Things that I’m finally ready to let go of, thanks to Emmy, and things I want settled before I take her again.
Over the last two months, I feel like I’ve changed as a person. I no longer look at the world thinking that, at any given moment, I will destroy those around me. I look at our close group of friends, people I’ve known for years now, and see that, by knowing me, they haven’t felt my demons. They haven’t been touched—or tainted—by my dark soul. If anything, I can now see the role I’ve played in helping each one of them come together.
That one took a little longer for me to wrap my mind around. Years of thinking one way was warring against the very real truth that I was wrong.
Or, more importantly, that every fucked-up thing my mother had drilled into my head—making me believe without a doubt—was in fact the catalyst in it all. Her hate for me fueled my own self-hate. I carried it around. I owned it. I let her do that to me.
I refuse to let her have that power over me now. I’m worth more than a lifetime of being alone and afraid of myself.
I’m worth Emmy.
It hasn’t been easy these last two months, but it has been rewarding. With the help of both Emmy and the doctor I have been seeing a few times a week, I’m ready. Ready to move on and forward. All those baby steps I’ve taken with her at my side have paid off and I feel like we can now run a marathon together.
It’s one fucking amazing high to feel the love of another. To have her wrap that love around me, refusing to let go, and never waver. Indescribable.
Now, it’s time to take the rest of my so-called monsters and toss them where they belong—in the darkest pits of fucking hell.
After making sure Emmy is situated, I laugh when she still doesn’t flinch. I knew she was running on some kind of manic high today with the thought of having the use of her arm again. Even the thought of the physical therapy left to build her strength back up hasn’t weakened her happiness. Being able to move forward and start bearing weight on her leg was even better. It’s going to be harder since her wrist is too weak to support crutches for now, but she can move around now, and that is the important thing to her.
I make the walk over to my dresser and feel my lips twitch when I realize that, for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel the dread of what I’m about to do.
Open that fucking box.
It’s time.
We’ve slowly been removing items together, just as she promised, but this part needs to be done by me alone. I need to know that I can do this one alone.
Popping the lid, I take in the three remaining items. The question is: Which one do I take care of first?
I grab the letter from Johnson’s widow first. One of the hardest things for me to accept was that I wasn’t responsible for their deaths. It would have happened regardless of who was there with me or where my head was. Looking back, even though I was stressed over Mercy, I was on top of my fucking game out there. I’d been trained to be the best of the fucking best, and goddamn it, I was.
Two weeks ago, I called up Johnson’s widow. I was alone at Corps Security and I took a chance. I never fathomed that she would regret this hate-filled letter in my hands. She told me that she had wanted to contact me so many times over the years but just didn’t know how. We talked for two hours that day. Remembering her husband, laughing about the stupid shit we would get into overseas, and finally healing. When I hung up the phone with her and felt that guilt dissipate a little, I started to believe in that hope for a blessed life.
My next call was to Morris’s widow. She was shocked to hear from me but, in the end, glad that I called. Like Mary, she needed that closure that her husband hadn’t suffered and to have some memories I could give her of him.
By the time I finished those calls, I broke.
I sat in my office, surrounded by computers and technical equipment, and I fought with my body to calm down. It was almost as if I hadn’t known how to move on without that guilt. But by the time I left the office, I almost felt whole.
After removing Mary’s letter—and my Medal of Honor—I walk into the kitchen. Then I swipe one of the lighters out of the spare drawer, place my medal on the counter, and hold her letter over the sink. With one flick of my thumb, I watch as flames take over the old paper. Each piece of ash that falls into the sink represents the guilt I’m letting go.
When I’m finished, I grab the medal and walk over to the mantel. I stand there with my legs planted to the ground, my shoulders tight, and take in the pictures Emmy insisted on putting up. Just one of the many home-decorating projects she forced me to do for her during her recovery.