I channeled all my shit into becoming better at being a murderer. There was a big difference between us.
All the bullshit, the nightmares, the waking up in cold sweats...it was just easier to not talk about it. I'd learned that much. All the shit I'd seen - there was just too much of it to put into words anymore. It had become part of me, part of my soul. Killing for the club just confirmed what I already knew about myself - that I was too far gone to do anything else.
I wasn't always like this, though. The Marines do a pretty good job of putting you through the ringer before you become a sniper - psych evaluations and all that bullshit. They have to be sure you're not a fucking psychopath before giving you a weapon and asking you to act like one. Most of the guys I knew were just like me - good guys, guys with families, guys from ranches or small towns who knew their way around rifles.
And after what happened with June's family, the secret I had kept, I told myself that doing this was the only way. It was my path to redemption. I was part of something bigger than myself, something noble.
So I deployed, five times in as many years. Volunteered for missions. I was shit hot, and it felt good to be good at something. But I was a sniper during the first five years of the war, when shit was bad. I pictured myself lying in a field, shooting targets from a half a mile away. Sometimes it was like that. But mostly, it wasn't. It was protecting a squad on foot in Baghdad or in Ramadi, taking out targets in buildings. It was always business, never personal. I never felt bad about any of the targets I killed - they were always armed, always the enemy.
The guys I was protecting, the ones I lost...those were the ones I felt bad about. Those were the deaths I couldn't get out of my head. Those were the guys I would feel responsible for failing, until the day I died.
And those were the scenes that replayed in my mind, over and over like a video stuck on a loop. Those were the images that haunted me during the day, popping up when I least expected it, when I caught a whiff of something in the air, or heard the sound of a car backfiring. Those were the nightmares that stole my sleep.
At night, I would close my eyes, and see it in my mind's eye...the flash of light, clouds of dust and debris kicked up around me, the billowing dust cloud that colored the air. I'd hear the explosion, followed by a moment of dead silence, and then the ringing in my ears. I'd feel the shockwave from the blast wash over me before I was thrown to the ground.
Every night, the same thing. And in my dreams, I'd see the men I failed to save.
I was stirring cream into my coffee, trying to force myself to wake up, my head still groggy, when I heard June pad into the kitchen, her footsteps light on the tiled floor. She slid her arms around my waist, and I felt myself stiffen.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
That wasn't true.
June stepped back away from me, touched my arm. "Cade," she said. "Turn around and look at me."
I turned, sighing. Exasperated. Not with her, but with myself. "What, June?"
"What happened last night-" she began. I cut her off. I didn't want her pity.
"What happened last night won't happen again," I said. I wouldn't let it. I told myself she would understand, but the truth was, we were different. She had so much shit in her life, and she'd risen above it. I would drag her down.
"Cade, it's okay. I've had panic attacks, nightmares." Her hand was still on my arm. "It helps to talk about it."
I drew my arm back from her, sat at the table with my coffee. "I don't need to talk about it."
"I'm not saying you need to. I'm just telling you that it's fine if - "
I cut her off. "Leave it alone, June. It's not your fucking problem."
It was mean, what I said, and I immediately regretted it. The silence hung heavy in the air between us. I heard her clear her throat, and I didn't want to know what she was about to say. Probably kick me out. I wouldn't give her the chance.
I stood up, not looking at her. "I need to get back to the house. My dad's going to be wondering where the hell I am. Crunch too."
"I'm pretty sure they know where you are," June said.
"Still, I should go."
"Just like that," June said.
Now I looked at her, standing, with her back to the kitchen counter, her arms crossed in front of her. I might not have been able to save some people, but I could save her from me.
"What did you expect from me, June?" I asked, knowing I was being mean. I steeled myself. It was for the best. "Did you think I was going to hang out here and play house with you, just because we screwed a couple of times?"
June's eyes narrowed. I knew I was hurting her, but she didn't need me around her. What did I think was going to happen here, anyway - June would ride off on the back of my bike, into the sunset? She didn't need to be involved in my life. I might be fucked up beyond redemption, but I wasn't an idiot. June was way too good for me, and I knew it.