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At first, he could watch Letterman with his dad. Eventually the thoughts began: what is he, a serial killer? The others would never know what it's like to live one hour, sometimes just one minute at a time.
On the turbulent C-140 home, Corporal Washburn didn't know whether he was disintegrating or just truly shook awake for the first time in months. What he missed while stationed abroad was the solidity of US ground; he had had enough of the shifting sands near Baghdad. Touching down in the States, Michael felt at least somewhat cradled, if only in the way his boots engraved this magnificently firm ground with evidence of his survival.
After his tour, Michael's parents treated him like a kind of prized casualty. Even right after the nightmares and still soaked in cold sweat, he wished he could convince them to stop the fuss, to let him be more than a failing, flickering light hit by too much darkness. Somewhere inside him was still an iota of hope they had all missed. It just wasn't in his eyes anymore.
Sleeping home is like going back to the desert where strong winds blew that piercing sand in his eyes. Michael can briefly see a destination, grunts cracking up, and then darkness, another improvised explosive device tearing someone up. And all the roads ahead are still blocked with many other unidentified and uncontrollable things laid down on the way.
*
The life he learned in Iraq was in the moments of awareness of its frailty. Not everyone made mistakes. Some posed with the local kids in autumn-colored photographs, leaving a speck of purpose behind. Some could radiate this pride of fulfilling their duty, making things seem almost as natural as pressing your face against your sweetheart, like you were standing close to something amazing. Michael saw soldiers sacrifice themselves in selfless acts some tool in D.C. is never fit to commemorate. He would die for some of the men he served under.
But nobody told him you can't use a magnetic compass next to a machine gun. They didn't see the mortar shells hit the stronghold, they never did, even after six salvos. The co-ordinates Michael gave missed the insurgents and hit a village three miles east of the target. He had visions of what was left of the them, a faint unified movement until the disintegrated bodies gave up. Kids, mothers, old people in a sea of ash, crimson, and yellow.
*
No Marine should have to beg or lie for help. They warned Michael about the questionnaires having right and wrong answers. This still made him clench his fists.
Every other Tuesday at 9:00 am, between ten to twenty somber men take their seats. Being himself only twenty-five, Michael rarely makes it to the spotlight. So he listens and observes these future versions of himself: old guys torn with survivor's guilt. Unlike Michael they don't drink anymore, but they too can't stand war movies. Michael is already like them in many ways. Some of the guys at the VA have learned to smile again and cherish what remains.
Michael sits there like the three-legged rottweiler he once saw in Iraq, being clubbed to death on main street: lost, beyond driven.
*
One Monday evening, Michael adjusts his red t-shirt as he rings another doorbell. He is well-accustomed to the smell of olives and anchovies, extra cheese and onion. Working now as a pizza-delivery boy, he sees how for many, life's essence is easy to cloud with complacency.
A woman in her late fifties opens without eye-contact, quickly disappearing in his Beverly Hills enclave. A man inside yells:
– Where's my fucking screwdriver? Twenty years and you still don't know any better.. gimme the pizza, damn it, my hands are shaking.
During the panic attacks his mother has over fear of her son's suicide, he just comforts her and promises not to leave before God calls. But deep down he's not sure if the thoughts aren't God's way of calling him home.
The truth is not out there in science, sports, or religion. It's somewhere between the inevitable and the agony. After the mortar shells, Michael was poised to accept the truth behind any consequences, to deal with the darkest shadows of his deepest light.
The thoughts Michael has sometimes transform into long streams of tears, very late, when the hiss of the courtyard trees overtakes everything else. The night then embraces him like ruthless, beautiful music, sending him on another hazardous mission to dreamland.
Michael knows he is a guardian. If he is allowed, he will tread an unknown path to reach a pinnacle within. He had learned so many things about love on his tour, amidst all the fear and chaos. Love is not in reaching for escalating standards of living, hoping the accumulating wealth would finally tower over one's insecurities. Life can't be marketed. Every shard of damaged love, priceless, every returning veteran a piece of a puzzle made to fit somewhere.
Robert Ciesla is a Finnish film director who enjoys writing gritty fiction. He's contributed to Rio Grande Review, Cezanne's Carrot, and Laurahird.com to name a few. His documentary films Broken Elf and Survivor are gaining popularity among indie buffs.