five years later
I'd never seen anyplace so brown.
The tents. The uniforms. The vehicles. Everything was covered in a fine, tan dust.
On most days, even the sky took on a haze from the microscopic particles, leaving the heavens above a swirly, near-colorless blue. The guys at Camp Leatherneck called the sandy substance moon dust, and I thought that was appropriate.
Because Afghanistan was as far from my lush, native New Orleans as the moon.
I hated moon dust.
Muscles aching from a beast of a workout at the on-base gym, I stood outside my tent and stretched. The early evening sun was still hot, and I was sweating like a whore in church.
The IDF alarm went off, but after two weeks on base as a private first-class rifleman, I no longer flinched inside when the loud wail echoed through camp.
Surely this was another raid siren test, so I waited for the surreal, computerized voice to come over the camp loudspeaker and tell everyone it was just that—a test.
The pitch of the alarm rose and fell, rose and fell. The sound pierced my ears and left me dizzy, made me feel disembodied. Then the robotic, recorded female voice giving the all clear bounced off the dusty earth, sounding almost warped with her formal, stiff English accent.
"This is a test of the all-clear alarm... This is a test of the all-clear alarm..."
"Yo, V!"
I looked up to see my buddy Steve from North Carolina. As usual, Steve was grinning. Guy couldn't stop, even in a damn war zone.
"What up, bro?" I grabbed the towel hooked into my waistband and wiped my face. Damn, it was hotter than anything I'd ever felt in the swamps of Louisiana.
"She's kinda got a sexy voice, that computerized British chick. Or do you Cajuns not understand what she's sayin'? 'Who dat' and all?"
I chuckled. "Bro, you know I like a sweet southern accent on my girls."
Well, one girl in particular.
I kicked a rock on the ground, thinking about the girl I'd left behind. I should've gone to college near Jessica in Florida, not joined the Marines like all the other men in my family. God, I missed her so much. Now, she was probably pissed at me, after I'd followed Dad's order to stay away.
That pregnancy scare had just about caused World War III the way my dad and her mom carried on.
Well, I might have lost Jess for now, but dammit, I was going to try to win her back once I got out of this hellhole.
If I got out of this hellhole.
Kicking the rock had caused a cloud of dust to swirl up from the toe of my boot, and I stared, captivated. My stomach churned, and my brain felt as hazy as the sky.
Then came the explosion.
It seemed to blow a hole in the sky from the direction of Camp Bastion, the nearby British military base. The blast was like a punch into the air. It drowned out the IDF alarm, and I swore loudly when I spotted thick clouds of dirt bursting upwards not too far away.
Then there was a flash and another sickening pang in my stomach...and suddenly, I found myself in another part of the desert.
I was still in Afghanistan, but in Farah. I was in the back of a Humvee, holding Steve's bloody head in my lap and yelling at the top of my lungs while weeping from the pain shooting through my ripped-apart arm.
Don't die, bro. Don't die on me, you motherfucker...
My whole body tensed as I held my breath, waiting—for the next explosion, chaos, death?
Silence. Blackness. Empty space.
All of which were more terrifying than bombs and blood.
Then, a symphony of crickets. The familiar feeling of humidity coating my skin. The sweet smell of night jasmine.
My eyes snapped open. For a moment, I was confused, on edge, listening, waiting for something awful to happen.
I wasn't in Afghanistan anymore. I wasn't next to the compound attacked by insurgents, or in the Humvee two years later when Steve and I were hit by an IED. I almost lost my arm. And obviously did lose my mind.
Because tonight I was on a bench in the New Orleans City Park. It was dark, but moonlight danced across the nearby slow-moving stream, shining against the stones of an arched bridge.
The air felt soupy and moist, not dry and thin.
Shaking, sweating, scared now about something else, I struggled to sit up.
It's happened. The night terrors. I fucking blacked out again.
I'd taken the sleeping pill, and these were the consequences. I hated taking the damn things. This wasn't the first time the pills had put me in a fugue state and led me to wander out of bed.
Wasn't the first time I'd experienced this out-of-control uncertainty about where I was and what I'd done.
I gulped in several breaths, then heard sirens in the distance, wails similar to the ones I'd heard when stationed in Afghanistan. But these were ordinary American fire trucks. A lot of them, it seemed, whizzing past on City Park Drive.
After a hard swallow, my hand went to my beard. I hadn't shaved or cut my hair since my honorable discharge, mostly because it annoyed Dad. The several months' growth made me look like a hipster, but I didn't give a rat's ass. The dark, scruffy look matched my mood most days.
What was this in my beard? Something chalky. I looked down at my hand and rubbed my fingers together. Because it was dark, I couldn't see much, but it felt like ash. Had I bought a pack of cigarettes, or...?
I touched my beard again, then sniffed my fingers. All I could smell was moon dust. That happened a lot. Part of the PTSD, my therapist said. My brain wires were crossed.
Where have I been?
Pricks of perspiration tickled my arms. They were damp, as if I'd run a marathon. Actually, my whole body was moist, rivers of sweat pooling between the ridges of my stomach muscles and down the waistband of my cargo shorts.
My teeth chattered even though it wasn't cold, and I ran my fingers up my right forearm, over the scars. Without looking, I knew exactly where the tattoo of a mermaid was on my bicep. I traced her, something I did when anxious.
Her tail, her curvy hips, her curly blonde hair, her tiny waist and big tits. My dream girl, my mermaid. Then, the five points of the starfish on my shoulder.
With a quick motion, I flicked off the sweat that had nestled near my collarbone. Why the hell was I wearing only a pair of cargo shorts while sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night?
I looked down. Barefoot?
How did I get here?
Heart pounding, I wiped the sweat off my chest with my palm, my hand smearing across the hard planes of my pecs. I was working out more and more these days, hoping physical exhaustion would help me sleep. More sirens ripped through the night, and I tilted my head and inhaled deeply through my nose.
Was that...smoke?
Yes, smoke. And fire. Squinting into the distance, I saw an orange flicker coming from the strip mall near the park.
That's where the Marine recruiting center was, the one I'd walked into five years earlier. The one I'd wished a thousand times had never existed.
I launched to my feet as fear settled in my chest.
What the hell have I done?
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