“Is it so hard to believe that someone might love something broken and ill-fitting?” Tilting her head to the side, she smiled curiously and studied his mulish expression.
Yes.
Yes, it really fucking was.
“Wonder what that says about you,” she hummed, the amused twinkle in her eye impossible to miss.
Touché.
“What are you going to do?” She asked him, after a while. She’d scribbled a few notes down, given him time to center himself, but now she was back on the offensive. He could tell from the way she’d sat up, as if preparing to do battle.
“Don’t know,” he said, brushing aside the question as if it wasn’t relevant.
“Come on, Gavin. Guys like you don’t do well with the uncertain. What’s your plan? What will you do with your newfound freedom?”
“Aberlour,” he protested, hating the sound of his first name. Why couldn’t she remember that?
He snorted at the idea of freedom. Is that how he was supposed to view this next phase of his life? As freedom? Like he’d been a prisoner and was now about to be released out into the world.
It didn’t feel like being set free. It felt like being dropped at the bottom of an oubliette. Forsaken by the light forever and forgotten by hope and purpose altogether.
“Nothing. I don’t have one. The military life was all I ever wanted, and all I was ever good for,” he answered, dismissively.
Dr. Galloway clucked her tongue and chuckled.
“Come on. There has to be something you’re good at. Some skill you can still make use of.”
A skill. Aberlour thought, bitterly. His eyes strayed over to the broken clock, and he thought of the clown and its bouquet of balloons.
Yes—yes, he supposed he did have a skill. But what use was a perfect shot, if he had nothing to aim for anymore?
Chapter 31
November 2014
On a Thursday afternoon, about two months after the funerals of his friends, he was officially discharged. One of the most underwhelming moments of Aberlour’s life. He drove to the administrative office on base. After navigating a maze of corridors, he finally arrived at the personnel office of Sergeant Donaway, who handed him a file containing a stack of discharge papers. He signed his name at least 20 times, handed the papers back, and that was it.
Team Specter squad leader Gavin Aberlour was out on the street for good.
There were no balloons, no party, no welcome wagon, or congratulatory banner as he made his way back to his apartment several hours later.
Everything was the same. The same old, crummy apartment. He hadn’t been kicked out just yet, but he would have to vacate the premises within the next 30 days. Only active-duty personnel were allowed to live on base, so—
He wasn’t sad. Not exactly. It had always been a shitty place. It was one of the oldest buildings on base. The lodging complex had been built before they’d decided houses were a better bet for those who didn’t want to live in the barracks. The maintenance crew did nothing to the building beyond giving it a fresh coat of paint every other year and making sure it had functional plumbing. Yet, it was Aberlour’s. He’d hated it. Bitched about the damp smell and the shitty appliances, but through it all, it had been his.
Now this too would have to be given up.
He wasn’t sad about losing the apartment, but it was a good excuse for getting shitfaced. He wasn’t sure if he evenneeded an excuse, not when life in general had gone south so fucking fast and so fucking spectacularly.
“To all our dreams,” he toasted himself while standing in front of his bathroom mirror. He hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lights, since the streetlight outside fully illuminated the sea-foam green backsplash, and the greying tile well enough. As he lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips, he caught the shadows of four men behind him. Their silhouettes were dark against the white door.
He didn’t turn to make sure there was nothing there. He just finished the fucking bottle. Sadly, it was just a few sips. Which meant he had to grab his keys and head for the nearest bar. It was a moral imperative.
“I’m still confused,” the sergeant whispered, stealing glances at Aberlour.
Oh, the fucking irony of it all. Aberlour was locked up in the same goddamned cell that still had the same fucking nasty smells, and bizarrely, there was the same old drunk sleeping off his hangover in the corner.
It was like being sent back in time.
