Adam

It's raining pretty hard, but the canopy and the hood are keeping the worst of it off my face, as I make my way through the trees behind the cabin. This part of the woods is unfamiliar to me, but the compass on my watch will guide me back. Though I'm sure I'd be able to find my way back to Taylor from anywhere without any help. It's a knowledge, not even a feeling, and it could just be because I'm all fucked up in the head right now. The ground starts rising sharply not far from the cabin, and I run uphill until I can't breathe.

The nightmare was bad. One of the worst I ever had. And completely new. I usually just dream the same thing over and over again. But this one started out in these woods, on a nice summer day, birds singing in the trees and insects whizzing by. Davy was there with me, and he never is. I've blocked him out of my mind so completely, I don't even have nightmares about him.

In this dream, it was a good day, we were having fun, and it wasn't some shit at home that drove me into the woods. It was really just a regular dream, but vivid like I'm watching it on TV. That part, the calm beginning, has yet to fade from my mind. But then it changed real fast. Although instead of at the mine at Hunter's Point, we were in the desert, my last mission about to start. Davy was there too. And I was telling him to leave, run away, because I knew shit was gonna get bad, and he shouldn't be there. But he didn't listen to me, he never listened, and when the explosions went off, he died, bleeding out into the sand and gravel.

I find myself back at the cabin, not even sure how or when I returned. The rain's coming down in sheets and I'm standing in the trees, with a clear line of sight into the kitchen, where Taylor's bending over, checking the oven.

She's so innocent and so pure, so soft and kind. I should just keep going, back up the hill and down on the other side. Because she needs me and my wild abandon in her life like she needs a cracked skull.

* * *

"You're dripping wet," she says shrilly when I walk into the kitchen, her eyes dropping down to my feet.

"Don't worry, no muddy footprints," I say fighting the urge to simply pick her up and kiss her. Then she'd be wet too, and we could take the shower I need together. "I took my shoes off outside."

"Good," she says and smiles at me, like maybe she wants me to pick her up and kiss her too. "Get changed, the food's almost ready."

I nod and leave to take a shower, proud of myself that I managed not to suggest she join me. For all her innocent pureness, she's smoking hot and me and my hard cock are totally aware of that at all times.

She peeks into the bedroom when I'm just standing there wrapped in a towel, trying to find a relatively clean pair of jeans to wear. I can see her looking at me through the reflection in the window, but pretend I don’t, enjoying the soft wave of heat from her gaze.

She blushes a bright crimson when I finally do turn. "Just getting dressed."

Her knuckles are even whiter than the rest of her pale skin because she's clutching the doorknob so hard. Her eyes drift down my stomach to the pile of wet clothes I took off before taking a shower, and clears her throat.

"If you need to do laundry, I have a washer," she announces. "And dryer. It's one of those combo, 2-in-1 things."

"Great," I say and wink at her. "Everything I have needs to be washed, but then I'll have nothing to wear."

She blushes harder than before, and I can't help but laugh.

"I can lend you something of my dad's," she says, averting her eyes and rushing to the closet.

She pulls out a pair of black and blue flannel pajamas and a black shirt, and brings them to me.

"You sure you want me to get dressed?" I ask, because I can't stop myself.

"Yes, come on, I'm starving," she says breathlessly, but at least she's not rolling her eyes. "I'll put your clothes in the wash for you."

"Wow, you do laundry and you cook. You truly are a keeper," I tease, taking the clothes she's lending me from her. "But I feel so useless."

"You can start a fire in the living room," she says, picking up my jeans off the floor.

"Now, that's a man's job. And don't worry, I can start a fire even with wet wood."

Her eyes go all squinty in confusion and disappointment. “You think it all got wet? But Dad keeps it under a tarp, I think."

I laugh again, can't help it. "I'm sure the wood's dry enough. I was just saying, in general, I could start a fire with wet wood for you."

"I wish you'd stop making fun of me," she says, her eyes all serious now.

"OK, done, sorry," I say automatically, and I mean it, but I can't help smiling.

She goes back to collecting my dirty clothes, and I go into the bathroom to change. The pants fit OK, but the shirt's real tight over my chest and arms. Might be worth it, if it'll make her reconsider the no sex tonight thing.

When I emerge from the bedroom, she's standing over my backpack staring at my Purple Heart medal, and a knot so tight I might have to puke forms in my stomach. The handwritten letter from General Harrison the medal fell from is lying on top of the backpack.

I stride over, but stop myself from ripping it from her hand. Instead I busy myself with stuffing the letter back into the envelope and neatly arranging the rest of my discharge papers.

"What did you get this one for?" she asks, her eyes very wide. "I've seen it before, my great-grandfather had one. It's important, isn't it?"

I think she's talking fast because she's afraid I'll tell her to stop asking questions. But I like awe in her voice.

"Whatever," I say. "They give it to those who are wounded or killed in combat."

Gen. Harrison sent it back to me as a way of reminding me that I will not be forgotten, even if I choose to leave. That's why he picked the Purple Heart out of all the other ones I sent to his house after I got my discharge papers. Not even sure why I did it, since it was too late to change anything by then. But God damn it, I deserved an honorable discharge, after all the shit I went through.

"It is a big deal, and it came in that hand written letter," she says.

"Yeah, well, the general only hand wrote the letter because he didn't want a paper trail. He wants me to come back. I don't want to," I say crumpling up the letter in my fist. "I kinda wish he'd sent me the rest of my medals along with this one. Then I could at least claim some benefits."

With the less than honorable discharge I can't even get a normal job. But I don't tell her that.

"You have more medals?" she asks breathlessly. "But you're so young. When did you have the time?"

"I also have a Medal of Honor," I say, since I really want to see more of that pride in her eyes. That was a huge part of the reason I enlisted in the first place, but I never got much of it from anyone that mattered. "I enlisted when I was sixteen, so I had time," I add. "And my general saw potential in me."

Son, you were born for war, were his exact words, and they meant a lot to me when he said it. He reiterated it in the letter. But fuck that. I wanted out. Still do.

"So you're an officer, right? What's your rank?" She's just full of questions again.

"I've been discharged," I say, hard and harsh. "My rank doesn't matter. Shouldn't we go eat?"

She takes another glance at the medal, then hands it back.

"You can have it," I say, with no idea why.

"If you don't want it, I don’t either," she says with an edge in her voice, and places it back on my backpack.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I ask, matching her tone. Her refusal to just take it feels worse that everyone else's indifference that I ever got it combined.

"It clearly means a lot to you," she explains, speaking a lot more calmly now, kindly even. "And I don't know why you want to get rid of it so bad, but it's insincere, and I don't want any part of that."

Doesn't want any part of me, more like. That's all I hear. But I don't say it, since I'll lash out because the hurt's too raw.

She blushes again, picks up my clothes, and rushes from the room. "The food's already on the table. I'll be right there."

I go into the kitchen, cut out a piece of the quiche and dump it messily onto my plate. I almost start eating without her too. But I don't. She went to so much trouble, set the table perfectly too, with candles and shit, and I can't ruin it for her. Not over her getting to the heart of what's really bothering me.

So I cut out a neat piece for her, and try to fix mine so it doesn't look like someone puked it up onto my plate. Then I sit back and try to think of something happy to take my mind off the fucking mess that just happened. But really, she's it at the moment, and she's not very happy with me right now.