When I retired, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I would be free from the waking nightmare of war. I was down a leg, but was getting better with the prosthetic. It wasn't until months later that I was finally able to visit the doctor for a different reason. My nightmares were getting worse. They only ever got worse after I came home. I was hoping that being back in my hometown with familiar faces would help ground me. I was wrong. If anything, seeing those faces day in and day out made me feel like even more of an imposter, a monster. I can't see my hands for anything but what they've become, tools of slaughter. I try to write, to publish stories that take my mind off things, but even in this second chance, I can't live in anything but war. Fleeting visages of violence flash through my mind as I scream out in the night, ripped from my sleep by a ghastly hand. The specters of my past haunt me in ways I can't describe. I see faces superimposed upon my vision, friends who never saw the end of their deployments, their eyes dripping blood as they cry out to me to save them. Why wasn't I faster? Why hadn't I reacted sooner? Why was I distracted? I talk to the doctor about this and he explains to me what ptsd really is. I already knew all about ptsd, of course, but he put it something like this. 'PTSD is the fight in your mind after the war.' He explained to me that my resentment towards myself and my situation was manifesting in inescapable memories, flashbacks, nightmares. He described a program to me, a course of therapy with other veterans, where we would work together to help each other through this. I like the sound of that, of course, but it didn't fix my immediate sleep problems. He prescribed ambien to me, which I quickly cane to adore. I was finally able to sleep soundly for the first time since exhaustion put me out during deployment. Sure, there were still some nights where I couldn't sleep, and some nightmares, but the improvement was really night and day. I was able to get certified and find work as a security guard, working for a security contractor. The gigs weren't anything fancy, but it worked for me. I tried the group therapy thing and it was just a bit too awkward for me, I figured I'd find my own way, I didn't want to burden anyone else with my issues. I was fine for awhile, till I started drinking again. Whiskey, my vice of choice, flowed through my veins more often than my own blood, but it dulled the pain enough for me to not mind living, at least until I was left with a hangover bigger than the Sahara. Anyway, it's not like I ever had a wife or kids to worry about, so I could really let go when I wasn't at work. I kept up like this for a few months, really believing that I was getting better, till I started showing up to work drunk. It wasn't a big deal, just a parking garage job, shouldn't really matter if I was sober or not. I can handle myself pretty well, and I can definitely handle my liquor. Anyway, the boss lit into me, she wasn't happy at all, but I figured she'd get over it and I told her as much. She didn't like that. I meant to get a new job, but couldn't really find the time. I was just enjoying myself, finding a reason to live, ya know?
The shadows jump at me every once in a while, and I'm pretty sure there's going to be another war here soon, so I keep my glock on me. The voices are only a problem if I can't forget them, ya know people calling my name and such. The other day I though I saw an old buddy of mine but it was just some kid. Whatever. As the years pass, I figure I'm handling myself pretty good. I'm not sleeping much but really that was just getting in the way of living. I've got quite the collection of bottles of #7, whiskey always was my vice of choice. It's not a big deal to step over them, I'll clean them up if it's ever an issue. It's not like anyone visits me anyway. Watching MASH reruns is how I unwind now, falling asleep on the couch if I don't watch the time. I've always been a night owl anyway. I went to the park the other day, lots of people i didn't recognize. I'm convinced they're here for something big. I always keep extra mags ready just in case. My fitness has gone to hell, but I'm sure I'm a decent shot anyway. I keep hearing people calling my name, but no one seems to know who I am. Whatever, I'll just keep fighting, you know how it is. I definitely saw an old buddy the other day at the mall, but he ran from me and an old coworker told me I had to leave. The nightmares are getting worse again, ambien isn't cutting it. Doc says I'm at the max dose already and there's nothing he can do. I tried to be polite, but he really had it coming. I've got to find a new doctor. The bottles are getting in the way, but I really don't care, I can still get around them if I avoid the kitchen, not that I was using it anyway.
My neighbor doesn't know how to mind his business, but he respected me after I showed him my trusty glock. Kids these days.
My health is getting worse, but at least I'll see my buddies soon. I can still hear them calling my name.