Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Check-Up

Colonel Krait was keeping us out an extra two days for spite, and I couldn't help but notice "elements" of HHC were returning to garrison on Wednesday to "coordinate and facilitate Battalion return to garrison."

It was preferential shit like that that ruined morale and created anger at the chain of command.

"Cromwell?" The E-3 at the reception desk said. I looked up and she motioned. "Room 64."

"Thank you," I said, snapping the folder shut and standing up. When I got to the door, I rapped three times before it opened.

SGT Danville smiled, motioning me to come in.

"Heather," He said as I moved in and sat down.

"Harvey," I said, nodding. When I shifted my hip popped and he paused in the middle of sitting down.

"Suffering much pain?" He asked, recovering easily. He sat down, picking up a pen and holding it over a notepad.

"Not too much. Nothing I can't handle," I told him.

I hated how defensive my voice sounded.

He nodded at that. "You file annotates your high pain tolerance, Heather," he said. "I didn't ask if you could handle it, I asked if you were in pain," His smile took the sting out of it.

I nodded. "Sometimes. I stay off the pills though."

Another nod. "Using alcohol to control the pain?"

I shook my head. "No, still sober. Using meditation and pain control techniques they gave me in Walter Reed to handle the pain."

When I was first asked that question I'd gotten defensive. I could still hear defensiveness in my voice, but I couldn't help it. Hitting the bottle was the most common way of handling pain.

He made an annotation then looked up. "Your painkillers should be used when you start feeling pain. They're less effective when you hold off until the pain is merely unmanageable or at full strength. You need to take the painkillers and the muscle relaxers as prescribed."

I looked down at my boots. "I don't like how they make me feel."

"And your mental health meds?" He asked me. He flipped a few pages as he was speaking. "You said, and I quote: 'I don't like the way they make me feel. Like my muscles are exhausted and my brain is full of cotton. They make me feel punch drunk.' is you exact words."

"Yeah," I said, still staring at my boots and the dogtag I'd laced into the bottom of the laces on my right boot. "I take them."

"And how are they working?" He asked me.

I intertwined my fingers, pushing my arms between my legs so my knuckles were almost touching the floor as I bent forward. "I thought they were working good."

"What happened?" He asked gently. I just shook my head, flushing with guilt. "Heather, look at me."

I looked up and once again I marveled at how green his eyes were.

"What kind of incident was it, Heather?" He asked gently. "Be honest with me, Heather."

"I threatened a fellow officer with a knife," I told him, flushing deeper. "I lost my temper."

"Explosive anger or sadistic urges?" He asked me. I turned redder. "It's all right, Heather, I understand, but why don't you explain it to me."

"Both," I said quietly, then explained what had gone down yesterday at the ambulance.

He kept making notes, nodding along, until I finished.

"I don't think the medication is working very well," I admitted. "I don't want to increase the dosage, I already feel thick."