It's not where I'm happiest, but it is where I'm most comfortable.
Chapter 3
Six weeks ago …
I took a deep drag off my cigarette.
So deep that the heat seared the skin of my thumb and forefinger, but I ignored it. I'd felt worse pain than that before. With a practiced flick, the glowing butt tumbled end over end into a flower bed of dried-out petunias. For a split second, I waited to see if they'd catch fire. If they did, then I'd get out of that stupid meeting, but, as always, the fates weren't kind to me. I watched as it continued to smoke slightly but caused no damage to the foliage, and so my immediate fate was decided.
I was already ten minutes late to the meeting, a fact I was very much aware of as I stood outside the library entrance while smoking down my Marlboro Red. I knew it wasn't the best way to make a good first impression, and I also knew that failure to attend the meeting would earn my ass a one-way ticket to a forty-five-day jail sentence.
And I still didn't give a fuck.
I mean … so what? I'd bet a jail cell wasn't much different than my shitty five-hundred-square-foot apartment filled with water stains on the ceiling and cockroaches on the walls. The meals were probably better.
It was the same old shit I'd been given the last year and a half.
Fuck you very much for your service to your country. You lost a leg, but here's a shiny new one for you as a consolation prize.
Or …
What the fuck, Marine? We get you have some "issues" following your injuries, but that's nothing that a little mental health tune-up can't help you with.
Now insert a condescending pat on the head as I was handed a bottle of antidepressants along with the directions to the Wake County library where I was supposed to attend group therapy as a means to avoid jail.
I pulled my phone from the pocket on the leg of my cargo shorts. It clanged against the metal of my prosthetic before my stiff fingers could get a good grasp, and I pulled it out. I figured if I was getting ready to sit with a group of depressed losers, I might as well pile the misery on good before I went in there.
The text icon indicated three awaiting messages, and I found it telling that my heart didn't race anymore at the prospect of hearing from Maria. I wanted to hear from her, but I didn't feel as if my existence depended on it anymore, and I supposed that was some progress.
Immediately, I saw what I'd seen for the past four months. Or not seen actually.
Nothing from Maria.
Nothing to have indicated she'd come to her senses and realized she'd made a huge mistake by breaking up with me. Because seriously … who didn't want an incomplete man with an enormously fucked-up head?
There was a text from my brother, Jody. Leeds River Mine is hiring.
I deleted the message immediately. It did no good to respond and decline, because it wouldn't stop Jody from trying to get me to come back home to West Virginia and partake in the family tradition of coal mining. I wasn't sure why it was important to him, because my family had made it clear they didn't give a shit what happened to me over there.
Another text was from Ferguson … a dude I served with in Afghanistan. I didn't even bother reading it, but I could imagine what it said. Thinking of you, buddy. Stay strong. God Bless. Semper Fi. Blah, blah, blah.
Delete.
Finally, a message from Digger. My drug dealer. Just scored. B at ur place at 9.
That one I didn't delete. The prospect of smoking myself into oblivion that night while kicking Digger's ass in Call of Duty caused an actual smile to come to my face. Well, I thought it was a smile. I had a two-inch scar running from the left corner of my mouth down to the side of my chin that actually pinched and tugged a bit, which usually meant I was smiling, but without a mirror, I wasn't sure.
Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I entered the library, immediately thankful for the icy blast of air conditioning. It was a blistering ninety-five degrees in Raleigh, North Carolina-a bit high for May-and some people refused to turn on the AC unless it was officially summertime. But these morons would never know what hot was really like until they'd walked around in a scorching desert carrying ninety pounds of gear and weaponry.
Just beyond the circulation desk was a wooden door with a brass plaque beside it on the wall that said "Anderson Reading Room". I didn't bother with a knock, but pushed the door open without preamble. I immediately took in a round circle of chairs facing inward, no more than ten total. At least half of them were empty. A small woman stood from the chair nearest me and waved me in.
"Come in, come in," she said in a distinctly southern voice. She was small … not even five foot. And old. Like older than my grandmama, Kaylene, on my daddy's side who was like sixty and had a rough life complicated by drugs and alcohol. And yet, this woman looked older than that. She had short, cropped hair the color of snowy clouds and deeply lined skin that was more pronounced around the corners of her eyes, lips, and along her neckline. Sparkling blue eyes looked at me with almost a hint of amusement. I knew her name was Mags Bundy from the paperwork I'd received that ordered me here and that she was to be our counselor and facilitator.
"Now that Christopher is here, we can get started," Mags said as she settled into her plastic chair. I found an empty one without anyone immediately to either side and sat. She crossed one small leg over the other, and the hem of her faded jeans pulled up to reveal pink socks with red lips on them. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.
"This is a peer-led support group for anyone suffering from traumatic stress and depression. It's sponsored by the county, so that's your tax dollars hard at work. It's not designed to provide counseling services, but merely to allow a safe place where people can come together to discuss their issues. The reasons we're all here are varied, and we'll get to know each other well. Today, we'll just spend some time with introductions. I'll start first."
I lowered my gaze to the floor and tried to tune out Mags' voice. She was clearly a native of the south as indicated by her accent, but she spoke quickly and with purpose. If I had to describe her in my limited exposure and in just three words, I'd have said, "Tough. Old. Broad."
"I've been leading this group for thirteen years now. It runs every quarter for twelve weekly sessions, an hour each session. I suffer from chronic depression stemming from a long string of woes that have happened to me, starting with my father sexually abusing me for several years and ending with an abusive husband who liked to flick cigarettes at my head for sport."
My shoulders gave a slight jerk and my head tilted up to see Mags staring at me. I could picture the cigarette I had just flicked away not five minutes ago as it tumbled end over end away from me. I imagined doing that again … right now … right at Mags' head. The thought didn't offend me too much, because while yeah … sucked to be diddled by your daddy, that didn't have shit to do with me.
We were apples and oranges.
She had two strong legs and was clearly not feeble in the head. She could have walked away from that shit where as I couldn't even crawl away from my shit. I had to be scraped off the desert floor.
Mags continued to talk about the format of the group. She said something about confidentiality and maybe taking field trips … like we were at summer camp or something. I tuned her out and started looking at my fellow prisoners.
My eyes immediately came to the woman sitting directly across from me. She stared raptly at Mags, shoulders relaxed and her knees pressed primly together. One delicate hand rested on her lap while the other fiddled with a long lock of golden-blonde hair that hung over her shoulder.
Her face was an interesting study. High cheekbones, a sloped nose that tilted upward, and large, almond-shaped eyes that gave her an elfin sort of look. I couldn't tell what color her eyes were because her lids hung a little heavy, almost as if she were drowsy. Actually, it was kind of a sexy look.
Bedroom eyes. That was what they looked like, and I had a sudden longing for Maria that struck me deep in the pit of my stomach. Maria laying on the bed, naked and looking up at me with those heated eyes filled with lust. God, I missed that look. And fuck, I missed sex. And I hated her for taking it away from me.
The blonde's head turned slightly, and she looked directly at me. It was a weird gaze because I expected her eyes to widen a bit when she realized I was staring at her, but her lids still hung low, again giving that slightly drowsy look. My guess was she was drugged out of her mind.
Well, regardless … she had perpetual bedroom eyes and wouldn't be a hardship to look at over the next few months.
My gaze cut away from Sexy Eyes, and I look at the person to her left. Young guy … still in his teens if the acne and protruding Adam's apple were anything to go by. He was skinny and gaunt and bald. Definitely sick. Pale skin and tired eyes that told me he'd had chemo or radiation. I saw plenty of veterans in for cancer treatments while I was rehabbing. I decided to call him Dead Kid, and I quashed the tiny kernel of sympathy that flickered within me because I sometimes imagined going where he was headed, and it didn't seem like a bad option.
Moving on …
That left one other person in the room, and she sat to my left with a chair in between us. I had to crane my neck to look at her, so it was obvious I was staring. Her face tilted to meet my gaze, and we leveled hateful stares at each other. I hadn't noticed it before, but I did now. The distinctive, sour-smoky smell of pot coming off her along with the slightly glazed irises of a creepy green-brown color. She was totally goth looking, covered in piercings and tattoos with a nasty vibe of "I hate everything" coming off her.