Gracie & Gray

Chapter 11

G R A Y

Sergeant Mateo Russo.

Killed in action.

Taken out by an IED.

That was how the media would remember my friend. That was all most Americans would ever know about Matty.

Only the other jarheads and I felt his loss like a suckerpunch to the solar plexus.

I couldn't imagine the world of pain that his wife was going through right now, and how she was going to explain something as definitive and fucked up as this tragedy to their four-year-old daughter.

The huge gaping hole Matty-boy left behind could never be filled. Sending thoughts and prayers felt like hollow gestures when a lifetime of grieving couldn't replenish the void.

My friend was dead. Gone. Blown to bits.

Matty had only been twenty-eight. Seven months younger than me.

Aisha was now a widow. Sadie was now fatherless. They wouldn't even get to see Matty's face one last time to give him a proper goodbye.

No doubt, his funeral was going to need a closed casket.

Everybody loved Matty, and Matty loved everybody. He was one of the few genuinely decent human beings I had come across in my life.

I was still reeling. Still processing his death.

This was a risk that we all knowingly signed up for with the Corps, but it didn't hurt any less whenever the dangers of combat snatched one of our brothers or sisters in arms from us.

God, I had just spoken to the son of a bitch yesterday.

I gave the poor bastard so much crap about simping over a care package that his wife and daughter had sent him—even though I secretly envied him for it...

That shit made me think of Gracie.

She used to send me packages, too. Homemade cookies with naughty polaroids.

The cookies were long gone. I still had the polaroids, though. I kept them with me. Always. Pulled them out whenever I missed her. And whenever I needed to rub one out.

Fucking Gracie. Fucking Matty.

I couldn't afford to lose my shit. Not yet, anyway. None of us could. Not in a place like Helmand province—

Or else I would be joining Matty very, very soon.

Or worse—

I might fuck up and send another one of my guys into an early grave.

My mind was teetering on the brink of chaos, but I refused to let myself succumb to it. My six month deployment would be coming to an end in two weeks. I just had to hit the mute button—drown out all the white noise for now and hold out for two more weeks.

Stay alert, stay focused—to stay alive.

And somehow deal with the aftermath once I got out of this hellhole.

***

After Matty's funeral, I spoke briefly with Aisha. I gave her my condolences. Told her to reach out if she needed anything. Anything at all. I figured the least I could do for Matty was to make sure that his widow and kid would be looked after.

Then, I went to Finnigan's and drank myself into a deep stupor even though I hated the smell and taste of alcohol. It reminded me too much of my old man. Desperate times, however, called for desperate measures.