“I carried my brother over my back with his leg barely attached to his body. I carried him and left seven behind because I couldn’t save them.” Heartbreak and a deep sorrow fills his eyes and I have to swallow back the lump that forms in my throat. Because that look in his eyes is one I’ve seen way too many fucking times. And that story, that memory that haunts him hits way too fucking close to home. “And I carried him for what felt like hours. And you know what the worst part is Oak?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond as tears glisten in his eyes. “He told me to let him go. He begged me to end it for him.”
Tears burn at the back of my eyes but I press them back. My finger twitches rapidly against my outer thigh as my heart feels like it’s going to rip out of my chest. I can feel my lungs constricting as the air feels like sand.
“But I didn’t.” His voice is rough with unshed tears. “I carried him all the way to the medic. And I waited and waited as they operated on him.” His eyes harden again, and the emotions fall flat off his face. Back is the man made of stone. Back is the man who is impenetrable. “They did the best that they could. But there was a piece of shrapnel that caused irrevocable damage, rendering him paralyzed. You see, he could’ve lived with losing a leg. He could’ve lived with part of his face and neck being scarred. But paralyzed? Being paralyzed was a death sentence for him. And he hates me for saving him.” I can hear the anger in his voice. I can hear the pain. His neck muscles are strained as a vein pulses harshly there. “Don’t act like you are the only one who has suffered. You’re not. And sadly you won’t be the last. We’re the same that way, Oak. We’re more alike than you’ll ever care to admit, but you want to know the biggest difference? I get help for the war inside my head. And there are days where it beats me down more than others but I talk to someone. I attend group therapy and I see my fucking therapist. That hole we dug for ourselves I’m climbing out of, but you? You’re livingin it. And I’m sorry, Oak, but I refuse to make that hole home.” He chucks my shoulder harshly as he walks pass me and doesn’t look back.
I remain where I stand, paralyzed, but on the inside it feels as if I’ve been obliterated.
I’m suffocating with the cold hard bitter truth.
Because as much as I want to get out of this hole I’ve dug myself I’ve done nothing to help myself get out of it.
And how can I ask for forgiveness, how can I accept it when I haven’t even forgiven myself?
How can I move forward when I haven’t made amends with my past?
Crow’s right.
Which means I have to do what I’ve been avoiding since I’ve been home.
I have to confront my past.
I told Grace that I was going to let her in.
It’s finally fucking time that I do, because if I don’t then I’ll never be able to love her the way she deserves, and I’ll never be able to live.
Oak
How do you tell someone the darkest parts of yourself and expect them to still see the good?
I only ask because I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror for almost ten years now knowing the crimes I’ve committed, the sins I’ve done, and I don’t see the good man everyone else claims to see.
What I see is a man who lacks courage.
A man who isn’t brave.
But you want to know what I see the most?
I see a man who has constantly failed everyone around him.
How do I begin to tell all of this to the one person who means more to me than I ever thought was humanly possible?
And what if after I do, she finally sees me as the man I am, and discards me like I’m nothing?
I blow out a deep breath as I run my trembling hand through my hair.
It’s now or never, Oak. Let her in.
With feet that feel like lead, my heart pounding in my chest, and my hands trembling I walk back to my room.
The closer I am to reaching my door the more I am unable to breathe. My lungs feel as if they are shrinking and the air fucking burns.
I can feel myself being sucked into the black void that takes complete control and holds me in a fucking chokehold.
My breathing quickens as I desperately try to draw in more air but I know my attempts are futile.
Their screams. . .
Their faces. . .
