Scars Of The Past || Jerrie

One

Jade

I sat on my brand-new leather couch, struggling to breathe with the acrid dust of the Iraqi desert burning my nose. Outside my Bodega Bay home, waves crashed against the rocky shore and set the quiet cadence of beachfront life. Inside my mind, I was thousands of miles away, the explosion that had reduced my unit's Humvee to smoking wreckage jolting me once again. One minute we were rolling through the streets of Al Hillah en route to the local medical clinic, and the next I was crawling in the dirt past a uniformed soldier so disfigured I didn't recognize him. Desperate to help the few men who cried out in pain, I didn't allow myself to mourn the ones who couldn't.

But this was only a flashback. I was safe and nobody could hurt me now. Dr. Nelson had told me to focus on my breathing when this happened, but sometimes my body wouldn't obey. This was obviously one of those times.

As the memories took over, despair rolled through me. Rough male hands grasped my wrists and dragged me over the hard ground. They lifted me and threw me into a vehicle, causing a sickening disorientation. I longed to breathe, but how could I with that black hood over my head, suffocating me with its musty heat?

A long, wet tongue worked its way between my fingers, snapping me out of the past and focusing me on the heavy, steel gray head on my thigh. I blinked at Jackson, the Great Dane who stared mournfully into my eyes, then exhaled. Wordlessly, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding on as tight as I could without choking him. He rested against me, as though returning the hug. Soon my breathing returned to normal.

"Good boy," I murmured, kissing his short fur. My heart still pounded like a wild, caged birds, but the worst was over. "Good boy, Jackson."

After a moment, I pulled away from Jackson and glanced at the clock. My first online therapy session would start in ten minutes. When I'd moved from Grand Rapids, Michigan, to the Northern California coast, I intended to escape everything - except my therapist. The rapport and trust we had established in the nearly two years since I came home from Iraq was irreplaceable. And though Dr. Nelson was obviously concerned about my sudden decision to relocate, she seemed to sense what our relationship meant to me. So she agreed to continue our sessions over the webcam, even if she didn't think the situation was ideal.

If I were being honest, I was just as happy not to have to leave the house for therapy. And I knew that was exactly what Dr. Nelson worried about.

Jackson yawned and laid his head on my thigh again. Scratching the top of his broad skull, I said, "You do good work, my friend." Did I want to admit to Dr. Nelson that I'd just suffered such a severe flashback, the worst I'd had in a while? But Dr. Nelson had been right about Jackson. After only three weeks with him as my psychiatric therapy dog, the symptoms of my posttraumatic stress disorder were easing. Even when I had an episode, he could somehow bring me out of it with ease.

He was a miracle, the first I'd enjoyed since the one that saved my life over there.

I groaned as I rose from the couch, using Jackson's strong back to steady me as I fought for balance. Though I'd been able to retire the cane almost a year and a half ago, the healed fractures in my left leg still bothered me, especially when I sat for too long. The blustery coastal weather probably didn't help, but I'd always dreamed of living near the ocean. Though my compensation payments from the VA would never make me wealthy, they did allow me to make that one dream a reality, achy joints be damned.

"Come on, boy," I said as I walked stiff-legged toward the kitchen. He would follow me whether I asked or not, but I enjoyed talking to him. Before Jackson, I would spend hours or even days alone, in silence. Having him around reminded me of the pleasure of conversation, albeit one-sided in our case. "Let's get something to drink before we log in."