You're Home Now

Blood covered bodies lay scattered throughout the house; with ripped clothing and tattered shoes, the insurgents appeared normal on the streets. A closer look revealed weapons, hidden in a baggy shirt or coat. They blended in with the crowd, which made them so much more dangerous than any other enemy I’d ever fought.
“Private Arlen-” my platoon sergeant’s command was cut off by gunfire. I raced into the room his voice had come from and popped off two rounds into the chest of the fighter that had just taken out my sergeant. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, and the sound of my comrade’s heavy boots echoed not long after.
My shaking hand felt my superior’s neck; there was no pulse.
“Who cleared this room?” I demanded, voice thick with anger and tears; Sergeant Lee had been with me all four years of my service. I’d grown quite attached to the aged man, and his death was one of the hardest to add to the growing list of fallen brothers and sisters. My anger grew until my whole body burned with it.
My question was continued out into the hall, where other men had crowded around to see what was wrong. No one confessed to falling slack, and this only infuriated me.
Why were good American men and women dying every day for a country that didn’t appreciate the help? Why were mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, nieces and nephews dying for what seemed like a lost cause?
I shot up, back ramrod straight as my chest heaved with my labored breaths. The sheets clung to my sweaty skin, and I unsteadily made my way to the kitchen after peeling them off. I pulled a glass form the cupboard and filled it with water, emptying it just as quickly. My parched throat still burned, and I had a suspicion that I’d been screaming again.
I squinted for a moment, allowing my eyes adjusted to the light, before searching for my cell phone. Quickly speed-dialing, I anxiously waited for my fellow marine to pick up. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Private Lance,” he stated.
“Steven,” I mumbled, “it’s me.” I heard his blanket and sheet shuffle around as he readjusted himself; the faint click of his bedside lamp turning on followed.
“Leah, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice concerned; I could just see him staring off into space with a worried look on his face, eyebrows furrowed as he waited for my reply.
“I… I had the dream again.”
“The one with Lee?” he asked to clarify; I had multiple, reoccurring nightmares, presumably brought on by PTSD, from my time in Iraq. This particular dream was the worst of them all.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Steven, I…” I trailed off, losing the courage to speak.
“Talk to me, Leah,” he demanded softly, and the shuffling in the background sounded like he was getting dressed. The lump in my throat grew bigger as I tried to think of what to say.
“I can’t do it anymore, Steven. I’m… I’m losin’ my f*ckin’ mind,” I sobbed. Tears trickled down my cheeks and spilled over onto my knees; I’d adjusted myself on the cold, wood floor and brought my legs up to my chest.
“Calm down, sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll be there in just a minute, okay?” I heard the light jingle of his keys as he spoke, and I tried to dull the panic rising in my chest.
“Okay,” I said, my voice small and childlike. The line went dead, and so the pain came. I sobbed and screamed in despair and mourning. It wasn’t fair.
I’d lost my brothers, all except for Steven on my last tour. They’d all left me, and I hated myself because I’d lived. Why me? Why had I survived? Why hadn’t I been pulled out of the field on a stretcher? Why had God chosen to call those men home without a second glance at me?
These thoughts plagued my mind every day, every night that I was home. Home. American soil wasn’t home anymore. I didn’t fit in with the civilians; they were alien to me. I’d forgotten what life without firefights was like. Without bullets whizzing by me, life back in the U.S. was foreign.
Outside of my head, the walls were closing in. My lungs began falling short, and I found myself on autopilot as I moved to the door. My shaking fingers fumbled with the lock for a moment before I yanked the door open and stumbled out into the night. The muggy Georgia air clung to my dry skin, also foreign to the arid climate I so craved now.
I wandered aimlessly through the streets; no thoughts roamed within my mind. There was nothing. Just white noise.
A light tug on my wrist brought me out of my reverie.
"Everything's gonna work out, Lee," a soft voice murmured.
“But- but- ” I began, sobbing, unable to further my protest. Steven clutched me to his chest, arms wrapped securely around me. I wailed into his chest as he stroked my hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my forehead.
“Everything’s okay,” he crooned. His words infuriated me beyond belief; everything was clearly not okay. I shoved against him, but he didn’t budge. My hands formed mock fists as I tried to throw pathetic punches to fight for my release. Steven only blinked, still holding me tightly to him.
“Leah- Leah, stop,” he begged, voice pleading and empathetic. I stopped struggling against him, finally. I was drained; my limbs felt like rocks, and my held felt like it was going to explode. I was vaguely aware of the light tug on my wrist as Steven pulled me into his truck.
I was exhausted, mentally and physically empty. Emotionally fried. There was nothing left of me. My mind was shot.
The asphalt suddenly felt cold against my bare feet as Steven pulled me out of his truck and into his arms; he carried my bridal style into my house. He kicked the door shut behind him and carried me to my bedroom, gently laying me across the mattress; he rested beside me and propped himself on one elbow. I stared up at him blankly, unaware of anything except for him.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. He left his hand on my cheek, gently stroking the skin.
“You’re home now.”