I crank the treadmill up again. Trying to find my rhythm. Trying to find a way to outrun the blood and memories and crash into a fatigue that will force me to sleep. The pounding of my feet on the tread, my heart in my ears.
It's easy enough to pretend I'm back at Hood, my last duty station, running down Battalion Avenue, a hundred of us in step and in sync. There's nothing in the world better than falling into the formation and feeling like you've stepped into something else entirely.
God but I miss those days. Hard. I didn't think I would. I thought I'd be glad not to get up and head out the door to PT at the ass crack of dawn anymore.
Never thought I'd miss it.
Not after everything.
Except that now, I'd give anything if she'd take me back. I’d even bear the shame of everything if only I could spend one more day in the shit and the sand and the dirt. Laughing with Mike. Bitching about the heat.
I’d do anything.
But I can’t go back. I can’t give in to the darkness and the temptation the Army offers. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
And so I run. I fall into the memories of running in formation and pretend that I still belong somewhere out there in the world. That there is a place for me where I fit.
Because right now, I'm not sure that such a place exists. And I am terrified of the fact that I am completely and utterly alone.
I run until sweat pours down my spine and soaks my clothing. I run until my legs burn and I'm just this side of throwing up.
I run until I no longer see Mike's boots or the blood on my hands or the twisted joy I felt every time I pulled the trigger that day.
I run until it dawns on me that I can’t keep running.
It is a long moment before I step into the shower. I let the steam blast my body, hands braced against the wall, and I make a decision.
I want. I want to belong. I want to do my job again. I want to make a difference. I want to believe that what I'm doing matters.
I want to stop f*ck
ing feeling like this. Like I'm buried, moving through life in muted slow motion.
I close my eyes and double over.
I want the f*ck
ing war to let me go.
Abby
I've got thirty minutes to get my assignment done for Quinn's class on violence. I should have done it during break last night but I didn’t. I can't afford to let my grades slide. It puts my financial aid at risk.
Given that I want to work with at-risk women, my advisor recommended I take Quinn's class to better understand what happens to people in violent situations.
I don't want to tell her that I know all too well what happens in these situations. But if I mention it, then I risk chipping away at the got-it-together fa?ade that I've worked so hard to maintain.
It's a mask that’s slipped recently.
Okay, it didn't slip. It was pried away with the carefully placed knife Robert the Douche slipped beneath the defenses that I’d built up so carefully since I’d started school.
I give myself a quick shake and push that memory out of my mind. It’s too easy to blame Robert for the unraveling, but it’s not all Robert’s fault.
He’s a symptom, not the disease. My fingers start flying on my keyboard, my response flowing as though it happened to someone else.
Interpersonal violence is a difficult situation to understand. Part of this comes from misunderstanding the nature of the problem. If being involved in a violent relationship was the result of rational decision making, no one would ever be involved in violence; either as victim or as perpetrator.
"You look deep in thought."
Josh's voice slides out of the silence of the library and wraps around me. I look up from my assignment. He is standing there in the bright overhead lights, looking just as out of place here as he does in the Baywater.
The responsible part of me should be annoyed because now I have to be sociable when I have to get my assignment done.
But another part of me is doing a happy dance in my panties.
Down, girl.
"How's the eye?" The shiner is faded now, an ugly yellow and green, the scab mostly gone at this point. On campus, it's rare to see someone who’s not an athlete walking around with a bruised face. But beyond that, this one distracts me because it pulls my attention straight to Josh and only Josh.
And that's dangerous for me.
I don't want to feel anything for him. For anyone. Maybe someday. But not today.
"Better. Not sore anymore." I like the way he looks at me. Like he can see me. Not the stereotype everyone else seems to see.
Me.
"What?"
"Sorry," I mumble. Damn it, he caught me staring. "I was distracted."
I'm trying not to notice. Not his shoulders or the hard, clean lines of his collarbones and the little indent at the base of his throat. And the solid line of muscle that is his chest that makes me really want to get a little bit naked.
"By what?"
Shit. I need something witty and smart. Except that I'm not witty and smart. At least, not under pressure.
"Your ass."