It's cold. Coldest day he can ever remember. As he walks across the street pushing his bike, he catches the eye of a man in a business suit in his heated SUV at the light. He sees the look of disgust. What are you looking at he thinks to himself. You don't know me. You don't know what I have been through, what I've seen. The man sees that he is caught and turns away. Yea, turn away, he thinks. Sit in your nice warm car with your warm coat on. He shivers and wishes he camouflaged coat was warmer.
It's been at least two years since he has been back. Back in "The World". Away from that hell. He finally makes it to his one room apartment. It's a drafty old house that has been separated into rooms. He is one of four people that live there. As he makes his way into his apartment, he notices a note on the door. The landlord again. I know, I know, he thinks to himself.
His apartment does not feel any warmer than it is outside. Damn thermostat. He looks to see if it is turned up. Yep, all the way up to 70 degrees, as high as it will go. Damn landlord. It is times like these that he wishes for the warmth of the desert.
His apartment is simple. Couch, one chair, a TV that only works half the time, no cable. He has an old box for a night stand. On the wall are his framed discharge, honorable, and an old picture of his kids. There is a kitchenette with a small burner and oven. He checks his cabinets for something to eat. Not much. There are a couple of boxes of macaroni and cheese and half a box of cereal, no milk.
As he stares, he wonders how he got here. How did I get this low, he thinks to himself. He used to have it all. Wife, kids, a good job and a part time gig with Uncle Sam. Join the Reserves! Get a second paycheck! Go to war! They don't tell you that last part. Go to war, leave your old self there and come back as someone no one recognizes anymore. No one knows you. You don't even know yourself, he thinks out loud.
He decided not to eat and sits on his tattered couch. Second hand from the Salvation Army. He feels every spring. It doubles for his bed. He breaks out a picture of his kids he keeps in his wallet and wonders how they are. He hasn't been able to see them. Judges orders. Get your head fixed and petition the court again. Yea, sure. It's that easy. It's been a year now. He puts it back in his wallet; the corners are tearing from being handled so much. If only he could get his life back in order. If only he could stop the voices, the screaming, the nightmares. If. If I could only see them, tell them I am trying, he thinks.
He lies down on his couch and stares at the ceiling. Like every night before, he counts the cracks that are there. Eighty one. He's tired. So tired. If only I could sleep, he thinks. But they come. Every time he closes his eyes to go to sleep, they come. The faces. Horribly disfigured, lifeless eyes, mouth open in what looks like an agonizing scream. The eyes, they stare at him. He hears the screams. They wake him up over and over again. Please let me sleep, he begs aloud.
It will be a long night again. He knows it. There is no sleep for you, he thinks. They are coming. Coming to haunt you for what you have done. Make you relive it over and over again. He's tired, so tired. He gets up and walks over to the stove. He turns on the gas and walks away. He takes out the picture of his kids and kisses it. Please forgive me. He lays it on his chest. Tonight I will sleep, he thinks. Tonight, I will sleep.
