My hand grasped the thin envelope, crumbling it in my fist. My heart knew the words written inside—medically retired. Not fit for duty.

Worthless.

I ripped open the letter, the stoic black ink confirming my worst fears. I was out, done. I’d be medically retired at the end of this enlistment—six more months. Nothing left of me but a broke-ass civilian, doomed to spend the rest of my life shuttered away from public view so I didn’t scare the children. A future working the graveyard shift was my best bet so no one would have to look at my fucked up face.

Why hadn’t I died in that shanty house? Honorably, a hero. Maggots eating my body in Arlington, a twenty-one-gun salute blazing.

At least I’d be with my best friend, Rafael.

I missed that motherfucker. His raw sense of humor, his supremely bad taste in music, his penchant for dousing his MREs in hot sauce. But more than anything, I missed the way he took care of everyone in our unit. He truly had our backs. If you needed some extra cash, Rafael wouldn’t hesitate to lend it to you. If you needed a ride from the airport at two in the morning, Rafael would be there even if he were due to PT on base at six.

He had a wife and a beautiful little girl who worshipped him. Who missed him. Who would do anything to see him one last time.

I had no one.

No one would ever love me like that. No woman would ever want to look at me every day for the rest of her life.

It should’ve been me.

I jammed my key into my apartment, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and blasted the death metal CD I’d left in the stereo.

San Diego was suffering from another late summer heat wave. The sun blazed outside the window, the excessive warmth incinerating my already torched skin.

I paced around my apartment, clutching my cell phone, but my fingers refused to press any numbers. I didn’t want to burden my grandparents with my pain, my friends were in the field at CAX preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. I was jealous of those motherfuckers, training in the desert of 29 Palms, able-bodied, fearless, free. I was a prisoner of my body, my mind. Loneliness and despair crashed in a wave over me, drowning me in the agony I tried so hard to ignore.

I can’t do this anymore.

Another swig of whiskey, and I knelt beside my bed. One shot, that’s all it would take to end my suffering, my burden on this world. My spirit would soar free, leave my battered body.

Maybe it was my destiny. I shouldn’t have survived.

I shouldn’t be alive.

My life as I knew it was over. My career was finished. My best friend was dead. My body was in excruciating pain. I looked like a mutant.

No one would even notice if I was gone.

I grabbed my pistol, my Glock. No magazine; I always kept one round in the chamber. One click, and I’d meet my maker.

This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself—I’d always kept my gun close by, in my nightstand, in my glove compartment. It was like a prescription that was always filled just in case I needed it.

It was time.

I wasn’t afraid; I was at peace. I wanted to go home.

I placed the gun to my head, the cold steel imprinting on my temple, and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Radio silence.

What the fuck?

I was still here.

Fuck, I can’t even kill myself.

Where the fuck was that round? I always left a round in my chamber.

Always.

No one had been in my apartment in a while. Only person who had been here recently was Isa.

Isa?

No way. No fucking way.

But it could only be her. No one had broken into my place to steal my bullet.

How did she know how to disarm a weapon? When had she done this? While I was in the shower? On the phone with my buddy?

I placed the gun down, debating going into my closet to get more ammo. But I just sat still on the bed, frozen.

I couldn’t believe that bitch had stolen my bullet. What if I needed my gun to protect myself?

If I ever saw her again, I’d make her pay. But I didn’t even know how to contact her. No last name, no phone number. Nothing. Only a memory remained that replayed daily in my mind. The sensation of her hot, wet flesh, of how being inside her erased my pain, if only for a fleeting moment.

I buried my face in my hands. And for the first time since my injuries, I allowed myself to cry.

One tear burned my skin, and it was like I had opened up a floodgate. I wept for Rafael, I wept for myself, and I drowned myself in self-pity. What had I ever done to deserve this fate? I was caught in an endless cycle of surgeries, intolerable pain, agony, and no relief.

I grabbed my bottle of whisky and downed it, the smooth liquid coating my throat, taking the edge off my aching. The framed picture of the President awarding me the medal came into my view, and my breath hitched. I was not worthy of such an accolade—the highest military honor in the country.

After staring at my gun, I stood up and placed it back in my nightstand. Once again, I’d cheated death. I would make no promise for tomorrow, but tonight would not be my end.