There are sirens echoing down the street. I am the enemy.
I hold my hands up in defense, knowing the man will have all the power to hurt me if he pleases, but I can’t fight anymore. I shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place today.
The local police walk into the restaurant, surveying the scene, taking note of me and the man I attacked. I’m sure they were warned of what happened. The police officer walking toward me looks familiar. I think I went to high school with him.
“Is everything okay here?” the sergeant asks.
“No,” I answer. “I attacked him for no reason.”
The sergeant looks at me for a long minute and asks me to follow him outside as he tells his partner to collect the information from the man I attacked.
The moment we’re outside, everything inside of me tightens to the point where I feel weak or like I might vomit. “Pearson?” The sergeant asks. “It’s me, Laren—Ted Laren. We—”
“Yeah, I know. We were in school together. I didn’t recognize you with all your gear on,” I say, feeling more deflated with each word I speak.
“What happened here?”
“I thought he was reaching for a weapon. I—”
“I heard you were deployed a couple times,” he follows. Small town problems. There aren’t many people who don't know about each other around here.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“My brother was over there, too. He got out after his four-year term. He struggles a lot.” I know what Ted is saying without any further explanation. His brother suffers from post-traumatic stress. We all do, for the most part. We just handle it differently. “Are you getting any help?”
I shrug. Two hours ago, I would have said I don’t need help. I’m not exactly in the position to say that right now. “No.”
Ted shakes his head. “However this turns out tonight, I need to advise you to find a counselor because if this happens again—”
“I know.”
“I’m going to go back in and see if the man wants to press assault charges. If so, I’m going to need to bring you down to the station. If not, consider yourself lucky this time.”
I would press charges if I were him.
I assaulted him.
“My wife and daughter are still in the restaurant,” I tell Ted.
“I’ll see them out,” he says. He makes a gesture to his cruiser and another police steps out. “Wait with him while I go back inside.”
The other police officer is older, overweight, and disinterested in standing here babysitting. It’s obvious by his stance and his arms crossed over his chest. I decide it’s best not to say anything. Instead, I stare out into the darkness of the night, wondering how this happened. Why? I've been away from Afghanistan for nine years. What the hell is wrong with me?
I wait for about ten minutes before Melody and Parker step out of the restaurant with Ted. Melody has been crying, and Parker looks traumatized. It’s my fault. I hurt the two people I love more than anything in the world because I’m so unbelievably screwed up inside.
Ted stands between Melody, Parker, and me, facing my direction. “He’s not pressing charges. He said you aren’t the first to do this to him and it’s a fact he lives with while maintaining his culture and faith in another country. He said he hopes you’ll see they aren’t all bad people.”
It would have been easier if he threw a punch or wanted to press charges. I wouldn’t feel as disgusting as I do now. I’m going to be released without a penalty after assaulting an innocent man.
“I need to get a copy of your license in case we need to contact you for any further comments or questions,” Ted says.
I reach into my back pocket, retrieving my wallet, swiveling through my cards, my military ID and license. “Here.”
“Give me a minute,” he says making his way over to the cruiser.
Melody is staring at me with a look I can’t decipher. I don’t know if it’s shame, fear, disappointment, or all of the above. What if she hates me now? She sees what I’m capable of. What if she thinks I’d hurt her if I lose my ability to see clearly again?
I signed my life away. I thought
