Dark Streets

Eh, what difference does it make. I’m not crazy, VA wants to label me PTSD and for what? Because life is different at home now. You get excited about talk of patriotism and defending your country and talk to a recruiter. Of course being right out of high school you don’t realize they possess the same tactics as Joe down the road trying to convince you that a 1986 K-car is a classic with value

The real problem is not what you dealt with during your combat tour, the real problem is your friends over there understood you and they aren’t here. Instead you have John that went into his father’s business doing HVAC. Steve who has been working as a mechanic for the last six years and Julie who finished college two years ago and is a teacher at the grade school. What do I have to say to them? I’m years behind them in the community.

So here I am going through what feels like a midlife crisis at 24 years old trying to decide what I’m going to be when I grow up. PTSD they say, why? They ask “Do you feel like hurting yourself?” No, “Do you feel like hurting others?” No. Next question “Do you have flashbacks”, you mean “memories”? I say, yeah I have memories, I have flashbacks to when I was 9 and I got off the school bus, slipped on ice, fell down, and everyone burst out laughing too? I’m tired of these crap sessions.

I don’t sleep though, at least through the night. I find myself walking the dark streets at night. Sure, I’ll stop in a pub every now and then, have a beer. Occasionally I run into someone I knew from school “Hey, what was it like over there? Did you kill anybody?” Is a common question “How was it like over here, did you buy a yellow ribbon for your car?” Sharp tongued I know, but how are you suppose to respond to stupid, inconsiderate questions?

Morning, well noon is more accurate. I find myself going to sleep about seven AM and waking up at noon. Now what? I need a job but with a resume as high school and soldier, that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. You can only watch reruns of movies and marathons of TV shows for so long anyway. Guess I’ll break down my rifle and clean it again. I’m not even sure why I still have it, maybe I should pawn it and buy a beater, maybe.

Sunset, finally, I can go out and walk these dark streets. Do I miss the infantry, just need some exercise time, perhaps it’s just the feeling that I am home and can walk around at night without a platoon and a brain bucket. Could be that what few people I see seem just as lonely as I do, except this girl. “Hey, you out here looking for me?” She says. “No, just getting some fresh air.” I try to politely reply and keep walking. “Well wait a minute.” She says as I walk by, I’m not going to repeat myself, just keep walking. I hear the fast pace clicking of her shoes coming up behind me. I turn “I sai...” what was that, a taser?

My phone dings, I think, my head is ringing louder and I’m having trouble getting my bearings. Am I even in my bed? Yes, but how, what happen? I’m fully dressed, even my shoes. She couldn’t have got me here, was she not a prostitute? I’m so confused. My phone, that’s right, my phone dinged, a rare occasion. Where is it? Hmmm, right beside me with a little black book, odd, maybe it has some answers. I don’t get it, it’s a couple pictures of some dude paper clipped in it, assumably his name, address, work place, and work schedule. Did she drop it? Did she zap the wrong guy? So confusing, my phone, hopefully that’s the key. It’s a debit card notification, $20,000 has been added to your account. What!? I have a 30 percent VA disability rating and it’s not the first of the month.

I’ll have to call the bank and tell them there was a mistake. I’d rather play ignorant and go buy a steak and a Mustang, need to do right though, it’s got me this far. What am I doing? I need to worry about last night, I probably should call the cops. Yeah, tell them some girl on the dark streets tased me and comfortably put me in my bed? I don’t know, I need to get up and get some coffee, why is my rifle on the floor? BANG, BANG, “Open up!” “Police!” “Why?” I say accidentally out loud. The lock shatters, a squad rumbles in with shields and shotguns, ramming me to the floor. One picks the little black book off the bed “we got the shooter” he says.