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wanderingtiff · 8 years

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The Unsung Battle of Bravery Rated R18 Content Tags: Period - War in Iraq, PTSD, Military Elements, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Alcohol, Explicit Sexual Content, Character Death, Anxiety, Grief/Loss, Depression Table of Contents - TBA

After coming out as gay in a small town in the middle of nowhere, war veteran Arlo Paxton is forced to leave and move to the Pacific Northwest for a better life. He has wanted to choose a new career path for himself, but the trauma that has plagued him keeps him from finding a new calling. When he moves in, he is suggested to take up a small job as a librarian, which leads into a building relationship and a strong urge to tell his story to a person that he could protect from the harshness of life.

Welp, this is the first chapter of my NaNoWriMo 2016 novel! I want my followers and mutuals to take a look at my content before I officially send it top publishers. This novel is a NaNoWriMo winner with almost 60,000 words by the end of November! I’ve worked hard on this piece, so I hope you guys enjoy it! I will be posting chapters after I finish cleaning and editing them.

Cheers!

Nothing really just “hits” me, like how other people describe their sudden realizations. The fact that I had been critically injured on the battlefield didn’t “hit” me. The fact that when I woke up that first morning after my coma and saw that my right arm had been replaced with a profuse amount of bandages covering a stub didn’t “hit” me. After I came home and was caught holding and kissing my best friend for comfort after experiencing the loss and trauma of losing my loved one on the front lines, it didn’t “hit” me when people started ostracizing me and criticizing me, even though I had risked my own life to protect these people.

For me, it feels more like shattered glass. Every time I try and pick the pieces up and put them back together again, there would be more shattered glass in its place. If I stepped too close to the situation, I’d cut myself further than any realization ever could.

War is ugly. There is no denying that. A lot of bad things happen that no one would ever wish to pass onto. I’m sure if there really was another way to settle a crucial and necessary discourse, our ancestors would have adopted that thousands of years ago.

I don’t like to think of why there has to be a reason for war in the world. And I don’t like the fact that I was there, right on the front lines defending my country. There is no regret felt to this day, but the pain will always be there.

There are nights that I lie awake wondering “Why?” There are times when I go down the street and see everything that I saw on those terrible days and nights. I will see everything that I’ve done. Everything that happened to my fellow soldiers. It will always be there.

When I wore my uniform at the airport leaving Wyoming, everyone was smiling at me and thanking me for my service. They were telling me that they were sorry that I lost my arm and that everything was going to be okay in the long run. I’ll “see.” Well, tell that to the people of my own hometown, where they treated me like an outcast as soon as I kissed a man, let alone slept with one.

By the way, my friend stopped talking to me after that incident.

It sickens me to see that people will spit in my face for one thing about my character and then praise me with the highest honor for the other. I don’t know who to trust anymore.

When I landed in Oregon, thousands of miles away from my hometown, there was already a major change. The atmosphere is different, the people are different, and just the whole area itself is a lot stranger than where I originally came from. I guess this is what people like to call “culture shock,” but I just think that any time I move to a new place I’ll get at least a fraction of unease since I have no idea where anything is or who to talk to.

I guess I should give you a little bit of background about myself. Sure, now I can just say modestly that my name is Arlo and be done with it, but back at my platoon, I was known as Corporal Arlo Paxton, the “Sweet One.” Ever since my first day of training, I never really liked to yell or cause a huge commotion. A lot of the lower ranks as I moved up made fun of me for that little quirk, but that hasn’t fazed me since high school.

I feel like I’m the most diligent in my contributions once I’m on the battlefield. I don’t know how else I could’ve gotten as far as I have. When I was out there, I was just focused on staying alive, protecting my platoon. At that time, it didn’t matter how many enemy soldier’s I’ve killed or how often I’d gotten shot at. If everyone on our rosters made it back to our camp for role call at the end of the day, that was all that mattered to me.

There was always this rush when I was out there. I’ve felt so much adrenaline going through the motions, and I look at myself back when I was a Private and realize that I was a totally different person then. But after I’d gotten wounded… I didn’t know what else I could be capable of doing.

I don’t know what I was originally thinking when I joined the Army. Of course, I will never regret defending my country in the way that I did, but I can’t take back any lives lost, no matter how many times people try to shame me. And I can’t change the way that I am, either.

After I’d left Portland International Airport, I’d gotten into a cap and called the landlady of the apartment building I was going to so that she knew I was coming. The building is about six floors, and I just so happen to be on the top floor. I hope not a lot of people live on that floor.

The cab driver saw me go to the trunk, and I’m grabbing my multiple bags. Or at least I’m trying to, on account of my arm. But the driver stops me, of course, coming up to me and trying to take my stuff away to hold it all himself. I guess he’s trying to help, but I’ve wanted to do this myself.

“Thank you, but I’ve got it,” I tell him while taking one of my suitcases back.

He looks at me with this distraught look on his face. “But you shouldn’t have to get all this at once, Sir.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.” As I repeat that again, I’m gritting my teeth. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me anymore. I’ve had enough of that on the flight here.

He lets me take two trips to my new apartment, and I open my bags now that I’m by myself. I have to prove myself to strangers everywhere I go. I hate it, and I’m sure that most other people hate it as much as I do. But of course, they’re not going to really say anything.

My landlady really is a nice person. I feel a little bad, because I’m just going through the motions, almost robotically, while Ms. Patrice is trying to interact with me in a friendly manner. I don’t typically care too much for human interaction right now, after spending days trying to get out of my hometown and hours getting here and going through the traffic on the way to this apartment. I just listen to her talk about the utilities and rent, and I know that I have to get a job. But honestly, who is going to hire me? I have an Associate’s Degree in General Education from the community college I went to, but that’s not enough for a steady job.

“Mr. Paxton, what do you plan on making your career?”

Ms. Patrice makes me look up once she asks me that question. “I don’t know.”

“Well, did you have any previous passions before you sent to war?”

“I guess I’ve always wanted to be a writer?” I’m pretty indifferent about it. “I liked expressing myself and my ideas back in high school. But that sounds like a pretty childish career, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she shrugs. “I think you could be a great writer. I’m sure you have a lot of stories to tell.”

“Not enough to write a book about it.”

She goes over to the window looking over some of the city. “You know, there’s a library not too far away from here. You can apply there and start yourself off. The jobs are fairly easy, and not a lot of stress involved. And it offers enough to pay rent and still have finances left over. I think you’d like that, as a nice change.”

“I’ve never thought of being a librarian,” I chuckle. So far, I’m considering this a downgrade.

“Their application is online. I’ll put in a good word for you, okay?” she smiles and moves back. “Don’t worry. Just consider this a good deed after moving into a new neighborhood.”

I perk my head up. “Hm?”

“I’m sure you’re sick and tired of people constantly forcing their help onto you because they feel sorry for you. Am I wrong?”

“Not… technically,” I say back to her.

She grins. “Rent and utility is all due on the last day of every month. And if you plan on having a service dog, it’s an exception to the ‘No Pets’ rule, and I can accommodate if you put a request in my office.”

“I appreciate that you’re being considerate of that, but I’m not getting a service dog any time soon,” I tell her. “I’m allergic to dogs.”

“Oh. Okay. Less paperwork for me,” she smiles. “I think you’ll like living here very much. Welcome to Portland.”

“Thank you, Ms. Patrice.”

“Good night, Mr. Paxton.”

After she leaves, I can get right back to work with organizing my apartment. None of my furniture is coming until the end of the week, so I’m sleeping on a couple blankets tonight. Not that it makes much of a difference.

My computer’s charging, and I look out the window to watch the rush hour outside. There are people walking around outside my place, and I guess that’s because other neighbors are coming home from their jobs.

What is this job as a librarian going to be like? What would they let me do? Yes, I say let, because lately I’m just being held back all the time. They better not just make me stay at the checkout desk. I’d be bored as hell, out of my mind.

At around eight at night, there’s some arguing going on outside. It’s coming right from beyond the door. I’m guessing the two of them are a couple. One of them is screaming while the other is trying to talk and sounds upset.

I suddenly hear a shove against the door, and I flinch away from my computer. I’m forced away from my spot on the floor, and everything goes by in flashes. The banging on the door reminds me of a dark time in the past recent years. When we’re barricading different buildings to stay protected, or when enemy soldiers are so determined to get through our defenses that they start breaking down the doors—walls, even.

My mind is racing, and I hoist myself up ad storm over to the door. As soon as I open it, someone falls right down in front of me. The man that had caused all this is looking at me in shock.

“Sorry… I thought nobody lived here.”

“I just moved in,” I mutter and help the other guy up. “And I clearly see a problem here when someone is overpowering their partner like this. I don’t appreciate the way that you are treating him. Now if you don’t get away from my apartment within the next ten seconds, I’ll slap you around with my good arm.”

I guess he’s more intimidated by my semi-uniform more than by my threat. I don’t really blame him, though. He does run off, not before proclaiming that I’m a “freak,” and the man that I just rescued from that assailant is leaning against the wall. He looks at me with these sad eyes.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, sounding more defeated than grateful.

“You’re welcome,” I smile. “I’m not really as scary as I might’ve sounded. Honest.”

“That’s comforting,” he chuckles and starts drying his eyes. “I really mean it. Every other day, it’s like the other neighbors completely ignore us when we’d get like that. Especially out in the hall.” He sighs, looking a little better than before. “Don’t worry. After what happened just now, he’s not coming back here anymore.”

“Good for you,” I smile. “I’m Arlo. Corporal Arlo Paxton. Er, formerly ‘corporal,’ I guess now, but you get the idea.”

“I do,” he smiles. “My name is Owen. Owen Stein I live right across the hall.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Owen.” I go to reach my right arm out, forgetting that it’s completely down from the elbow down for a second there. “Oops.” I find myself smiling while correctly holding out my left hand for a handshake. “Sorry.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” he grins. “I’m guessing that you were... originally left-handed?”

“You have no idea how hard it was to figure out a new legal signature,” I quickly tell him. “My left hand’s so weak compared to how my right hand was, so physical therapy mostly involved me relearning how to write.”

“I can imagine that’s really tough.” Owen frequently looks at his own apartment door while he’s talking to me. I hope he isn’t too uncomfortable. “I’d better get back inside. I gotta cook dinner.”

“You go ahead,” I insist. “By the way, I originally came here from Wyoming. Well, in case you wanted to know a little bit more about your crazy one-armed neighbor.”

He laughs at my small joke. “Interesting,” he smiles and walks out of my apartment. “Well, see ya around. Cpl. Arlo Paxton from Wyoming.”

“Yeah...” The apartment door closes behind him as quickly as he’d opened it. “...Owen Stein from Apartment Number 624.”

At least I’d made one friend since I’d gotten here. I don’t really count the cab driver, because he seems a little too sympathetic. And Patrice is my landlady. I can’t really befriend her without the fear of eventually making my living arrangements awkward. So I really am glad that I met Owen.

Later on that night, I apply for the job at the library. It was a little hard to find the application page, since I’m not too savvy with the internet. I never really grew up with it back at home. But when the application does go through, I feel a little bit better about myself.

I’m ready to start a new chapter in life. I’m ready to put everything in the past behind me and start fresh, so long as everyone around here lets me grow at my own place, that is. I’ve heard that Portland, Oregon is a pretty cool place. Everyone is much more accepting here when it comes to sexuality and identity, and no matter what your background is, you’ll always find the perfect niche that you belong to. At least, I’m hoping all of that works out for me.

I turn my computer off once it’s about ten o’clock at night, and I go into my pretty much empty bedroom. I have a few blankets set up as a makeshift bed, and I lie down on the roughly carpeted surface. I’ve slept on much worse. And besides, it’s not like I’m going to be sleeping tonight anyways. I don’t really like to anymore.

Every time I dream, I go back to the endless deserts and excruciating haze while adjusting to dehydration. I’ll be honest, every time I go back through dreams and flashbacks, I’m just reminded more about how much I’ve truly hated it but kept my hatred suppressed at the time. I hated being in that environment, I hated going through those deserts, and I hated that we were stationed in a place where I knew I shouldn’t have been in.

It was constant death from both sides, and there was always so much blood that made me queasy and uncomfortable. Even as I moved up in ranks, it had always been awful to me. Dismembered bodies everywhere, agonized cries, commands in different languages, screams declaring that death shall fall upon each of us...

I can’t take it anymore.

It’s two o’clock in the morning, now. I stay awake the rest of the night.

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#flute writes words #the unsung battle of bravery #r18 writing #ptsd

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