“Is this it for me?” I asked my reflection. “Pain? Failure? Is that all this fucked-up world can offer?”
My reflection didn’t answer. It was probably disappointed in me, too.
I’d always wanted more. A career I could be proud of, a family that loved me and didn’t lie to me or make me feel like I wasn’t welcome. I didn’t want much, just a real home full of love, laughter, and cooking smells. Someone who gave a damn that I’d survived the day.
That wasmyAmerican dream.
But who in their right mind would want me now? I was busted beyond repair, the very definition of FUBAR.
Another wave of pain rolled over me, making me grit my teeth and hold onto the counter for support. The wave ebbed, but I could feel another rolling in behind it. If I didn’t do something to counter it soon, I’d be kneeling before the toilet again in no time.
Pushing away from the sink, I wobbled back to my room and went straight to the top of my dresser. A 5,000-milligram bottle of CBD oil sat like a god on its throne, positioned between two custom-made Budweiser glasses my little sister had given me. I never put anything else around the bottle, because I couldn’t risk losing the little fucker. Costing almost $260 after tax—including my veteran discount—the shit was more valuable than gold. Especially considering I needed a dose of at least 1,000 milligrams to even make a dent in the pain.
Insurance had paid for my morphine and dilaudid. They didn’t blink a goddamn eye as I poured so many pills down my throat I lost myself. But the motherfuckers flat out refuse to pay for a non-addictive form of pain relief.
It’s almost like they wanted us to kill ourselves… like they relied on the shit to weed us out, so we were no longer their problem.
The muscles in my back contracted. I could already tell this wave would be a doozy. Angry at my body, the expense, and the way the country I’d served didn’t seem to give two shits about me now that I couldn’t do anything for it, I wanted to throw something. I wanted to punch walls and flip furniture.
I wanted to rewind my life and change everything that had gotten me to this moment.
But I was stuck here, in this purgatory, unable to move forward or backward. There was no way out, just more pain. Living wasn’t worth this kind of torture. Hell, what did I have to look forward to, anyway? More nights on my knees, alone in front of the toilet?
No fuckin’ thank you.
I’d been trying to stay afloat, waiting for help, hoping for a rescue, but I was drowning. And, I wanted out. I wanted peace and rest, an end to the agony. If I had a gun, I’d be tempted to eat a fucking bullet and end it all.
Link, my club president, would shit himself if he found a weapon in my room. A veteran himself, he knew the power of temptation at three in the morning when memories kicked a person in the ass and made life seem hopeless.
A gun was unnecessary, though. There were other ways to end my life: a rope, a bottle of pills, a razor blade across my wrists. I’d be lying if I hadn’t considered them all. But when it came right down to it, I was hurting too bad to so much as move. Killing myself would take a level of effort I didn’t feel up to. Besides, this club had taken me in when nobody else would, and I didn’t want to leave a mess for them to clean up. They deserved better than that.
A chuckle bubbled up in my throat.
My weariness and reluctance to leave a mess were the only things tying me to this life.
Fucking unreal.
Unscrewing the CBD oil, I started with two milliliters in the dropper. Since I bought the strongest shit they sold, two milliliters equaled about three hundred and thirty-four milligrams, which wasn’t even half of what I needed. But that inadequate dosage cost me a little over $17 and my bank account was the only thing running lower than this bottle.
I needed to conserve the shit out of it.
Screwing the lid on the precious goddamn oil, I wandered back over to my bed and collapsed, hoping the dose would be enough to get me through the night.
It won’t be. Fuckin’ coward. Get off your ass and end it. What are you waiting for?
Hope is a strange thing. No matter how many times life kicked me in the teeth, somehow hope managed to wiggle its way up through the destruction. It was like a goddamn dandelion pushing through the cracks in the pavement. Somehow it managed to break through the despair to remind me that tomorrow’s appointment had potential.
Just survive the night and your life could change.
And if it didn’t? I could always put an end to the pain tomorrow.
2
Mila
TWENTY-THREE MINUTES to go.
I studied the rows of eight to nine-year-olds seated before me, knowing I had to keep them busy or all hell would break loose. My third-grade classroom stared right back, trying their hardest not to squirm. We had a deal, after all, and a highly anticipated surprise was on the line. As they struggled to keep their excitement for summer vacation under wraps, I fought to think up enough questions to pass the time. We’d already discussed summer plans, favorite colors, and what everyone did and didn’t enjoy about the school year. I was running out of material.
