Bad intel. That’s what they wrote in the report. Two neat words in a file that give me permission to sleep. But it doesn’t erase the fact that I pulled the trigger. That I dropped a kid no older than twelve. His face haunts my dreams. A punishment for stealing a life he never got to live. Samir’s name burns on my skin, permanent as the memory of him. The nightmares don’tjust haunt me. They gut me. Leave me rotting in my own guilt every damn night.
Pushing the blankets off, I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, dragging both hands down my face. My skin’s clammy, hot, and I can feel the sting of tears I don’t want to admit are there. Doesn’t matter how many years go by… it’s the same nightmare, the same face, the same guilt sitting on my chest like a fucking anvil.
I get up, pacing, because sitting still just makes it worse. My fists clench and unclench. I think about putting one straight through the drywall just to let it out. But I stop myself. Breaking shit doesn’t help, just leaves me patching holes later. And I have a job to do tonight.
The bottle on the nightstand sits half-empty, waiting for me to claim it. Waiting for me to grab it and drown in all my sorrows. I stare at it for a long second, jaw tightening, hoping the pain will go away on its own.
“You’re no damn cure, but you’ll quiet these demons for a while, won’t you?”
The cap’s off before I’ve even made up my mind. Tipping the bottle back, I take a long pull, the whiskey scorching its way down, hot enough to make me cough. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I shake my head, staring at the bottle, wondering when the nightmares will end. When will I get some relief from the guilt. Forgive myself for something that was out of my control.
“Son of a bitch! Every time, it’s the same. Burn me, choke me, hell, I don’t care… just keep his face out of my head for five goddamn minutes.”
For a moment, it works. My shoulders drop, the tightness in my chest lets up, and the kid’s face fades… just a little, blurred at the edges. But it never lasts. The guilt always finds its wayback in. I set the bottle down harder than I meant to, the thud breaking the silence.
“Yeah. Real fucking progress,” I grumble.
I stand there for a moment, trying to get my head straight. The whiskey’s still burning in my gut, but it’s not doing a damn thing for the guilt. I rub my face and start pacing again, restless and wired, like my body’s trying to hold onto what my mind won’t let go of. I keep moving, hoping something will shake loose, but it doesn’t help. It never does.
I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. It stings, but I welcome it. Gripping the counter, I stare into the mirror, not liking what I see… bloodshot eyes, a clenched jaw, and a man who looks like he’s been in a fight he keeps losing.
Being locked in your own head? That’s a battle nobody else can fight for you. You either put your demons down, or they twist you into someone you don’t even know anymore.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You’re Sergeant at Arms, not some broken vet hiding in the dark.”
I dry off, throw on my jeans, and reach for my kutte. The bottle’s still sitting there, like it’s daring me to come back for round two. I give it the finger and head for the door.
The club doesn’t need me soft, not today. We’ve got a run tonight, picking up a shipment from a mule, and if I’m not dialed in, things can go sideways fast.
Outside, the air’s cool against my face, cutting through the sweat and the fog in my head. The streets are empty, just a couple cars rolling by. I walk hard, fast, until my lungs burn and my legs remind me I’m still here. It helps, not much, but enough to keep me moving.
I stop under a streetlight and take a minute to catch my breath. Pulling a Black & Mild from the pack, I light it, dragging in thick smoke. It’s harsh, and heavy, but it puts something in my chest besides guilt. The smoke settles slow, curling aroundme in the quiet… no cars, no voices, just the sound of my own breathing. For the first time this morning, I feel a little more steady.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Flicking the ash on the sidewalk, I check the screen.
Mav: Heard you step out. You good, brother?
I stare at it for a second, roll the cigarillo between my fingers, then text back.
Me: Yeah. Just clearing my head.
A reply comes quick.
Mav: Good. Do what you gotta do. Just remember, I need my Sergeant at Arms sharp tonight. No one else can hold that line but you.
I smirk a little at that, shaking my head. He always knows how to put it. Straightforward, no bullshit, but it lands. I type back.
Me: I’ll be ready. Don’t worry about me.
Another buzz.
Mav: Not worried. Just making sure you don’t forget who you are to this club. Handle your business, we’ll handle the rest. See you when you get back.
I’ve known Silas… Maverick to the brothers, since middle school. After I chose not to re-enlist, I came back to Atlanta with nothing but a duffel bag and a head full of noise. No plan.No direction. It didn’t take long for things to unravel. I burned bridges, wrecked trust, and pushed my parents to the edge. They nearly cut me off completely, and begged me to get help. I was drifting, hollowed out by what I did and the silence that followed.
One night, drunk and broken, I stood on the tracks waiting for the next train to end it all.
But fate had other plans.
