What If

Arrow had been my whole life since I was fifteen years old, and now I felt like I was the same to him. The way he embraced me, watched me, and examined every millimeter of my skin, the way his smile spread from cheek to cheek, the way he pounded into me with what felt like love but also unadulterated lust intoxicated me.

I was drunk on Arrow. The smell of his skin, the taste of his lips, the sensation of his body rubbing against mine, the roughness of his chest hair below my fingers, the marks on his skin from the war that told a dark story of the pain the man I loved had to overcome, all of it inebriated me.

For a long time I rested across his chest, my head pressed against the center near his sternum where I could hear the strong beating of his heart. My arm flung haphazardly across his stomach. Every time he inhaled my head moved up and then as the breath released It’d sink back down. It was a constant rhythm that eventually put me to sleep.



I didn’t wake up until I heard a low, deep whimper coming from Arrow. I tried to soothe him, rubbing in a circular motion across his chest but that only seemed to make the small sound louder and more frequent. I sat up, grabbed his shoulders and shook gently trying to arouse him from whatever nightmare he lived in.

His eyes wouldn’t open though. I shook harder, calling out his came, my voice growing shrill with each passing moment.

“Arrow! Arrow, baby!”

He sat up, eyes springing open. He dove for the side table, opened the drawer and pulled out a handgun. It all happened so fast that I didn’t know what to do. I sat there, frozen, my hands up in front of me, mouth gaping.





My heart beat rapidly, sweat droplets raced down my temples. No one will ever hurt me again. I darted for the gun in the table next to my bed. Those fuckers wouldn’t take one step towards me before I blew their heads off their shoulders.

I took the safety off and searched the room using only my eyes, not making any sudden movements or noises. My heart rate slowed, becoming normal as I came back to reality. No one was here. No one was going to hurt me. I turned to my right and saw an angel staring wide-eyed at me. Fear burned brightly in her brown eyes and shaking limbs.

“Arrow?” Her voice rang like soft music bringing me back out of my nightly hellhole.

Noticing the gun in my hand, I shook my head, begging the images to leave me alone once and for all. A small click sounded when I reset the safety. I put the gun back where it belonged in the confines of my end table.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, running my hands down my face. “Jesus, that could’ve gone wrong quickly.”

Briar scooted closer to me, her hands were up as she moved towards me. She wanted to touch me, but she was moving towards me like I was a battered dog, hovering in the corner, prepared to attack in any moment.

“Briar Paige, I would never hurt you.”

She smiled sadly but touched my shoulders. She was still naked, as was I. She crawled towards me and sat in my lap, facing me.

“Does this happen often?” She rubbed my scalp gently, calming my erratic nerves.

“Only when I forget to take my sleeping pills,” I explained.

“Are the nightmares always the same?” she inquired. Concern riddled her features. I draped my arms around her waist, pulling her closer to me, finding consolation in her being near me.

“Mostly.”

“Have you ever talked to anyone about them?” she pushed. I knew the questions would end if I asked her to stop, but I also knew what unanswered questions could do to our relationship. I hadn’t told anyone what happened in Afghanistan since I was forced to tell my commander about it. But I wanted to tell Briar. I wanted her to understand a part of me that no one else really knew existed. She needed to know what made me the man I was today: damaged and all.

“No one since I’ve been back in the states. It’s not a happy story, Briar… It’s dark, bloodcurdling. It still scares the living shit out of me every night that I’m back in that evil place.” I looked into the face of the woman who kept me alive through every brutal type of torture I was put through. When I was tied to that chair, when my body bled out, when the pain was too much, I saw her face. I saw Briar laughing as I tightened my fingers on her ribs. I saw the green flecks in her eyes, the curve of her body, the long drives we took. I would sing “Dear God” over and over in my head like it was a prayer.

Briar’s arms rested on my shoulders. She rubbed the back of my neck, waiting for me to continue.

It all happened so fast. We were doing a walk-through, just checking up on the same areas we did every night. A couple of the guys in my platoon were with me. I heard a shrill weeping coming from my left. Searching for the sound, I came across a kid laying down on the dusty ground, curled into the fetal position, crying out like he was in miserable pain.

I didn’t handle it the way I should’ve. I didn’t take watch of what was around us. Instead I ran. I took off and fell to my knees next to the little boy. He didn’t understand my questions, our language barrier making it harder for me to help him. I pulled his hands away from where they wrapped around his legs and saw blood leaking out of a deep cut in his thigh. Quickly, I tore the bottom part of my t-shirt off and started binding the wound tightly, trying to slow the loss of blood. I carefully put one arm behind his knees and the other behind his neck, lifting him off the ground and preparing to take him back to our base where he could be helped.

When I started to rise and call to my brothers, there was a crunching sound from behind me, someone walking. I assumed it was one of us. But it wasn’t. Before I could turn around, I was hit over the head. I assumed with a gun, but really I had no clue. It could’ve been anything. It knocked me out cold.

I woke up to the metallic smell of blood. My eyes still closed, my body overwhelmingly heavy, a headache pulsing painfully from one end of my skull to the other. The feeling of rope tied around my wrists and ankles is what made the warning signs start blaring. I opened my eyes and looked around my perimeter. A couple of my comrades were in the same position as me. I noticed Rodriguez was starting to wake. It seemed they were all still alive but hurt. I looked down at where I was detained. I sat in a thick, splintered wooden chair. It had dried blood painting the lumber a deep red. Slivers of the snarly chair stuck into my skin, causing droplets of red to seep out of my arms.

“Rodriguez,” I said as quietly as I could. The room was dim, wet, and there were no windows. It looked like a cellar that old houses sometimes have, except worse because I knew this place was haunted by real, living and breathing demons.

His eyes snapped to mine. He looked injured, but I couldn’t see where. Still, it was anger I saw simmering in his black eyes. “We’re getting the fuck out of here,” his voice rumbled dangerously. I nodded slightly. We were four Marines taken and tied against our will, but most importantly, we were Marines. We were trained for worst case scenarios, and that’s where we found ourselves. We would get out of here… all of us.

Connor and Gardner woke up about thirty minutes later when the slamming of a door jerked us all into a straightened position.

Three different men walked into the room carrying various weapons. I recognized a few of them but knew more were hidden in their waistbands and pockets.

They didn’t speak English as far as I could tell. They didn’t even ask us questions. They didn’t want anything in particular from us; they just wanted to make a point. At least, that’s all I could assume from their actions. When I looked into their eyes all I could see was hatred and bloodlust.