Fisher's Light(31)

I grab the bag from the counter and try not to give her the stink eye when I tell her I’ll talk to her later. We say our goodbyes and Stanford and I walk away, heading across the street to the beach.

“I’m sorry about that. My mother is…”

“Protective of her one and only daughter?” Stanford asks with a laugh. “It’s okay, I’m a big boy. I can handle it. As long as you’re okay, I’m okay.”

I tighten my hold on his arm and rest my head on his shoulder, just for myself this time instead of for show. This man really is charming and kind and I should be thrilled that he wants to be with me. I need to stop comparing him to someone else and enjoy learning about him and, like he said, see where this thing takes us. As we walk down the stairs to the boardwalk on the sand, I decide that is exactly what I’m going to do. I don’t care what anyone in this town thinks, I’m going to do what makes me happy.





Chapter 13




Fisher’s Therapy Journal

Memory Date: April 8, 2014 – 1:45 PM


“Maybe we should look into counseling again.”

Lucy’s words over breakfast run on a loop in my head. Tossing back another shot of whiskey, I hurl the empty glass across the kitchen. It shatters against the cupboards and the pieces scatter across the floor.

I’m broken, just like those f*cking pieces of glass. I know it, and now Lucy knows it. Counseling isn’t going to work, nothing is going to work. She looked at me this morning with pity and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t want her f*cking pity.

I hear a loud bang outside and drop to the floor, covering my head with my arms. My breath comes out in gasps as I lie there waiting to hear the sound of gunfire and the sting of a bullet piercing my skin. When no sound and no pain come, I open my eyes and realize I’m lying on the kitchen floor.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you, you stupid *?” I mutter to myself as I push up from the floor and stalk over to the counter to grab another glass and the half-full bottle of whiskey. I pour the amber liquid halfway up the glass and down the entire thing in one swallow.

She can’t be here anymore, she can’t see me like this. She’s just kidding herself if she thinks me sitting in an office with some quack in a suit judging me and what I’ve been through is going to help me. I’m beyond help. The faster she realizes that, the faster she can get the hell out of here and away from me.

My hands shake as I forego the glass and just bring the bottle of whiskey right up to my mouth. A creaking from somewhere upstairs makes me jerk the bottle away from my lips. I smack it down on the counter, get into a crouch and quietly move through the house, darting in between doorways and silently racing up the stairs, just like I was taught. The only thing missing is the heavy weight of my rifle in my hand.

“WHO THE FUCK IS UP THERE?” I shout, as I get halfway up the stairs. “I WILL END YOUR SORRY LIFE, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Kicking in the bedroom door, I charge into the room, seeing desert sand and Humvees in front of me instead of a bed and a dresser. I drop to the sand and army crawl, knowing I’ll be safe if I can just get to the convoy. Reaching down to my side to grab my gun, I feel nothing. I don’t have my weapon. Why in the f*ck am I without a weapon? A Marine should never be without his weapon. I hear gunfire and explosions in the distance and I crawl faster, keeping my body low and my head down.

“COVER ME! SOMEBODY FUCKING COVER ME!” I scream as I claw at the sand and move as fast as I can.

My head smacks into a desert rock and I close my eyes and shake the pain away. When I open them again, I see cream carpet under my body and a king-sized bed covered in pale blue blankets right in front of my face. Not sand, not a rock, not a Humvee and not a convoy. Nothing but the bedroom I share with my wife.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, my God, what the f*ck is happening to me?” I mutter as I push myself up from the floor and take in my surroundings, blinking to make sure what I’m seeing is real.

“I have to get her out of here. She can’t be here anymore,” I mumble as I race to the closet and pull two suitcases from the top shelf. Running over to the bed, I toss them on top and quickly unzip them, flipping them open.

I go to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and grabbing socks, bras, underwear, whatever I can fit into my arms, before I race back to the bed and dump everything in to the first suitcase.

“Fisher, what the hell are you doing?”

The voice from the doorway startles me and I jump, automatically reaching down to my side for my gun. When I see Lucy standing there staring at me in confusion, I almost drop to my knees with the force of my shame. I reached for my gun. I reached for my f*cking gun! If it had been there instead of locked up in a gun case in the living room, I could’ve shot her. I could’ve pulled it on her and put a bullet right through her chest.