Blocked

~

When I first met Jay, I thought he was an asshole—but that’s just because he was everything I wasn’t: outgoing and loud; 6’3” with a beefy build; a terrible Boston accent that defied his intelligence; had all the right things to say, especially to girls; and eventually found the right woman and settled down and had a baby girl. It was during SFQC (Special Forces Qualification Course) that I found out how very not true the whole asshole-thing was—that he really was a brother.

So, what do you when a mission goes bad and your brother is injured with burns over most of his body, and he’s lying on a stretcher writhing in pain, with charred skin peeling and collapsing, and a face that’s unrecognizable ‘cause it’s blistered and swollen. And while the medic sedates him and pumps him with fluids, and does her damndest to stabilize his breathing, all you can hear is your brother’s voice in your head screaming, “Fuck it, I don’t want to live like that”—because you actually heard him say these words when another brother met a similar fate?

I’ll tell you what you do: when the medic leaves to go get supplies, and it’s just you and him, you tell him you love him, that this isn’t fucking fair, that if the situation was reversed, you’d want him to do the same, that you’ll take care of his family and get these bastards one way or another. Then you grab the oxygen tube that’s keeping him alive and stop the flow of air until his chest no longer moves. And you hate yourself, and you curse the world. And you never mention it again, just bury it away like they did to Jay—until that day when your own chest says, “Fuck you! I can’t handle it anymore,” and you wind up in the hospital with your own oxygen tube.

I will never leave a fallen comrade….  Until I did.

How the hell are you supposed to live with death while you’re still alive?

Next Vignette: Mirage

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