Ash Between the Bones

Prologue

Two weeks in New York... I can handle that. 

"You're taking pills?!" Lila's voice cut through me like a blade.

She and George stood in front of me in the hotel room. Eyes full of blame. Anger. Betrayal.

She tossed the pill bottles onto the table like they were poison.

I opened my mouth to speak — just one word — but Lila was faster.

"Unbelievable." Her eyes were sharp, furious. But beneath the rage, there was something heavier: disappointment.

I took a breath. Let it out slowly.
My silence said what I didn't: You have no idea.

"Why are you mad at me?" My voice was calm, too calm. It boiled just under the surface.
"Those pills are prescribed. You're the one who went through my stuff."

George stared at his shoes like they suddenly mattered more than anything.

Lila? She looked ready to explode.

"Because you're a damn fool!" she snapped. Loud. Too loud.

I gave a slow nod. "Right." No sarcasm. No emotion. Just emptiness.

I turned away from both of them. My eyes landed on the little brown teddy bear on the shelf.
Not mine. Not theirs.
Probably just part of the hotel decor.
Or a remnant left behind by someone who once stayed here. In any case, there was silence.

Until George spoke. Soft. Fragile.
"Raph... we're just worried about you."

I looked at him, but his eyes avoided mine.

I walked toward the kitchen. "You had no right to go through my things," I said, holding back the tremble in my voice. "Worried or not."

They didn't know. They didn't know anything. And that was for the best.

I grabbed my jacket. My phone. Checked the pockets.

Headed for the door.

"And where exactly are you going?" Lila's voice chased after me.

I turned. One hand on the handle.

"That, my dear friend," I said, each word sharpened by rage and heartbreak, "is none of your business."

I stared at her and poured everything I had into one final line:

"Take the damn pills if you want them so bad. I don't give a shit. I'm not coming back tonight."

And I was gone.

The air outside hit me like ice. Perfect.

They think these pills are a weakness. That I'm broken.
But without them, the pain is unbearable — like fire crawling between my bones.
I hate needing them. I hate feeling like this.
And yet, if I don't take them... I fall apart.
They don't understand. They never will.
But I won't give up. Not now. Not ever.

I pulled out the pack of cigarettes from my jacket. Lit one. Inhaled.
Smoke vanished into the dark like I was trying to disappear with it.

The city around me throbbed with life — cars, people, light.
But I heard none of it. Just my own breath, loud and uneven.

They were right to worry. Maybe.

I'd changed. Withdrawn. Silent.

My past was pounding on the walls, and I was doing everything I could to shut it out.
They didn't know about Afghanistan.
Didn't know what I left there. Or what followed me back.

I turned into a side street.
An alley. Cold walls pressing in.

No idea where I was going. I didn't care.

Eventually, the alley opened up into a small clearing.
A few flickering lampposts.
The air smelled like damp concrete and rust.

I sat down on a chunk of broken wall.
And then the pain started.

Sharp. Violent.
Like barbed wire threading through my nerves.

Cramping. Spasms. My leg convulsed.

Breath gone.
Hand clenched against the concrete.
Black spots danced in front of my eyes.

No pills. No backup.

Somewhere behind me, voices rose. Shouting. Angry. Muffled.

I couldn't focus. Only breathe. Barely.

And then:

A gunshot.

My body jerked upright. Everything locked.

I wanted to run. To move.
But my body betrayed me.

"Shit," someone said. Closer now.

Footsteps. Fast. Coming straight toward me.

A click.
A gun being cocked.
I knew that sound. Intimately.

My heart pounded. My eyes flickered.

I fought to stay awake.
But the pain drowned everything.

The ground fell away. And then — nothing.