pain.

An explosion from somewhere.

Rockets roar in the night sky, a horrible whooshing sound as they slice through the air.

I’ve got to do something. People are down. People are hurt. My comrades need me. There must have been some kind of attack.

But I can’t remember where I am. I can’t remember what I’m doing here.

I jump up out of bed. My hands grope around me frantically for my weapon. For my flashlight. For my knife. For something.

But nothing’s there.

That’s the worst feeling in the world. There’s nothing I can do to help. I’m unarmed.

Fuck it.

I’ll take them with my bare hands if I have to. I’ll strangle every last one of them. I’ll fight until I’m so riddled with bullet holes I can’t even stand up.

I rush forward, but something stops me. It’s like an invisible barrier between me and the action. I push and push, ramming the invisible barrier with my head.

But it just bends and gives to me. It’s like a huge, invisible rubber band.

Something flashes towards me. It’s a huge missile, the kind that they fire from jet fighters.

And it’s aimed straight at me. I can see it clearly, as if it’s moving in slow motion. But it’s roaring at me faster than the speed of sound.

Fuck it. I’ll take it on myself. It doesn’t scare me.

I brace myself, ready for the missile’s impact.

Something seems strange about this… a single rational thought floating through my head.

How can I see a missile approaching me?

This is when I wake up.

I’m in bed, covered in sweat.

Fuck, not again.

I close my eyes and open them again, just to double check whether this is really reality.

I look around.

There’s no battlefield.

There are no gunshots.

There are no missiles, no fallen comrades.

I’m alone in bed in my hotel room. I must have fallen asleep with the lights on again. I even left the TV on, turned to some boring news channel. The light from the TV is eerie and strange looking.

I grab the remote control and press the power button and the faces of the newscasters flicker for a moment before they fade away forever.

Looking at the nightstand clock, the time reads 4:00 AM.

Fuck. There’s no chance of me getting back to sleep tonight. Once I have one of these intense nightmares, it’s impossible for me to fall asleep again. Trust me, I’ve tried, and I just lie in bed wide awake.

It’s been six months since I completed my tour. I received an honorable discharge. I received more medals than I can count, for bravery on the battlefield, for courage under fire, for all sorts of things.

None of that means anything to me right now. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, either.

I thought it would. When I was in training to become a Navy Seal, I dreamed every night of showing everyone what I was capable of. I dreamed of doing something I could be proud of, of really making a difference.

When the time came, on various secret missions, I did what I had to do. And more than that.

I found that doing it was the reward in and of itself.

I saved the life of a comrade.

Or two.

I made mistakes, too.

People died. And it wasn’t my fault. But I still blamed myself.

By the time the medals came, I no longer cared about the medals themselves at all.

I tossed them in the trash the first chance I got.

Soldiers won’t admit this often in public, but it’s a common feeling. You think all those medals they give out end up proudly displayed on the mantle?

No, most of them end up in the gutter or the trash.

People who have been through war aren’t the same as people who haven’t.

It changes you, in some dark way. It makes you stronger, too, but not in the ways you thought it would.

After what I went through, you don’t feel like you can take on the world singlehandedly.

I can only do that in my dreams. But I don’t have dreams anymore. Just nightmares. The most terrible nightmares you could ever imagine.

The one I had tonight was a light one.

Last week, I had one where I was in the middle of a village and there were all these kids lying there with their heads completely severed from their bodies, mutilated beyond recognition. Blood was all over the place, so thick that it formed puddles on the dusty ground, forming little streams of thick, deep red blood.

I’m pacing the hotel room, back and forth across the carpet.

There’s no point in wasting time.

I get dressed.

Instinctively, I reach for my gun. The gun that I carried with me at all times. Sure, we used a variety of weapons. But I always had my 9mm pistol with me. It went with me everywhere.

But it’s not there.

I’m a civilian now. I turned the gun in when I left. I had the option to keep it. And a lot of guys go out and buy their own guns and get permits for concealed carry. That’s the only way they can feel safe in a civilian environment, in any environment.

But I don’t want to touch a gun again. Not after what I went through. Not after what I had to do.

That doesn’t mean I feel safe without a gun. I know that physically I can take on any enemy that comes at me. But the civilian world is so different from being in the Seals.

In the Seals, everything was defined. We ate at a certain time. We had missions. We had orders. We knew what we had to do. Sure, things got hairy. The shit would hit the fan and all hell would break loose. But there was still always a plan, and a backup plan. I had to think on my feet, but at least there was always the idea of a known enemy.

There’s no known enemy back here in the States. Everything is different. Civilians are different. It’s like being on another planet, one that I left a long time ago.

Leaving the hotel room, I walk down the deserted hallway. I take the silent elevator to the gym.

Working out is what keeps me under control.

A lot of guys see a therapist to talk about their issues from war. But they had it worse than me. They’ve got PTSD.

What I have is just a normal reaction to what I went through. I can manage it myself. I’ve managed everything myself.

I don’t have PTSD. I don’t need a therapist. I can keep everything under control, especially if I get enough hard exercise.

Hopping onto the treadmill, I start my warm up.

But it’s not a civilian warm up. It’s more intense than the football practices I used to do in high school.

I keep hitting the button until the treadmill is at its top speed. I’m almost at an all out sprint.

After twenty minutes of running intensely, I hop off. Time for the weights.

I move through the weights rapidly, not giving myself any time to rest. I wish there were free weights here.

Where I was stationed, there were always free weights. Often they were rusty, but they were well used. I love the feel of the cold steel against my hands.

But the machines do fine. I just max them out on the weight and jam my hands against them. I need to get the anger and frustration out somewhere. That’s what the weights are for.

An hour slips by and I hardly notice it.

Another hour goes by, and I’m done. I’m covered in sweat. I pull off my t-shirt and wipe my face with a towel left here by the staff for hotel guests. I doubt these hotels typically see this much sweat.

There’s a mirror on the wall opposite me, and I find myself staring into it.

I look so different than I did just a few years ago. For some strange reason, I can still picture myself clearly in my yearbook photograph. I looked innocent and impossibly young. But at the time, I thought I was a complete adult. I thought I was ready for anything.

In a way, I was right. I learned in the Seals I could handle whatever was thrown at me.

But I didn’t realize how intense it would be.

In the Seals, I was stronger than everyone. Faster than everyone. A better shot than everyone.

More importantly, I was smarter than everyone.

Playing football in high school, I never even got a whiff of my true potential. In the Seals, I grew beyond anything I could have imagined. I accomplished things I would have never thought possible. Dangerous missions with seemingly impossible objectives. I did what no one else could do.

My face now in the mirror, staring back at me, is older, tougher. My hair is short, compared to my long hair in high school, so common with the football players.

There’s something else there, something in my eyes, something that I don’t dare to examine too closely.

I head back up to my room. The hotel is still silent. No one else is up yet. Probably there’s just the nightshift person at the front desk, in case anyone comes in late.

Stripping down, I get into the shower. I don’t bother even turning the hot water tap. Something I got used to in the Seals, a habit that’s served me well. It wakes me up and washes away all the bullshit that accumulates in my brain.

I may be having nightmares. I may not be in the military.

But professionally, my life has never looked better.

I wrote a book about my time in the Seals, about overcoming obstacles. And it’s sold incredibly well. I’m raking in the cash.

And I’m just starting my book tour. My publisher has me traveling around the country, staying in hotels, giving talks and doing book signings.

The point of my book is that everyone has a secret unlocked potential. And they’re hardly ever aware of it. The Seals taught me to find that potential within myself and to push myself as hard as I possibly could.

My goal is to get people to change their thinking. My goal is to get them to wake up and start doing something with their lives. If everyone in the country started just approaching their potential, everything could change.

Too bad I can’t change my nightmares. They’ve been with me since I got out of the Seals, since I got my honorable discharge. They started that very night, and I haven’t gone more than a few days without them in the last six months.

But I can deal with them. They’re not a big deal. They mean I get a little less sleep than I otherwise would, but what’s a couple hours of lost sleep?

My first, and most recent, book signing was at a bookstore in New York City. I’d never been to New York before, and at first the hustle and bustle of everything was overwhelming. But I can deal with change and I can adapt.

My agent and I were shocked at the number of people who came to get an autograph. So many of them told me how much the book had meant to them, how it had changed their life for the better already. I shook their hands and I signed their books. And the talk probably got me thousands more sales, filling my bank accounts even more.

But I didn’t connect with anyone.

There’s no one who can understand me. It feels like there isn’t a single individual who can really get me, who I can explain things to, someone who’ll actually see what it is I’m saying.

Today, I’m back in my home town. My agent thought it would be great publicity to set up a talk back home. People could be proud that their town has a hero and all of that.

Me? I was resistant to the idea.

My dad died when I was in the Seals. I couldn’t go to the funeral. I was abroad. His body just couldn’t take the years of the pain meds that he needed to take. And to think of all the pain he dealt with all those years, the pain that no pills could mask…

My cousin Chris is dead too. He took his own life a year ago. Despite putting on a smiling face for everyone, despite cracking jokes all the time, he was miserable on the inside. The loss of his legs was too much for him, apparently. But I know he must have been dealing with other demons, demons deep inside him that wouldn’t leave him even for a moment. He got lost in the darkness and he couldn’t escape.

I remember the last time I saw him. It was before I enlisted. I visited him in the hospital, a day after… that party.

He was sitting there in his hospital bed, and he made a joke about his legs. I didn’t laugh, and he told me to just relax, that everything was fine.

He cracked jokes the whole time I was there, but as I was leaving, I saw the smile slip away briefly from his face and I caught a glimpse of what was underneath. Something horrible had happened to him when he was enlisted, and it wasn’t the loss of his legs. He saw something that he couldn’t shake, something that he couldn’t un-see.

I get dressed and gather my papers and books together. I don’t really need notes for the talk. I’ve got the whole thing memorized.

I got in late last night, so this is the first time I’ll be back in town since leaving. I’m not exactly looking forward to it. Too many memories.

But the sun is starting to rise in the sky by the time I get into my rental car.

The air is warm. The summer seems to be a hot one, just like the summer before I left.

For a moment, an image of her flashes across my mind. I’ve tried not thinking about her. I’ve tried over and over again. But in all the time abroad, in all my time in the Seals, I couldn’t shake her from my head.

I don’t know why she seems to have this power over me. It’s a power that stretches across time, across distance. She’s got a hold of me in the strangest way.

We haven’t talked since that one night outside in the grass.

I shouldn’t have walked off like that. But I was immature. There was so much that I didn’t understand.

There’s a small greasy spoon diner named Joe M.’s that I stop in for breakfast. I used to come here with my football buddies back in the day, often before practice. It’s a little building with nothing else around it. The parking lot is always cramped, and the place always smells like bacon.

I’m half hoping no one will recognize me, and half hoping someone will.

But all the faces are different. I used to know everyone who worked here. Of course, a lot of them were in high school at the time. By now, they’ve probably moved on. They probably have families and completely different jobs. They probably work in offices as financial advisors or something. Who knows?

I finish my meal, drain the last of my lukewarm coffee, leave my tip on the table, and head back out.

I’ve got two talks scheduled today. The first one is in half an hour at a local bookstore.

It’s one of the few bookstores that didn’t collapse during the time when all the other bookstores were closing.

Of course, I was gone during all that time. I didn’t hear about what had happened to the industry as a whole until I got back and got interested in writing a book.

Entering the bookstore, it’s clear to me that while the bookstore, called Frank’s, is still technically running, it’s suffered hard times. It didn’t collapse, but it did buckle.

There seems to be a thick layer of dust over everything.

Many of the books are old and used. I don’t see many new ones.

But there’s mine: A Seal’s Journey [check to make sure not copyrighted or previously published] by Noah Strong.

It’s the only new book here.

At least it’s prominently displayed.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone here just yet. I look around, but I don’t see any employees or the owners. I’m sure they’ll turn up soon, though.

For some reason, my hand goes to my hip, where I used to keep my gun. But it’s not there.

I have to remind myself: no one’s going to shoot you here. You’re safe here. You’re a civilian now.

This must happen to me at least five times a day. I’m constantly reaching for a gun that’s not there.

It’s like there’s an invisible enemy that’s pursuing me. But that invisible enemy is deep inside myself, in some dark place.

The door opens, creaking on its hinges.

I turn to look.

I can’t believe my eyes.

It’s her.

It’s Hana.

She looks at me. I haven’t seen her in years.

She’s even more beautiful than I remember her being.