Page 80 of Worth the Fight

I didn’t want to sleep, because sleeping felt like I was missing out on something. Lukas had to peel me off him in the airport, both of us crying, and he reminded me that I had to go back. I couldn’t miss this flight.

I know he’s right. I know that. But the more time I spent back home, the more I wondered why I decided to live halfway across the world.

I release a shuddering breath, and once my tears have dried and my heart has somewhat settled, I pull myself from the floor and march to my bedroom.

There’s nothing a warm bath can’t fix. A warm bath and pajamas and a full night’s sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll feel better, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up refreshed and ready to go back to work. Maybe after rehearsal, I’ll call Raymond and see if I can come over to visit and get my baby fix with Sylvia.

As I fling open my closet door, something falls from above, and I step back to avoid being hit.

Lukas’s letters.

I forgot that I had tucked them away up here. He hadn’t wanted me to read them when he was here, and at first, I wasn’t sure if I could handle seeing what he wrote. But now, as I lift the yellowed, crinkled stack of papers and hold it to my chest, something pulls at me, telling me that now is the time. I flick on my bedside lamp and sit on the floor, using my bed as a backrest. I unwind the stack of bands and open the first envelope.

This one is dated in March, which would have only been a few months into his deployment. It sounds like most of his other ones, but I can read between the lines. He talks about what he does day in and day out, and if I had received this one when he first wrote it, I likely wouldn’t have thought much about it. But now that I know how much he changed, how much he suffered, his casual text takes on a different meaning.

I toss that letter aside, scrambling to open the next one, and then the next.

I’m halfway through the stack before I can sense the change.

It doesn’t feel like Lukas’s writing to me anymore. Hell, his handwriting doesn’t even look the same. His words look tired, as if his hand physically hurt to write.

Dear Mags,

We’re sleeping under the stars tonight, and it’s fucking cold. Once the sun goes down, it takes the heat with it, and the desert becomes a cold grave. We’re all sick, been fighting the same cold for a week now.

He goes on to tell me he isn’t sleeping and doesn’t have the appetite to eat. I scan the remaining sentences so quickly the words bleed together, and then I toss it to the side, unfolding the next letter.

Dear Mags,

Today was a shit day. The kind that makes me feel like I’m going to break. It’s amazing how much happens out here that won’t even make the news back home. Sometimes, I

That’s all the letter says. The next sentence starts and stops, as if the thought started then he zoned out, unable to put down on paper the horrific things he had to do.

Dear Mags,

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. I hope you don’t take the silence on my end as meaning I don’t care. It’s just that the days all blend together. Sometimes, I forget what actual day of the week it is, what month it is. All I know is it’s morning and night. I’m awake or I’m not. But don’t worry about me. I’m sure I sound tired, and I am tired, but it’s all going to be okay.

The next paper is dirty. Dark brown splotches splatter across one side, dried blood, maybe. A chill runs down my spine, wondering whose blood it is.

Collins is dead. And it’s all my fault.

That one breaks me, and I slap my hand over my mouth to silence the sob.

I’m fucking sick, Mags. Sick of all of this. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. Can’t breathe right. It’s like my chest refuses to let me. Sometimes, I have to hide. Tell everyone I’m taking a shit so I can hide behind a rock and cry by myself like the coward I am.

My heart shatters for the young man living inside of him. The one that experienced every emotion possible. Anger, sadness, frustration, guilt. Nearly paralyzed with them, and he didn’t have anywhere to go. No one to turn to.

I dreamed about you last night. I was in the audience at the ballet, except it was dark all around me. I don’t think anyone else was there. Then there was a light on the stage, and when I looked up, you were there. You started to dance, and it was so fucking pretty.

That one makes me smile, and I set it aside, knowing I’ll want to read it again later.

I make my way through the stack, the letters covering every emotion on the spectrum. Sometimes, he talks about nothing. Going on about the weather, the terrible food, and the amount of energy drinks he has.

Others, he talks about home, about the animals and the horses. He wonders if Harper still brings bananas on Tuesdays for her goats. He asks if we will ever have animals out at our old farmhouse someday.

There’s one with a single line written then scratched out. The paper is taped together, as if he wanted to destroy any evidence he felt this way.

I’m losing my mind, Mags. I don’t think I’ll make it out of here alive. I don’t think I’ll make it back to you, to my family, and that fucking terrifies me.