Hell Bound

I was tense during my meetings, and I was sure Graham picked up on it. I was eager for the day to finish so we could get back home. I was nervous about Bucky being there alone all day. I didn’t know what state my house would be in or if he’d even stick around. I kept catching myself anxiously tapping my fingers on the podium. I almost regretted the fact that I’d never gotten a landline phone so I could call and check on him.

Thankfully, the second meeting ended almost on time. Graham helped me rush to get everything cleaned up and back into place. Then we hurried out of the building toward the parking structure. We ended up running into my therapist as we reached the elevator. She stepped out and smiled in her usual calmness.

“Johanna, Graham. How are you?” she asked. We bolted passed to get into the elevator she’d vacated.

“Fine. We’re great. Dandy as ever,” Graham told her as I quickly pushed the button that would take us up.

“Johnna, you missed your last appointment.”

“I’ll call you!” I shouted, but the doors slid shut. I nervously bounced on my feet.

“So we see the same therapist. How weird is that?” Graham remarked.

“Not very weird since this is the VA hospital,” I pointed out.

“God, you’re really wound up today.”

“I’m just terrified of what could have happened while we were gone. My house could be gone. He could be gone. He could be dead.”

“Nah, he’s resilient. So’s your house, it looks like. There’s a bullet hole in the front door frame. Blood stains on the wood. Old ones, I mean. That’s not including the new ones.”

“Yeah, it’s seen better days. Back when I wasn’t living in it.”

“So how’d the bullet hole get into the door anyway?” The elevator dinged, and we headed out to search for my car.

“Um—well, it’s a long story,” I told him.

“You seem to have a lot of those.”

“You have no idea.” We found my car, stuffed everything back in, and then hurried to get out of there and back home.

“So tell me about the bullet hole,” Graham started. I groaned.

“I kind of—shot someone.”

“Jesus. Sorry I asked.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?” He shook his head, looking out the window at passing cars and the low-lying sun.

“I’m just trying to get to know you, I guess. You don’t talk about yourself hardly ever. If I’m going to stay with you, I’d like to know why the hell there are bullet holes in your doorframe.”

“Fair enough. But you don’t talk about yourself either,” I reminded him.

“Good point.” Then he shrugged. “Not much to tell. Barely scraped through basic training, almost got blown up, saw some friends die, came home, stayed with my mom, she died. So now it’s just me.”

“You didn’t tell me that your mom died.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Is that why you’re on your own?”

“My mom had some family in Nevada, or whatever. She’d never made a formal will or anything. So they took it upon themselves to arrange her funeral. And took all her stuff. And sold her house. Lawyers wouldn’t help me fight it because I couldn’t afford them, and they all sort of collectively agreed that I wasn’t responsible enough to handle anything. It hasn’t been all bad, though. I’ve never had to sleep on the actual streets or anything. I even had my own apartment for a while. They let me stay there for a couple more months before I got evicted. I’ve always found a place to crash or a motel room to stay in. Just when I lost my job at stupid Chipotle that everything went tits up. I’ve been having trouble finding another job because they always call my last manager, and he hates my guts.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I had an episode. Threw an unfinished burrito at a customer. There was a lot of hot sauce on it. It got in his eyes, and he threatened to sue. It also doesn’t help that after I got fired, I told my boss it was a good thing his name was Richard because he was a dick. But I guess no one wants to take on the responsibility of a Marine with a habit of throwing burritos at people. Or calling people dicks.”

“What kind of episode? Like PTSD?”

“No, I’ve had those. That guy was just being a total asshole and calling me names, and I just lost my temper. I didn’t throw it hard or anything.” I snorted.

“You got fired for chucking a burrito?”

“Yeah! Can you believe that?”

“Well, I can give you a recommendation since you’ve been helping me at the VA. But only if you promise to stop throwing things at people.”

“I can’t make an exception for assholes?”

“Unfortunately, you won’t be able to hang onto a job if you do. There are always going to be assholes. You just gotta learn to internalize it with a smile on your face like the rest of us. It sucks, but you don’t get sued.”

“So the guy you shot? Did you kill him?” I took a deep breath and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, I killed him,” I admitted.

“Why’d you shoot him?”

“I was scared. But I didn’t mean to kill him. He was waving a gun in my face. Called me a ‘little bitch.’ Right after he busted my lip open.”

“Bastard deserved it then.”

“I never wanted to kill him. He was my boyfriend once. We never got along, and I never loved him, but….”

“It still eats you up inside.” I nodded slowly and chewed on my lip.

“I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

“I understand.”