I had the perfect weekend with the perfect girl, and I have no idea what her name is or how to find her.
Rose is gone.
10
RYAN
Three years later…
Icome to slowly, as if swimming through murky water. The world feels far away as I become aware of the soft ticking of a clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the lingering smell of disinfectant, and the dull ache below my knee.
The mattress is stiff underneath me, and I don’t move as I stare at the freshly painted ceiling. It’s too white, and the beige walls are too shiny. It hurts my eyes. So, I shut them again.
In my half-dreams, I’m in a dusty village. There’s a deafening bang, and I’m thrown backwards. The world goes silent, and the scent of burned almonds from the explosion hangs in the air. The scene morphs into a field hospital. There’s dirt and blood and screams, which I soon realize are my own.
I doze again, and I’m back in the desert, waiting at the base for our next mission and shooting hoops with the guys. The team’slaughter carries over the compound. That’s what I miss: being part of a team, belonging, having a purpose.
When I wake again, the pain is too sharp to ignore. The phantom itch burns where my calf should be. I pull the other leg up and drag my foot over the empty space trying to relieve the itch on a limb that isn’t there.
For the first few weeks in the hospital in Germany, I kept checking under the blanket. The itch was so intense I was certain they’d made a mistake. I was sure I’d lift up the blanket and find my limb attached to my knee where it should be.
But twelve weeks later, I know better than to look. It’s gone. The leg, the SEAL Teams, my career. It’s all gone.
The pain rolls over me, and I grit my teeth.
The doctors keep telling me the pain will subside. It was a clean surgical removal of the mangled limb below the knee. No complications. As if that should cheer me up. Losing a limb is a big fucking complication in my book.
My gaze locks onto the bottle of painkillers on the kitchenette counter. I’m supposed to get my own breakfast, too—independence helping recovery and all that—but that feels like too much work.
The wheelchair beside my bed feels like a silent challenge. Though it’s only a foot away, it may as well be a mile.
Behind the wheelchair is the prosthetic limb that’s been tailor made for me. It can gather dust in the corner, for all I care. If the wheelchair feels like a mile away, then the fake leg is a marathon’s length.
A sharp pain spikes up my nonexistent leg. My body jolts, and I grit my teeth. I need those fucking meds.
I drag myself into a sitting position. My once-muscular arms have gotten soft. I push down the anger and resentment. I don’t need to keep myself in shape for missions anymore.
I pull the wheelchair toward me with one hand and inch myself toward it. My body sweats with the exertion.
Once upon a time, I could crawl through mud under fire, carry a small boat above my head while running five miles, and clamber over slippery rocks wearing a 100-pound backpack, but this…this feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
My hand slips, and the wheelchair jerks away. I lose my balance and roll onto my side, right onto my stump. Pain engulfs me, and I cry out.
I roll onto my back and lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the waves of pain to abate. They don’t.
The pain consumes me until I can’t think of anything else. I no longer think of what I lost. There’s no room for any other thought in my mind, and that suits me just fine.
There’s a knock at the door. I ignore it, but it opens anyway.
Hudson appears, his broad frame blocking the light from the corridor.
“You planning on staying horizontal all day again?” His voice is amused but no-nonsense.
“Doctor’s order,” I grunt. “Said I need to work on my core.”
Hudson chuckles, and I roll over onto my good side. The movement sends a new spike of pain through my leg, and I wince, sucking in air through my teeth.
“You take your meds this morning?” I hear Hudson moving around the room and then the shake of a bottle.
