“Because it means we can change his mind,” she said, her gaze shifting back to him. “Most don’t get such a luxury.”
She had a point. Daisy had learned from him—Logan—that statistically, men rarely contemplated suicide for long before acting. It was often quick and decisive, driven by something primal, a final act to rid themselves of whatever pain consumed them. Women, on the other hand, were methodical. They weighed the consequences in that quiet way that made it seem as if they were simply waiting for the right moment, place, and time.
It made sense in some detached, clinical way. But looking at Callan now, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly what he wanted. If this was his choice to make, who were they to stand in his way?
She tried to swallow the thought and failed.
“What if it’s what he wants?” she asked.
His mother stiffened, her expression hardening. “You aren’t suggesting what I think you are.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I just—”
“Daisy, he’s unwell.”
“He’s unhappy,” she countered, her voice breaking.
They both fell silent, watching as his therapist bent down to speak to him.
He was so thin. His clavicle jutted out like tree roots, his limbs little more than fragile branches.
She didn't know how much he understood or could comprehend, but she knew sadness.
And Callan, he was the very portrait of it.
XXXII
DAISY
Christmas passed as if it had never been at all, and Callan had only deteriorated further. His night terrors had shifted, becoming more violent and erratic. They would wake him from a deep sleep, and he’d scream, his fingernails tearing into the fragile skin of his burn scars until they bled, staining his bedsheets red night after night. Other nights, they’d find him curled up in the hallway, shivering, his eyes wide and vacant, a knife clutched in his hands. He’d lost all sense of reality, and as insomnia began to take hold of them, too, they followed suit.
In desperation, Daisy had gone to the army, seeking help, who’d assured her it was normal and part of the process, which had no defined timeline. Then, they mentioned therapy,throwing around the idea of a psychologist, but to Daisy, it felt laughable—how could anyone help when he didn’t have the ability to talk?
And then there were the other episodes, the ones she’d been too afraid to speak of for fear they’d take him away to an asylum.
The first time, they were out on an evening walk when a car backfired. She wasn’t sure if it was the noise or if it triggered something darker, buried deep, but Callan froze and began to cry.
“Callan?”
Daisy bent down to meet his gaze, and he turned away from her, closing his eyes.
“Callan, what is it?”
Then she saw it: the dark stain spreading across his pants, urine pooling on the footrests.
Everyone had warned her about PTSD, labelling it aninvisible war, one science had barely begun to understand. But to Daisy, it wasn’t just an invisible war. Callan’s world had shifted to a private hell, one where he didn’t just remember war—he lived it, constantly.
He would scream without warning, shielding his face and arms from threats that weren’t there, and then, as if the grief boiled over, it would twist into rage where he would hurt himself, desperate to erase the internal pain any way he could. It wasn’t long until the defecation soon followed.
The first time was in the middle of dinner, when a short clip of a bombing in Baghdad played on the news. She’d tried to reach for the remote, but it was too late. Callan’s eyes landed on the screen, and he sat rigid for a second before he broke out into a loud guttural howl.
“Get her out of here,” she screamed at his mother. “Please.”
It was hard for her as a mother to protect Ida, and at times, it was unavoidable. But as she watched her startled face, sherealised the increased frequencies of his episodes were taking a toll.
She rushed to him, the smell hitting her before she could fully comprehend what had happened.
“It’s okay,” she told him, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
