The downpour was near-torrential and Kyle was soaked, but he didn't seem to notice. He simply stared down at the headstone before him, soaked to the bone, and silently giving tribute to the fallen friend beneath the soil.
PFC. JACOB JONATHAN WAYNE
AUGUST 12, 1950 – JULY 17, 1972
His Purple Heart shone in the dull headlights of the pickup truck to his left, his various other medals and pins spattering wayward raindrops. Mitigated, he got in his truck and pulled onto the gravel path out of the cemetery. He was covered in medals, but no one treated him like a hero. He had been jeered, spat upon, assaulted upon return, and he spent the succeeding months living a quiet, low-profile life with his wife, and all he really wanted right now was to return to her, take her in his arms, and sleep away his troubles. Yet he drove at a moderate pace of just over thirty and listened to the quiet music on the radio, avoiding thought and emotion for the time being.
Kyle pulled onto his street and switched off the radio, picking up the pace just a bit before turning into his driveway. He hopped out, slogged through the rain, and unlocked his front door.
“Honey, I'm back,” he called down the hallway.
No response.
“...Babe? Julia, you there?”
Still nothing.
He strode toward the bedroom and threw open the door, expecting a burglar or some other assailant to be tying up his spouse and stuffing their belongings into a bag, but there was absolutely nobody in the house, other than him. The bedsheets were untouched, the television and lights were off, and an eery silence hung over the master bedroom.
Somehow, this was worse.
He remembered that her car wasn't in the driveway.
“She never came home from shopping,” he muttered to himself. He stared blankly into space for a moment, then dashed back outside.
He took the turn onto Main Street on two wheels, nearly broad-siding a Mustang and barely missing a lightpole. A group of police cars was amassed near the farmer's market, and their sirens' flashing lights mixed with those of an ambulance to create a grim, disorienting light show. He screeched to a halt nearby and loped toward the nearest officer, who held up a hand and ordered him to stop.
“Is my wife here? Is she okay? What happened?!”
The officer stepped back, gesturing toward an angry-looking cop with a soup-strainer moustache. “You'll have to ask him, sir.”
Kyle thanked him quickly and sprinted over to the man who he now recognized as the county sheriff. “What's going on, is someone hurt?”
The man looked at him sternly. “Someone called in when they noticed blood coming out of the alley. Woman in her twenties... we tried to call the house, but no one answered.” He paused. “Are you, uh, Kyle Randall?”
Kyle stared blankly at him, nodding slowly.
“...I'm sorry.”
He collapsed.
