Headlights(3)

I get my twenty, swing, and land on the carpet. See myself, moving through the space, since day one. See myself change. I was thirty when I got here. I’d just lost everything.

Those first two years were spent just trying to get past the failure. And by get past, I guess I mean become properly acquainted with it, learn to accept its enduring presence in my life. The unsolvable case, the divorce. Everything that led to both. My adoptive—but real in every way that counts—parents, gone, taken from me in an instant. That’s of course without touching any of the deep past stuff. Which I don’t think about anymore. Which I never think about.

Today is the first—

I push harder.

I can’t believe I didn’t kill myself. It would’ve solved so much, at least for me. Mostly didn’t do it because of Josie. I knew she’d picture me drinking over the divorce papers, fantasizing about blowing my brains out—which I did … drink and fantasize—and then finally going through with it. She’d carry that weight forever. And I’ve put her through enough already.

But maybe the real reason, the one that got all the way through to me, was because he hasn’t done it yet. Rotting in his cell in Sterling and pushing through, day after day. And if he hasn’t, then I sure as shit won’t either.

Still, the music. There, just at the edges. Hovering, between atoms, between breaths, slipping through the walls and into my skin. It’s not the worst song. The one I won’t even let myself think the name of, the one that played that night. But still, today …

Could she be—

I slam my hand against the pull-up bar. The fuck is wrong with me.

I run the shower. I’m here. In this bathroom, in this apartment. Bright lights. Mostly clean toilet. White cabinets. The giant empty spot above the sink where the mirror was before I ripped it out on day one. I buzz my hair and use an electric shaver on my face so I don’t have to look at myself. I’ve got a system. And like my reserve status, it keeps me feeling sharp. Ready. I step under the spray, let the bathroom fill with steam. Feet on porcelain. Water on my face. John Denver— The third year here, I chased a sense of purpose. An idea. Be of service again. Find a way to help the world when I was so fucking useless for so long. I’ve been a reservist for years, ever since I got back from my second tour. One weekend a month going out to Aurora from Denver, then Riverton from Salt Lake, to put on my cammies and stay in the fight. A big circle jerk of dudes who want to punish themselves and play Rambo, who just can’t let it all go. One boot out the door. Josie always hated it, that I wouldn’t just quit. But how do you explain how hard it is to come back to normal life after being there? You can’t. Come back, or explain it. Still, she used to keep my Bronze Star with a V on the wall where everyone could see it. I don’t know where it is now. Doesn’t matter.

The big plan. Decided to reactivate. Fly out to Camp Pendleton and train and do one last tour to prove that I can be something useful to this world. To be back in the line of fire, to feel alive in a way I just can’t in myself anymore. Helping, trying.

Today is—

I squeeze my eyes shut and scrub the shampoo in harder, turn the water temperature up.

This last year, the fourth year. Pursuing the goal. Putting one foot in front of the other. Each day, pressing farther forward and farther away from the past. The Bureau holds no joy anymore, could never hold anything but pain and shame and fucking helplessness. But I’ve worked, every day. I’ve shown up. I breathe and I eat and I say hi or nod to anyone who passes. I exercise. I go to bed and wake up and drink coffee and get dressed, and I do it knowing there is an end in sight. Another tour. Another shot at making a difference.

And even … I don’t let myself think it all the time. Hardly ever. It seems too good to be true, and if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that if something seems that way it probably is. But … the secret hope, the real dream.

When my next tour is done, when I’ve done my part and proved that I can be of even minor use to someone somewhere in this world—assuming I walk out alive—I’ll finally do it. Head into the mountains. Build myself a cabin. Just me, four walls, and no mirrors. No Bureau, no shadows. A small town nearby, maybe a couple buddies at the local dive. Fires in the woodstove. Even a dog. I’ve always wanted to rescue one, and I don’t care what it looks like, just a four-legged creature to walk with me and share my dinner. Hell, I’ll take three legs, whatever. If I make it that far, maybe then I can just … live. Whatever that means.

I think, briefly, of Whileago Manor. Then I don’t let myself think of it anymore.

Because after today, I’m officially retired from the FBI and headed off once again to report for active duty. Feel the sand in my teeth and the wind on my face.

I inspect my body when I step out of the shower. Thirty-four isn’t twenty-four, but I’ve kept it in check. Meat and veggies, only drinking when I really need it. Which … you know. But I’ve done my best. All the tattoos, probably the most money I’ve spent on anything, besides Josie’s ring. Scenes of a life, this story of mine. Mostly concealed when I’m dressed. Half the time I’m not even sure why I want them on me. This life, these memories. Maybe just want to convince myself that the good stuff actually happened. That I didn’t just dream it up in the darkest moments.

That music, still there, still just—