He jerked awake, gasping for air, looking at me.
"Are you ok?" I asked.
He didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge me. I wasn't even sure if he heard me, and I wasn't quite sure whether he was awake or still asleep. He leaned forward, his head in his hands, his breath more and more shallow, choking.
Panic attack.
I definitely recognized those.
I slid close to him, put my hand on his back. "Just breathe," I said. "Breathe."
I kept my hand there, still, until his breathing began to slow, then got a cool washcloth from the bathroom and dabbed it on his forehead.
"Here," I whispered, taking off his tee-shirt. "You're soaked."
"June," he said. "I'm sorry."
"It was a panic attack," I said. You have nothing to feel sorry for. "I get them too."
He wrapped his arms around me, slid into bed behind me, his skin warm against mine. "The nightmares don't happen every night," he said.
"It's okay, Cade." I closed my eyes. "You're safe."
Before I drifted off to sleep, I thought, It's my heart that's in danger.
Axe
Safe.
I lay there, holding June, not daring to move, listening to her breathing get deeper as she fell asleep in my arms. I wanted to avoid having to talk about what had just happened. I didn't need to play twenty questions with her about this shit.
The fucking nightmares, the panic attacks...they were old hat for me now. I'd had them for years, and it wasn't like June could do anything about them. Right after I'd gotten out, I talked to someone at the VA, made it through a couple sessions before I decided dredging up my past was about the most useless shit ever.
I didn't want to relieve that shit with June.
She was in that convoy - the explosion. She'll understand.
I squelched that fucking voice in my head. I'm sure June didn't think I knew, but I'd looked her up. I knew about what had happened, how she was in Afghanistan, attached to one of the medical battalions who'd gone out on an easy humanitarian mission. Teaching doctors from a local Afghani hospital. As soon as I started reading the article about her, I knew she would have loved that, volunteered for it. One of the vehicles in their convoy had hit an IED and the convoy had taken fire - a whole fucking group of doctors. June had dragged her wounded corpsman out of the line of fire, but he'd died anyway. The article had called her "the hero surgeon."
If anyone would understand this shit, it would be June. She'd said she had panic attacks. I knew from experience that was probably the tip of the iceberg. But June, she dealt with things differently. Fuck, she channeled her shit into opening a bed and breakfast. Her big act of rebellion was quitting her job as a surgeon.
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.