Die for You

Chapter 2

I wondered what that was all about; it was after all a strange dismissal.

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My orders came through a day or so later. To be honest I'd stopped counting, one day was much like another; bed bath followed by drugs, eating, more drugs, being poked and prodded by the medical teams followed by yet more damn drugs. I swear I was starting to rattle whenever I rolled over in the bed they wouldn't let me out of. My only distraction from the misery was listening to the radio because I couldn't even hold a fucking book.

The orders that I received were simple, and I found myself shipped home for further medical treatment. I didn't even have the dignity of being able to take myself home on a standard transport.

Oh no, my injuries were still classed as potentially life-threatening, so I got a ride in the back of one of the new C-17 Globemasters that had been kitted out as an airborne hospital for the 10-hour flight home.

Not to my unit, I apparently still wasn't fit for that, so I'm bundled into the back of another military ambulance, with a couple of other troops, and shipped down south.

I'd discovered that what the doctors hadn't bothered to tell me was that my injuries were worse than I'd thought. I had nerve damage in my left arm. It was minor in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't mean much to normal people. In fact, they reassured me, it wouldn't affect me in any normal way.

What it did mean for me was that I failed my medical assessment and when I'd finally got back to my unit, I'd failed my combat medical tests. That was it, it was a desk job or I was out of the Army.

I'd never wanted a desk job, never; whether it was in the Army or in any other setting. As someone who preferred action and thrived on being active, the idea of being stuck behind a desk was unappealing and even frightening. I couldn't imagine giving up the sense of purpose and fulfillment that came with doing something worthwhile and replacing it with the mind-numbing task of moving numbers from one spreadsheet column to another.

Despite my reservations, I reluctantly decided to leave the Army and received a medical discharge. It was a difficult decision to make, and I felt saddened that I could no longer be a part of the military or be a Red Cap. Although the Army tried to be helpful by offering career counseling and training in customer service or office administration, I had no interest in pursuing those paths.

No fucking thanks.

So at the end of my rehabilitation, when I was declared medically fit to leave, I did so, and good fucking riddance. I'd given the best part of my life to the Army, sacrificed friends and lovers for it and now, when I needed them the most, they had cast me aside like a broken toy. Which in effect, I guess, I was.

On a chilly morning, as I departed from the barracks, I was completely clueless about what to do with my life. I was unemployed and homeless, with no clear direction. Even the thought of reaching out to Amanda crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it, knowing that we had both moved on and become different people. She had made it clear that she didn't want anything to do with me when I chose the army over our relationship.

With my fellow soldiers either dead or still recovering in the hospital, I felt utterly alone. In a state of desperation, I called in some favors from former colleagues who had left the unit while I was there, and I spent several weeks couch-surfing, trying to find some direction.

I thought about joining the police, or the fire service, they were at least active jobs; but the positions were few and far between and they all required a permanent address to apply. I was couch-surfing. I had nowhere and no one.

It was about then that the nightmares started.

It was strange, really. I'd seen and done a lot, but this was the first time I had nightmares. They say the brain can't forgive killing, but it wasn't the people I'd killed that haunted me, it was those who died around me. Every night I relived the ambush, the smell of burning fuel and flesh. I felt the burning heat of vehicles and every hit of a round.

But the worst part was always the end. Our captain, John Thomas' dead face stared at me, asking why I hadn't saved him.

Since leaving the army, I'd been haunted by this scene. I woke up in strange places, sweating and screaming his name. I became a mess, turning to drinking anything to kill the nightmares. I sought anything to numb the pain and avoid people.

My mates' sympathy waned and I was left on London's streets, begging and thieving to survive. It was rock bottom. I begged for change to buy vices and rarely food. I prayed for change or death.

I discovered London's seedy side: drugs, gangs, and prostitution. One night, a Russian gangster tried to attack me, but I stood my ground. He came at me with a knife, but I fought back and left him with broken arms, nose and pride. I cut him as a warning that he messed with the wrong girl. After that, everyone left me alone, even my street friends. I was known as a violent, scary woman. Alone and in control again.

There were fewer nightmares after that, but old habits lingered from my time in Iraq and Afghanistan. Never sleep too soundly, stay out of well-lit areas, avoid town at night.

I had a quiet spot under an A4 flyover where I could be left alone. There were places to break into for food and money, but as a former Military Police officer, stealing wasn't my first choice. However, I was trained to survive and sometimes needs must.

Does it surprise you that I would steal given my background?

It shouldn't happen, but until you've experienced freezing nights due to lack of warm clothing and food, please shut up.

I stopped drinking for my safety on the streets, but still smoked and rationed carefully as food was now my priority. My tattered clothes hung on me and the coat from the soup kitchen was too big. My body was shrinking, and I only noticed when I saw my reflection in a shop window. My appearance was unrecognizable, and I realized I was a drunken mess who needed to change.

I'd never been fat, but I used to have a shape I was proud of. I saved cash and skipped buying booze or fags. I went to a cheap fast food place and bought a box meal. It was hard to keep down due to enforced starvation, but eventually I ate it all and felt warm and full for the first time in weeks. This marked the start of a change in my life. I begged for change and jobs, walked to save money for food, and the exercise and food improved my self-image.

I looked and felt like my old self, doing exercises in parks like I used to, before the ambush and before everyone died.

Before the Gods decided to strike me down for not doing my job and keeping them all alive.