Either I went through that mail and laid my hands-or well, hand and a half-on the letter addressed to me from the Wake County Clerk of Courts office, or I would go to jail.
This Mags woman had left me a friendly reminder that tomorrow was the first group therapy session I'd been ordered to attend in exchange for commuting my jail sentence for assault. Apparently, I should have received a letter giving me the details on where we would meet and the program itself.
I located the letter and pulled it from the pile. I didn't bother looking at anything else as I'd put all my living expenses on auto draft so I wouldn't miss anything. I wasn't the best about paying bills, mainly because I didn't give a shit. But this crappy little apartment kept a roof over my head and the meager disability payments from the government were enough to at least keep me in beer, weed, and pills. So I used auto draft so I wouldn't fuck up my pitiful existence.
Draining the bottle of beer in my left hand, I tossed it in the garbage can, heard the glass break, and pulled another one from the fridge. The only thing in there was beer, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and a pizza box with two slices left over. I should have put something in my stomach but that would take effort, so I closed the refrigerator door and twisted the cap off. I carried the letter and bottle of brew to the couch and sat down heavily. My stump was aching because when I put on my prosthesis that morning, I didn't bother with a sock liner. I'd be well served to take the damn thing off and let it breathe a bit, but I knew as soon as I popped a few of the pills in the little clear baggy on the table beside the couch, I wouldn't be feeling anything.
I took a long swig of beer and looked around my apartment. It only had two rooms with the main portion consisting of a tiny kitchen where on any given day I'd find a cockroach in the sink, a living area that was basically a worn couch and a battered side table, and a twin bed up against one wall. The other room held a small bathroom that had a toilet, sink, and shower, also home to cockroaches. I'd been living here about three months, and only because the dude I'd been living with back in Jacksonville had kicked me out.
I supposed he had reason. Rich was a buddy I'd served with in Afghanistan. He was three vehicles back when my Humvee rolled over the IED. We'd kept in periodic contact and when I was officially released from rehab and was just awaiting my final medical board discharge, he told me I could crash at his place for a while. He had a small duplex out in town rather than on base, and it was sort of a party central type of place. Which was cool and all, but even Rich had limitations when it came to partying.
First, he only did so on the weekends, and only with beer. He couldn't afford to pop on a random piss test that the Marine Corps was so keen on throwing at us. Eventually, Rich just got a little tired of the fact I was constantly drunk and a permanent haze of pot sort of hovered just under my bedroom ceiling. He told me I had to go.
So I did. Westward to Raleigh, North Carolina where I only went because the dude I got pot from in Jacksonville had a cousin there who was looking to sublease this shithole of an apartment. I figured what the fuck … I could afford it so why not?
When the government processed me out of the military, they looked at my injuries and they rated them to determine how much money they'd pay me for the rest of my life for my sacrifices.
Turns out, the loss of two fingers was worth twenty percent. My amputation, since it was from mid-to-lower thigh down, was sixty percent. I found out it would have been ninety percent if it would have been from the hip down, but whatever. I still made a hundred-percent total by the time they put in my shredded forearm and PTSD. There was some talk about a complicated diagnosis of Traumatic Brain Injury, but honestly … I wasn't sure what the fuck was wrong with me really. I just knew it was enough to pay me about three thousand bucks a month.
I was afraid and pissed and I hated the world so passionately that I really didn't want to live in it anymore. This made me not only an asshole, but also violent, particularly when I was wasted. I had absolutely no recollection of the douchebag I'd beaten the shit out of in a dive bar, but I was sure he had it coming to him.
And now I was going to be forced to start hanging out with a group of losers and expected to share my pain with these strangers.
Fat fucking chance of that.
I tossed the letter on the couch beside me, not wanting to open it up. I was in a mood.
A terrible mood.
Deep in my heart, I knew I should take advantage of some of the counseling programs the VA offered, but the thought of opening myself up to scrutiny was too scary. I took the easy way out and decided wallowing in my misery was just easier. With enough alcohol and drugs, I could keep things numbed somewhat.
Leaning forward, I gripped my bottle tighter so I wouldn't spill any precious alcohol and reached under the couch. My mechanical knee bent but not as far as my real knee did, so I had to sort of lean to the side to get what I was reaching for.
My Smith & Wesson .44 magnum revolver.
When I sat back up straight, I took another long pull of beer before laying it on the table. Then I opened the cylinder to confirm what I already knew. It was filled with bullets.
I had bought the gun about a year after I'd entered the Marine Corps from a buddy of mine who wanted to propose to his girlfriend. He had no money to buy a ring so he sold me his gun. She got a small diamond, and I got a pretty cool revolver.
I'd always been into guns. You couldn't live in rural West Virginia and not own one, especially for hunting, nor could you join the military and not learn how to deftly handle firearms.
The gun had sat in a shoebox in my closet for years, ignored and unused. The Marine Corps had given me a TOW missile and that was a way cooler gun.
It hadn't been looked at until I came to Raleigh, where I had put it under my couch. I didn't do that for safety reasons, but rather because I was contemplating what that gun could actually do for me.
I slapped the cylinder shut and laid the gun on my lap. It felt warm, heavy, and reassuring. Reaching over to the baggy, I pulled out a ten-milligram oxy and popped it in my mouth. I chewed it quickly, ignoring the bitter taste, and washed it down with swig of beer.
It didn't take long for the high to hit me, which was why I chewed rather than swallowed, but what I had left in that baggy had to last me until next payday. Depending on how I would feel in fifteen minutes or so, I might or might not chew another.
My gaze dropped to the gun, and I lifted it in my hands. Leaning back, I rested my head on the back of the couch and held the gun up to inspect it. That moment, before the true oxy buzz hit me, would have been the best moment to put it to my head. I was just starting to feel the effects, and my courage was bolstered. It would have been so easy to put the muzzle up against my temple and pull the trigger.
No pain.
No more misery.
No more deformed body, phantom leg pain, hideous scars, or pitiful stares from strangers. No more loneliness. No more memories of a heartless girlfriend and a family that couldn't help me. No more memories of Jelonek getting vaporized, and certainly no more memories of the insidious pain I endured for months.
No more anything.
I wondered what my family would think when they got the news I'd killed myself. Would they be relieved? Would they be guilt-ridden? Or would they just ignore it the way they'd ignored me?
I'd used legal services through the Marine Corps to make a small will to distribute my estate should anything have happened to me while I was deployed. Because I was smitten with Maria and was pretty sure we'd be married quickly when I came back, I'd left it all to her. I hadn't even bothered to fucking change it, so if I put that gun to my head and pulled the trigger, she'd get all my money.
I wondered if she'd get my prosthetic leg too.
I snorted at the thought, and then started laughing. It lasted only a second, dulled into chuckles, and then left nothing but a placid smile on my face. The oxy had kicked in, and I was feeling pleasantly mellow.
Dropping the gun to the cushion beside me, I closed my eyes and floated.
I wouldn't be killing myself today.
Chapter 28
Present day …
Wow.
Not feeling any pain and that's oh so nice. Whatever gas they're pumping into me via this mask on my face is working well. My head lolls to the left, and the anesthesiologist gives me an encouraging smile. I only know this because his eyes crinkle up, and I can see his jaw moving beneath the paper mask he's wearing.
My head lolls right, and the nurse gives me a wink. She's cute. I think. Nice eyes.
"Okay, we're ready to begin, Christopher," the doctor says, and I have to lift my head slightly to look down my body at the doctor. My torso, hips, and left leg are covered in a blue sheet. But my right leg is exposed, swollen, and bruised with open wounds running the length. Knobby protrusions indicate broken bone trying to poke through skin. I try to wiggle my toes, but they won't move. Then again, I'm not feeling any pain right now so maybe I can't control my leg.
The doctor reaches over to a tray and picks up a butter knife. I can see an etched pattern on the handle, and I think my mom used to have a set of flatware like that. He holds it up and the operating room light glints off it, hitting me right in the eye. I wince slightly. But then the doctor moves the knife toward my thigh, and I focus in on it.