I stare straight ahead and rest my hand against the cool, hard, familiar heel of my pistol. My fingers coil around the handle like a boa constrictor squeezing out the last moments of a rabbit’s life. Like how darkness has slowly suffocated the fight from me. The thrashing and screaming are all over. I’m remarkably calm now that I know this is done. Now that I’ve lost the will to live.

Now that I’m going to kill myself.

It was never supposed to go this way. I blink, my tired eyes gritty as if I’ve rubbed sandpaper over them. When was the last time I really slept? It’s all a haze. Ever since the night our Humvee got hit. I just can’t keep the days and weeks and months straight anymore. I had a promising career in the SEALs, where I was shooting up the ranks, surrounded by the best men I’ve ever known. Then, all my dreams, my future, my entire fucking life, it all blew up and burned in the fiery explosion of the IED. As the flames ripped through our armored vehicle, as they sizzled across Heinkel’s flesh, killing him, they destroyed us.

They say things are forged by fire. We like to talk about the phoenix that rose from the ashes, stronger and more beautiful. That’s fucking bullshit. That fire took everything from me. My brothers. My career. And now, my life.

I lift the gun from my empty kitchen table. The weight in my hand is comforting. My heartbeat slows and my breathing grows deep and steady as I glance down at the black steel. A sad smile twists my lips as memories of when I first joined the SEALs flood my mind. Those were the best days of my life. Proving myself at demolition training, finding my tribe, getting assigned to my unit, and meeting the guys who would become closer than blood to me.

Tears blur my vision as I mourn the man I thought I’d be. The brave, strong, elite soldier who’d never break and never falter. Now look at me. I’m not strong, I’m not brave. I’m not even a fucking soldier anymore. I’m nothing. No one.

Water streaks back toward my hairline as I frown up at the ceiling. “What else am I supposed to do, huh? Keep living like a trapped rat? Stuck in some kind of hole while the water slowly drowns me? I know you said this is a sin, but fuck, God, why aren’t you helping me? Why did you leave us out there to die? If you didn’t want me to end it like this, why didn’t you take me in the explosion? Instead of leaving me fucking useless and alone.” Anger taints my words as my voice chokes up in my throat and snot runs from my nose.

My tears fall down my face and my hand lifts the pistol with a tremble, tucking it under my chin. I’m such a fucking coward now. My hands shake at the idea of pulling the trigger. What have I become? I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I rest my grizzled jaw down onto the muzzle and steady my twitching hand with my free one.

“I’m talking to myself, aren’t I? Like a fucking little kid who still believes in Santa, I’m hanging onto some sad idea that you’re even up there. That you even care. If you existed, I would’ve never seen the things I’ve seen.”

The barrel pinches the sensitive flesh under my jawbone as I look up at my ceiling again. “If you’re there, if you give a shit about me, give me a sign, God. I just need a sign that...” My voice quivers as hot tears fall over my cheeks and spill onto my hands. “That any of this gets better. That my life won’t be this fog of anger and despair. That my dreams won’t just be watching the men I loved die. That this stops hurting so fucking much.” I howl. My finger moves to the trigger and I try to hold the gun tight in my grip, but it’s hard to do when my shoulders are shaking so hard.

“Please,” I plead with God, or maybe with nothing. Maybe with myself. Maybe only with my demons.

The room is eerily silent. There’s nothing to indicate I’m doing anything but stalling. I don’t know why I expected anything different. What did I think would happen? The sky would open? Light would pierce my window and shine on me like a spotlight from Heaven? It’s stupid.

I’m stupid.

And I’m done. My index finger circles the trigger and I take a deep lungful of air, pulling back the hammer with my thumb. I close my eyes and push the tip of the gun into my skin.

“That’s what I thought.” I grind my teeth together. Sweat breaks out across my forehead and my heart thumps in my chest hard as I get ready to pull the trigger.

Br-ring! Br-ring!

I open one eye, unsure if I’m actually hearing my phone go off right now, or if I’m hallucinating.

Br-ring! Br-ring!

The gun clatters down against the table as I stand up in total shock. My muscles twitch as I stare in disbelief at my cell phone on the counter. Its screen is lit up bright, blaring at me, with an unfamiliar number blazed across the top of it. Slowly, I walk over to the counter and pick it up. Is this really happening? I stare up at the ceiling, but this time in awe and surprise as I swipe my thumb over the cell and bring it to my ear.

“Hullo.” The sweat that formed across my forehead trickles down and gets lost in my eyebrows.

“Hello, is this Jackson Wilcox?” A friendly woman’s voice reaches through the fog of my confusion like a steady hand on my shoulder.

“Uh, yeah.” For a second I’m almost unsure if that’s the right answer. This moment, this interruption, it’s all too surreal to process.

“Hello, my name is Doreen Vickers and I’m with Child Welfare Services. Sir, I have some news for you and, um, it might be a shock.” Her tone turns nervous. I’m pretty sure I can hear her feet pacing against the hard floor.

“Try me.” I shake my head in disbelief. How much more shocking can any of this get, really?

“Okay then, Mr. Wilcox, right now we have a child in our care. Her mother, Janet Millville, I believe you two were together at one point?”

I nod silently as a flash of Janet’s milky skin and fiery red hair flashes through my mind.

Doreen continues, “I’m sorry to inform you that she was killed in a car accident last week. Her daughter, well, Ms. Millville wanted the biological father to be the guardian if anything happened to her. I’m not sure what you know about Chloe, but she’s at our facility right now and I would like you to come in to talk to me about making arrangements with you or whether you’d like to keep her in the system,” Doreen rambles.

My mind locks up. I can’t make sense of why she’s calling me. I can’t make sense of any of this. Janet is dead? She had a daughter? What’s happening here?

“I’m sorry, why are you calling me? I haven’t heard from Janet in almost, well, four years now.” Heat stains the back of my neck as my brain scrambles to piece this together for me.

“Mr. Wilcox, I’m calling you because we have Chloe in our care and she’s your daughter.”