I hear the door open to my room. I step out of the bathroom and see Jesse looming in the doorway, holding the journal in his hand. He looks at it and then tosses it on my bed. “You already started reading it. Might as well finish.” Without another word he turns and closes the door, leaving me in stunned silence.
I move slowly to the journal and pick it up. It practically burns in my fingertips. The fact that he wants me to read it only furthers my curiosity. Does he think the contents will change my mind about him somehow? I flip it open, finding where I left off.
November 24th, 2013
For the record, I still think this journal is a waste of time. But if my CO keeps telling me I have to cooperate with the therapist, I’ll keep cooperating. We’re stationed near Turkey right now, about fifteen clicks south, just below the Syrian border. We’re supposed to kill some terrorist mastermind named Asaad Yousif. To be honest, I’ve never heard of the fucker, but if they say he had anything to do with the September 11th attacks, then I have no problem ending his sorry life.
Dr. Croft says I need to talk about my feelings too. Feelings though? All I really feel is numb. I guess I had to close it all out. If I think too hard about it… there’s too much in my past I want to forget. I want to forget what happened to my dad and I want to forget the way I treated her. I wish I could just wipe it all away, then I could deal with what I’ve become. But I guess it doesn’t work that way, so I’ll just keep hurting. But if I have to suffer for my country and for the memory of my parents, then I’ll fucking suffer, no problem.
I frown at the pages, surprised when I realize my eyes are watering. He was still thinking about me? Or was “her” some other girl? Was she just some other victim in the long line of broken hearts littering Jesse’s past? I flip to the next page.
December 25th, 2013
It’s fucking Christmas. The guys are in the mess hall right now getting drunk on improvised eggnog that’s probably going to make them puke later. I should be there with them, but… fuck. It’s harder around the holidays. I think of what I left behind. I guess the hardest part is I know it’s too late to fix what I’ve broken. Even if Makayla forgave me for what I did, I can’t go back to her anymore. Not like this. Not after what I’ve done. How could I touch her with the same hands that have squeezed the last breaths from men? The fucking hands have caused so much pain I don’t even know if they’re capable of anything else anymore.
Hah… listen to me, like fucking Faulkner or something over here. I’ll give myself a pass for being a little sappy on Christmas, I guess. I just keep wondering if I did the right thing. I knew she would wait for me, however long it took. I knew she would because she was that kind of girl, perfect, sweet, and way better than I ever deserved. So what did I do? I lied and told her I had fucked some other girl over here and told her not to bother waiting for me because I might not come back.
Shit. I’ve had to pull pieces of skull from my fatigues and brush brain matter off my face and none of that was as hard as what I did to her. I still remember how it felt when I hung up after that phone call. It was like someone reached in my chest and just fucking squeezed my heart until it burst. After that, everything has been… less. You know? Like some of the color drained out of the world. All the killing, the pain, the suffering, it just seems muted compared to what I did to her.
The guys are breaking shit now. I need to get out there.
Merry fucking Christmas, Dr. Croft.
A hot tear falls on the journal and I hastily wipe them away, sniffing and closing the book. I know there’s more, but I don’t know if I can stand to read more right now. He lied? All this time I have thought he cheated on me and betrayed me, but he was just trying to protect me? I don’t know how to feel. I’m surprised to find I don’t immediately forgive him. If he had just been open and told me how he was feeling, I would’ve understood. I would’ve still waited for him, and I wouldn’t have felt so broken all these years.
He thought he was protecting me, but he did more damage than he could ever know. All the trust issues I’ve had because of his lie… all the times I’ve pushed myself to do more because I wanted to somehow prove he made a mistake, like he was watching from somewhere and would see me on the movie screen and regret what he did. I laugh humorlessly, realizing for the first time how much of that is true. Sure, I love being on the screen and the challenge of acting, but how much of it was really just to spite him? Did I just want him to see what a mistake he had made?
I’m storming from the bedroom before I know it. I find him sitting on the couch, holding a hand in front of himself and watching as it shakes. The sight makes me pause, just for a moment. I realize I’m holding the journal. I lift it, scowling as I shake it at him. “All this time?” I ask, hating how thick with emotion my voice is.
He looks up. “I did what I had to do to keep you safe.”
I slam the journal on the ground. “You ruined me. You threw my heart on the ground and stomped all over it. You call that protection?”
“Yes. Especially after I saw how you reacted when you watched me in the alley. You were scared. Well, that’s the real fucking me, Kay.”
Hearing him use the pet name makes my heartbeat race a little, adding a confusing surge of warmth to the anger I feel. “No. That wasn’t you. I know you.”
“You knew me,” he corrects. “War changed me. Everyone wants to look at me like some fucking war hero since I came back. You know what I see when I look in the mirror? A killer.”
I want to reach out and touch him. He’s so strong and powerful, but I can see how much he hurts, how much he needs some compassion. I wonder if he gets anything but lust from women and I suddenly feel sorry for him. I’m afraid of him. I still feel that, and I’m still not ready to forgive him for what he did, but I don’t want to see him hurt. He’s suffered enough for me and for everyone else he went over there to protect.
I move closer to him on the couch, reaching for his knee, but he stands before I can touch him.
“Don’t,” he says. “I don’t want this to get complicated.”
I can’t help laughing a little. “Too late.”
He stalks off toward his bedroom, but I don’t give up. I follow after him. He turns to face me beside his bed. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Let me in. Let someone in.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the people who have had the misfortune of crossing my path. Yourself included.”
“Stop with the tough guy bullshit,” I snap. “You showed me the journal. You wanted me to see how you felt even if you couldn’t talk about it. So why don’t you just let me help?”
He sits on the bed, forearms resting on his knees. “That’s not why I showed you the journal.”