The Hard Truth About Sunshine(2)

     



 

"That was ballsy," Jillian says under her breath, almost reverently, and I realize she's come to stand beside me in the chip aisle. And I can't fucking help myself …  I turn to look down at her-since I top her by a good foot-and watch her observing Goth Chick with an amused smile.

"That's second-hand nature to her," I tell her dryly. Goth Chick's a common criminal like me.

"Maybe," Jillian whispers, never turning to look at me but keeping her gaze on the little thief. "But she took that for Connor. He's addicted to gum."

My eyebrows rise …  shocked over her proclamation. How the fuck would Goth Chick even know that? As far as I know, they've never even really conversed as Goth Chick doesn't talk much in group unless it's to make caustic comments about someone else's pain. Maybe Dead Kid mentioned it, and while I've been ignoring much of what goes on in group, perhaps Goth Chick listens.

Still, I have to ask. "How does she know that Dead Kid's addicted gum?"

Jillian turns her head to me slowly. I know enough about her condition from observing her the past few weeks that it is about as fast as she can swivel her head because of muscle weakness. But from the fire in her eyes, I know she would have snapped her attention my way if she could.

"Don't call him that," she snarls at me, and she sounds like an aggrieved tiger.

Well, actually a kitten. Jillian Martel doesn't have it in her to be anything more than that. She's too fucking nice even in her anger.

I should be abashed that what I said was offensive. I know I should feel some measure of guilt.

I feel neither, so I merely shrug, "Why not? He's going to die."

"We're all going to die," she practically hisses at me.

"Yeah," I taunt, leaning my head down toward her so she can hear me clearly. "But he's the most imminent. Would it help if I clarify it and refer to him as Imminent Dead Kid?"

My crudity causes Jillian to gasp.

Her gasp causes me to smirk.

I don't regret saying that, because I stopped caring what people thought about me a long time ago. I sure as hell don't care what Jillian thinks.

I brace and wait for the backlash, and I brace hard. While Jillian Martel may not have a vicious tongue from what I've come to learn about her, the way in which she castigates is pretty brutal. It's much more sinister than any amount of angry ranting I could ever do. The girl with the mushy heart and Pollyanna attitude will hit me hard in a much different way.

Jillian's eyes, which already have that perpetually softened look due to her disease, round just a tad further and her lips curl slightly in an empathetic sort of smile. She steps into me, laying her hand on my forearm without any regard to the shredded and scarred skin that lays thinly over bone. "I get it."

"Get what?" I grit out, glancing down briefly at where her tanned hand lays against the disfigured remnants of my arm.

"Why you feel the need to be so mean."

"You think I'm mean?" I ask, flashing my teeth at her in a mocking sneer. I'm so much more than mean.

"I think you're full of self-pity and anger, and that makes you feel justified to act like a jerk. I think the only small measure of relief you get from your pain is by making others feel bad or uncomfortable. I think you've all but given up on the potential for good to happen in your life so you're content to be mired in your anger. But please, Christopher, you can level that meanness at me if you want-or Barb, she's tough and can take it. But lay off Connor, okay? His days are numbered, and he doesn't need you throwing that in his face."

She says all of that softly …  kindly, without an ounce of derision in her voice.

Rage courses through me over her words-that she would even think to preach to me about how I should conduct my life. And to do it with empathy pity directed at me. It's almost too much to bear, accepting that kind smile she has leveled at me right now.

But even as I open my mouth to lay into her-to let this bitch know she hasn't even begun to see the type of malice I hold within me-I find myself noticing a distinctly uneasy feeling starting to take root in the center of my chest. A dull ache. Perhaps a twinge of regret. Worst yet …  an odd fascination over the fact she said there's the potential for good in my life.

That better not be fucking hope I'm feeling. I quashed that son-of-a-bitch emotion months ago, and I'll be damned if I'm going to succumb to that shit again. The fear that I might fall prey to the bright side of life distracts me from my need to put her solidly in her place.         

     



 

The moment of fury passes as quickly as it slammed into me, and I'm left without a good comeback to throw in her face.

Instead, I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and decide to give her this one. "Is that all?"

"That would make me happy. If you don't call Connor Dead Kid, I mean," she says with a twinkle in her eye. "For now."

For now? What the hell does that mean?

She wants me to make her happy in the future?

The way Maria looked to me for happiness and security? The way I knew she depended on me, and the way I felt so fucking good because I was responsible for the smile on her face?

Is that what Jillian "Pollyanna" Martel wants from me?

Yeah, that's not going to happen.

With a curt nod, I turn my back on her and walk up to the cash register. From the corner of my eye, I see Jillian walk out the door. She heads toward the gas pump where Goth Chick is pulling the pack of gum out of her bra to hand to Dead Kid Connor. Even from this distance, I can see him blushing and I almost have to suppress a slight urge to smile, but the moment passes.

There's a young girl behind the counter, sporting a red vest with the gas station logo over one breast and a name tag proclaiming her to be "Natalie" on the other. She gives me a flirty smile as I walk toward her, her eyes traveling down me slowly. When she gets to my legs, her shoulders tense, as expected, and when she lifts her gaze back to me, flirtation is gone and sympathy holds the smile in place.

I don't say a word as I place my items on the counter and reach in the back pocket of my cargo shorts for my wallet. She silently rings everything up and doesn't meet my eyes as I slide my credit card through the scanner and she bags my purchases.

I think I'm going to get away without a single word from this girl, but just as she's pushing the bag across the counter toward me, she swallows hard and says, "Um …  I just wanted to say thank you for your service."

No secret …  the U.S.M.C. t-shirt I'm wearing is a good enough hint I served. What she sees below my waist is another one.

I stare at her a moment, seeing hope in her eyes. Hope that my sacrifice was an honor for me to bear, and that her ability to sleep under a safe blanket of freedom is due solely to my leg that was mangled beyond repair while driving through the Helmand Province. She hopes I will thank her for her kind words, and that I will make her feel better for feeling safe at the expense of my blood and bones.

"Fuck off," I growl at her, actually taking great pleasure in the hurt and mortification on her face before I grab the bag and head out of the store. I take such immense pleasure in her discomfort that I know without a doubt that my shit-stained soul can never be scrubbed clean and salvaged. That I am a man who cannot be redeemed.

While my character as a human being is as foul as they come these days, I didn't always treat people like this. For the first few months after I was released from the hospital, I tried to give a nod of gratitude to anyone who acknowledged my service and sacrifice.

But then it got old.

I mean, really old.

And heavy. The heaviest of burdens weighing down on me like concrete. It made my chest squeeze with anxiety the minute someone would open their mouth to talk to me, and I would start to turn inward upon myself before the words of gratitude could penetrate me. It was as if an entirely different being resided within me, because I would watch almost from a distance, deep within myself, as I started to make up lies to tell people.

"Oh, I wasn't injured in combat. Shark attack."

Or …

"Bad incident with a combine working on my granddaddy's farm."

Or …

"Pissed-off girlfriend. Tried to cut my dick off, but got my leg and fingers instead."

Whatever.

The point being, I was tired of people thanking me for something I hadn't intended to do. I did not intend to get myself blown to pieces. When I signed up to serve my country, I didn't do so out of some deep sense of patriotism, but because it was a way out of a terrible life in the coal mines. My lies started getting more and more outrageous until I finally just ran out. I couldn't come up with one more interesting accident that could have destroyed my body the way it did.

And so, I just started telling people how I really felt. I told them to "fuck off." It truly was the best way to shut the conversation down.

There were no follow-up remarks like, "Oh, wow …  a shark? That's amazing."

Or …

"Geez …  I thought those combines had safety shut-off features."

Or …

"Is your girlfriend doing prison time, dude? Because she should totally be doing prison time for that."         

     



 

The "fuck off" line did not invite reciprocal commentary, so it's the method I now employ one-hundred percent of the time to get people to leave me alone in my misery.