His Purple Heart

10 - Blue Checkered Tie

∆ Trystan ∆

The tie I'd chosen for tonight was one I saved for important occasions. My father had given it to me the same day I'd received my Purple Heart, but that wasn't the only reason I saved it for special occasions. On that same night my youngest sister, Devina, had come home to support me. Little did I know that she wouldn't live long enough to have breakfast with the family the next morning.

So I wore that tie to remind me of yet another life that was gone because of me. I was angry and drunk. We'd gotten into an argument...

Shit, I couldn't do this right now. Shouldn't do this right now, and still, I let myself fall into that dark space, my mind reliving everything in high definition. I had a sharp mind, one that survived on dissecting everything to the minute detail, and once it hopped on a particular train of thoughts, it was hard to steer it otherwise.

"Leave me the hell alone, Devina. I thought you were on my side," I said, my voice heavy with anger. Devina had followed me into the den and now she had me cornered.

She looked surprised, her round eyes, nearly identical to mine, widening to the size of saucers. "I am on your side. I will not sit back and watch you self destruct. This is getting out of hand and you know it."

I fixed my burning stare on her, hoping to intimidate her. "Did mother put you up to this? I don't need this shit right now. It's all I've been hearing for the past two weeks."

"So why aren't you doing anything about it?" She moved closer to me and I backed away. I was afraid she'd see right through me like she always did, so I got defensive.

"The same reason you haven't made an effort to talk to dad." I pointed to the living room where our parents were having their evening coffee. "It's been five years. He's not the monster you make him out to be."

"This isn't about me, Trystan. The excessive drinking needs to stop. I've never seen you so weak and pathetic. Your confidence is gone. You look like shit and it smells like you haven't taken a shower in days. What the fuck is up with that?"

"What the fuck is up with you wanting to commit suicide. Yeah, you think I didn't know? I read your journal."

"You had no right!" Her face turned red and before I could say anything else, she stormed out into the night. The next time I saw her was in a morgue, her usually vibrant face drained of life. I wanted to run after her that night, but I was drunk, could barely walk drunk. Being drunk on two legs was hard enough. Add a fake leg to the mix and the party had only just begun.

I sat down on the bed and sighed. I'd said some nasty things, words I could never take back. A headache was coming, I could feel it as the pressure inside my head slowly mounted. I ignored it and continued to get dressed.

Since my dress pants was already wrapped over the prosthetic leg, I put on a converted cushion liner and one stump sock before sliding my residual leg into the prosthesis. I stood up and slid my foot further into the socket making sure the strap on the liner was aligned with the proximal lock on the prosthesis until it clicked into place. It made the usual clipping sound that I'd gotten accustomed to. The sound reminded me of popping bubblewrap as a kid.

This was my second prosthesis and it fit me like a glove. I had some discomfort now and then, but no pain. During my first year as an amputee, my leg had undergone a lot of transformation. The muscles had atrophied at a decently fast rate and regular visits to my prosthetist to alter the socket by filling it up as my leg shrunk had become a way of life.

I was zipping my fly when Ziggy walked into the bedroom and dropped himself on the floor next to my fake leg. Ziggy's golden and black coat gleamed with life as he'd gotten a trim and a shampoo session just that morning. I usually didn't allow him into the bedroom because he shedded hair faster than an old man going bald overnight. However, on nights when the nightmares came, Ziggy was always the one to pull me back to reality.