Nightmares or Memories

Ringing. Loud and constant. The sound was overwhelming and everywhere. It poured into your ear canals. Like your head was dunked into a tub of pure ringing. Then, green, nothing but a sea of angry green and ringing. And then, awake.

The metal screen door clanked as one of the roommates came home from work. Work. When you can, you do. When you can’t, you collect disability and sleep on the couch all day. Conventional hours don’t matter anymore. You can sleep during the day and start dinner or breakfast at 3:00 a.m. Having a marriage hanging by a thread also helps if you like to sleep on the couch; otherwise, you might have to go to the bedroom and sleep like a normal person.

If the roommate’s home it’s probably around 6:00 pm. The game is probably on, and it will make good background noise for Candy Crush. Sitting up takes effort. It takes pain. Joints and muscles rarely used protest with screaming nerves as they’re forced to move a gut that could hide a few watermelons and a hernia. Somewhere in the depths of these muscles are memories of strength. Six-minute miles, carrying heavy gear, and combat.

Once a marine, always a marine, even if you end up at Costco for a decade or two, get a hernia, and are forced onto disability one year before you’re eligible for their retirement program. Sometimes, life gives you lemons, slowly rolls them to you on the floor, and then stomps on them while looking you dead in the eye. When life does you dirty like that, a couch is just fine.

Match a few candies on the phone. Clear a few rows as the sounds dazzle the ears and colors hypnotize the eyes. Have a snack. Waste a few hours. Before long, it’s 11 o’clock and time to cook something. Pasta. Whole mushrooms turned to slices by a bright red blade. Onions are chopped, carrots diced and all tossed into a sauté pan with fresh garlic and seasoning. Once sautéed, a large room-temperature plastic jug of Prego pasta sauce is dumped into the mix. Three-day-old garlic bread slides into the preheated oven. Toasting bread is the ultimate mask for stale bread.

Dinner and TV always go together. In fact, the TV goes with everything. It’s always on. Reruns. Older and older. That show Chuck from 2007, Star Trek, all series down to the ’60s. Then some black and white movies. A colorful life dimming near the end chases the colorful memories of life at the beginning, even the black and white ones. No one can time travel to simpler times, but anyone can return to the TV shows of their youth. And so, Captain Kirk will brave life for him as he dozes back to sleep.

Green everywhere. The ringing is still so loud he can feel it in his eyes. This time in the sea of green he sees his hands. His hands are covered in warm black-cherry blood. His heart pounds and his lungs beg for oxygen as his breathing shallows.

“Charles!” Envelopes and papers slap him awake. “Charles!”

“What? What?”

“Where is the money? You said you were transferring the money to my account so I could pay the bills.”

“No, I said I would pay the bills because no one knows what you spend all the money on.”

“I have bills too Charles, and I swear to God I will call my lawyer again right now if you don’t give me access to your account.”

“The money is going to the mortgage, your car, and the solar panels. What the hell are you talking about. I have no money. I’m also paying the utilities, and Cox, and the phone bill, and who do you think buys your groceries?”

“No, Charles, you don’t even buy what I like, and that’s not what I’m talking about. The car insurance. It went up ever since that lady hit us in the VA parking lot. Too many incidents too close together.”

“I get whatever you ask me to get. Every time. If you don’t like it, go shopping for yourself. And what are you doing with your paycheck? I don’t have access to your bank accounts.”

“They go into our joint account, which,” she walks to the kitchen to peel a clementine he bought for her. Fighting with him is so common for her, having a snack after starting an argument didn’t even register as rude. “Which,” she shoved slices into oversized her mouth “do not get your disability.”

“That’s just how it was set up. What do you think I’m doing with my money? I’m literally right here all day. You’re the one with Amazon packages coming in all the time.” He strained to sit up again and took off his C-PAP mask.

“I need to know. I have a right to know where all of the money goes. I’m going to email my lawyer.”

“Go ahead. Just leave me the hell alone.” He stepped outside into the backyard. In the back corner by the shed was a collapsible metal char, a lighter, and a pack of Camel Wides. Inside the shed sat a few room temperature Tecates in the red cardboard 36-pack. He sat in silence smoking and drinking. How did it take so many years to enjoy silence? How is it that peace is so hard to come by? After a few cigarettes and the rest of the beer, he went inside to eat a sandwich and go back to sleep.

Just beyond his wet bloodied hands was blood-soaked sand and shell casings. The ringing quieted and was replaced with gunshots and shouts. His humvee hit an IED. It flipped. Everyone either died on impact or died in the shoot out still trapped inside. Everyone except him. The rest of the squad took out the threat while Charles tried to drag a wounded man to safety.

Before the fight was over, another humvee had already maneuvered to Charles and the other marine. They checked for gunshots. Charles was fine -- just a little shaken up. The other guy was already dead. Charles, with his ears still slightly ringing, sat kneeling over his friend. He stared at his face for a minute. Then he hung his head over his body and stared down at him silently. All he saw was his uniform, green, soft, and peaceful.