Alexander's Gift

The Soldier- Finale

"Come on, Mary! I din't mean it!" Dick called out drunkenly sorrowfully, banging his head against the bedroom door he was sitting against only so hard as to make a sound without hurting himself. Not that he'd have felt it if he did hurt himself, given the condition he was in.

A part of him- and he wasn't sure if it was the sober or drunk part- wished that he could hurt himself if it would only make up for he'd done and said to Mary. If only restitution was so easily paid.

Feeling sorry for himself and faintly nauseous in the house that had grown unbearably stuffy, Dick surged unsteadily to his feet and made his way lurchingly out of the living room and the front door, pleased with himself for only knocking down a single lamp by accident.

The wind was bitingly cold, but his insides were so fiery with liquor that Dick did not mind it. What happened over the next half hour was a confusing muddle of blurred images and jumbled, sluggish thoughts. Dick thought he remembered the distinctive jangle and silvery glint of his car keys, and  a misty view of the road, which explained how he ended up stumbling down a dimly lit alley he didn't recognize. 

The street lights burned garishly into his vision, and with fingers that seemed to only slowly obey his commands, Dick popped his coat's collar to shield his eyes. What had gotten into him, roughing Mary up like that? He never had hurt anyone before . . . he recalled without his control the look of fear that occupied her beautiful dark eyes. His stumbling faltered, and he wondered in horror if she might divorce him after that . . . he tried to ignore the rising squeamishness within as he stood there. 

Oh, he was all washed up now . . . if Mary didn't want him anymore, who did he have? What did he have in life anymore? He savagely kicked a discarded bottle in his way, and watched in dissatisfaction as it only slid forward a foot, scraping against the stone of the ground.

First Hunter, and now Mary . . . was it him? Was Dick the problem? If only he'd intervened in the fight between Bloom and Hunter- told the Captain that Bloom had it out for him, and convinced the Captain to switch Hunter into a different unit . . . . then Hunter wouldn't be dead, and Dick wouldn't be wasting away inside and royally screwing up everything that was going well in his life.

Emerging from the alley that had, in Dick's narrowed, bloodshot vision, seemed impossibly long and bordered by claustrophobically tall buildings, he found himself on an empty main street of boarded-up stores.

Feeling very tired and very lonesome, Dick made it to the curb before sinking heavily into a sitting position. He brought his knees close to his chest and sniffled miserably against the cold, wanting very much to just fall into unconsciousness so he could forget. 

But before he had the chance, there was a resounding pattering of footsteps that echoed through the empty street. And then there came a voice- a soft powerful voice that made Dick lift his head. "You shouldn't give up."

Dick was left wordless by this gentle stranger who sat beside him in the dim light that the scanty streetlamps provided. Through the drunken haze clouding his vision, Dick could only discern that the man was wearing a tailormade suit. Finally he managed thickly, "You don't know me."

"You look like a man who's given up to me . . . why do you think you're trapped?" The man said tranquilly in a deep, booming voice that somehow made Dick feel like he must be honest and that this man believed completely that everything he said was fact. "I don't know . . . I can't move on from the past, and my marriage is falling apart." He whispered back dully, not quite sure what it was about the man that made him say what he really felt deep down, but too tired to figure it out.

"Your worth and your life is a lot more than your marriage and what has happened in the past." Dick just gazed at the stranger uncomprehendingly, so the man continued gently, "You can always find hope in being what you want to be, and doing what makes you happy. There is always hope of change."

"How do you know?" 

"Because I know you, Mr. Petula, and I know the good that is inside of you."

"You do?" Dick was too intoxicated to question how the stranger knew him, and just gazed at the shadowed form with half-lidded eyes.

"I do. And while you still want to change, still want to live, still want to be happy . . . there is hope for you."