2020-04-25 - Hungry and Hollow for All the Things You Took Away

Despite the fact that he's been out of the military officially for more than a year and unofficially for exactly one year Easton doesn't need an alarm clock to wake him early. His eyes crack open before the first rays of the sun even have a chance to filter into his apartment. He's sitting up in bed when he hears the click and soft hum of the coffee machine turning on in the kitchen. And somewhere between wrapping his knee and the smell of coffee brewing wafting into the room, Easton realizes the date. He glances over at his phone, which is silenced but has already a few messages lighting it up. They are all some variation of "Happy alive day brother" a few more formal, a few less so. But Easton can't even bring himself to read through them, instead just deleting them all.

The walk out to get a cup of coffee should be all accounts be an uninteresting affair. Gunner is still sleeping in the crate in the guest bedroom, the light of morning is just filtering in through the glass doors to the patio illuminating everything in cool pale gray tones. But just as Easton walks through the hallway mirror he is sure that his reflection is wearing not just a pair of olive green boxer briefs but full MARPAT cammies complete with helmet. The glimpse stops him in his tracks and forces him to first look down and then to step back to double check the mirror. Of course this time nothing is amiss other than what he perceives as a slight softness in his middle that means he's tacking on an extra two miles to his run this morning.

But by the time Easton gets to the kitchen he knows that whatever seed that brief glimpse planted has managed to take a least a little bit of root. He stares at the coffee plot and tries to get a grip, it's just another day, there is no difference. But he knows that's not true, deep down. And that's why he's shutting off the coffee pot and opening the fridge. He's halfway through the beer before he even realizes he decided to drink it. He mentally amends his planned run to include an extra three miles instead of two as he finishes the beer.

"Gunner! PT."

The dog is up, with his leash and ready by the door in only a few scant seconds. It is however long enough for Easton to realize he should probably dress before heading out on his run. The run goes fine for the first few miles, the slow warmup and then on into his normal pace. It's not even close to what it once was, but he's accepted that for the most part. His leg still hurts like hell some days and he's accepted that too. It's been two years exactly to the day since the accident and he tries to remind himself that he's moving forward, that he's getting his life together or at least a life. A new life.

The HUMVEE rolling down the road is the same model as what the Marines drove. The one that lacked the proper under carriage shielding to protect it's passengers from buried IEDs. In fact Easton knows even at a hundred yards that it's not only the same model, it's the exact same HUMVEE they were driving. And all he can do is clench his jaw and keep running.

The HUMVEE passes and with a long focused exhale so does the tightness building in Easton's chest. And slowly with each set of uneven footfalls that drag his body through the run he can start to close that mental wound that keeps getting picked at back up. The blaring music helps, the fact that Gunner is happily plodding along beside him helps, the fact that he is half a world away from the dessert heat and currently ensconced in a cool fog even helps all of that feel like it's far away. And it is. Two years is a lot of time he reminds himself.

He considers all of those things as the shower washes away the grime of his run. Seated on the bench the water pours over his head and the rhythm of the water hitting the tile floor helps keep him in the here and now. What does not help is when he gets dried off only to see himself in the mirror, this time not dressed in fatigues but in dress blues. He's clean shaven and carrying a folded flag. And he can't make himself look away as the scene in the mirror shows him delivering that flag to a grieving Jenny and Doug, Tom's widow and son. It's a scene that never happened, but it hasn't stopped Easton from thinking about it. Imagining it. Knowing that it's how it should have gone. He should have been there. At the very least.

"Fuck off" Easton growls at the scene playing in the mirror but still has to look away when he sees Jenny and Doug both trying hard to keep it together. He storms out of the bathroom and dresses as quickly as he can manage to get out of the house and down to the bar.

The bar is only a few blocks away but Easton usually drives still. The fact that maybe today wasn't the day to do so doesn't really strike him until he's pulling out onto the road from the parking lot and he can feel reality start to shift around him. And suddenly he's not the one driving, he's in the passenger seat. It's still his Jeep and it's very much in the same spot but now behind the wheel is Tom. He's dressed in his combat uniform, sunglasses on and in the midst of telling that same story.

"So he gets half the pineapple shoved up his ass in pieces.."

Easton sucks in breath, trying to force himself to stay calm when it dawns on him to scan the road for an IED. There's no sign of the tell tale bag of garbage that hid the actual bomb that took Tom's life and Easton's leg, but it doesn't bring any sense of relief. Instead Easton turns back to try and talk with Tom, to find out if he's a ghost, if he's gone, if this is just some memory video version of him but there's no one there. Which consequently means there is no one driving the Jeep.

Easton manages to steer the Jeep off to the side of the road, without hitting anything and then awkwardly climb over into the driver's seat. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that it's over. But just to be safe he decides to pull the Jeep right back around and walk today. That's probably for the best.

A few more cigarettes than he planned to smoke later, Easton shows up at the bar and pulls in a big breath and slowly releases it. He looks around the bar, thankful to see only the usual patrons, no marines or hostiles or anything of his old life waiting to haunt him. But he only gets a few steps into the bar before he can clearly hear De La Vega's voice asking him, "You ever wish it was you, instead of him?" An echo from an earlier time. Easton knows Gunny wasn't at the mental wheel at the time and he didn't have any trouble moving past it, but it turns out forgiving was one thing, forgetting might be another. He shakes his head, trying to stop himself from going down that hole.

"Ate the IED, so Tom could live."

Easton has to stop, feeling the tightness crushing his chest like he's being squeezed in some giant hand. He tries to breath deep but can only get a few short ragged breaths. He doesn't care that people are starting to look at him now. He pushes his way into the office and slams the door just in time to hear the question, "You ever fuck his wife?" Which takes the breath out of him all over. He slumps back against the door and shakes his head, trying to figure out a way to stop this from playing out.

Easton manages to keep it together still. He ignores the fact that he can't deny that last question. He ignores the fact that he has to spend every day for the rest of his life knowing that it's one more than Tom will never see. He tries to focus on his breathing. He opens the bottom drawer of the desk and finds his bottle empty. With a groan, he clenches his jaw, walks out to the bar, grabs a bottle with a look on his face that clearly is not open to any questions or comments from anyone about it and walks back to his office. The door is shut with a little more vigor than necessary but not quite slammed.

The bottle however is slammed. Easton rips off the top and takes a choking few gulps before holding in a now unsteady hand.

And that's when he notices he's not alone in the office. There lying on the floor is Tom.

More precisely there is Tom, laying in the same position he was in after being ejected from the HUMVEE after the explosion.

The bottle drops to the floor, followed shortly by Easton.

There is no breathing now that can help, in fact there is no breathing at all.

Easton falls down to his hands and knees and can't take his eyes off a badly burned and obviously dying Tom. It plays out just like it did that day in Afghanistan with one notable exception. When Tom manages to speak, to tell his friend his final words, Easton's ears aren't damaged from the explosion. He can clearly hear:

"You can't change the rules. Take care of them for me.."

And the shock of hearing that, of knowing what he said rips through him. Easton grabs for him, knowing it's not real but not caring anyway and even as his fingers touch the burning hot fabric the body fades away into nothingness. Leaving Easton alone.

Easton manages to grab the bottle, still pouring it's contents haplessly into the carpet. He takes another gulp and leans against his desk, well aware that he's not going to breath or meditate his way out of this one. But now when he closes his eyes he doesn't see Tom's body or Jenny and Doug at the funeral or the bag of garbage hiding an IED. He sees the words of a brave, young and dead Marine Sergeant, that he never personally met but only knew through stories, written on the walls of a mud hut.