One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [41]
I hate the rage, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It won’t go away. I’ve tried. I’ve seen doctors and gone to support groups, but nothing quenches it. I’ve talked to guys who say they used to be in the same boat as me, who lost their wife to cancer, or their family in a plane crash, and they say the pain will dull, the rage will dissipate. They mean well, but they’re wrong. It hasn’t dulled one bit. I think it’s because they aren’t in the same boat as me. They had their pain thrown on them without being asked. I earned every sorry bit given to me. They lost their family to fate or God. I killed mine.
If I had listened to Heather and hadn’t done that final tour, they’d be alive. Shit, I could have done the tour and simply come home for Angie’s birthday—like I promised—and they’d be alive. Simple as that. Because of it, my punishment is a rage that’s hard to quantify. A blackness that wants to eat me. Wants to eat everything, spreading its rotting hatred until the entire world is burning. I don’t think it will ever go away. It’s hard enough just to control. It sits just below the surface, a beast looking to run free. Sometimes I fantasize about letting it loose, about completely giving in to it. I haven’t yet, but it’s hard. Very, very hard.
My residence is my latest attempt to get rid of the pain. I took our savings and bought a sailboat. An extreme fixer-upper. I had this idiotic fantasy that I’d spend my days sanding wood, working on the engine, and live like some dumb-ass hermit at a monastery. In my imagination, the blackness would slowly dissipate the further along I got, until I was some sort of mystical sailor who finally understood the meaning of life. Apparently, that shit only works in the movies.
So far, I haven’t done a single thing with the boat. Well, at least nothing positive. I have managed to turn the galley into a giant garbage can. There are enough pizza boxes and beer cans to keep it afloat if it springs a leak. Last night, I had decided that today would be the day I would begin work on the top deck, sealing it and doing other maintenance. Now, in the morning light, I really didn’t give a shit about my crumbling deck. I’d rather go get a beer. It was my day off from physical training, so I didn’t have anything I really needed to do. I kissed my finger and touched the picture of my family. Who am I kidding? I never have anything I really need to do.
25
Jennifer and Skeeter, along with six other girls, entered the front door of the Windjammer a little after eight at night. The floor was already crowded, but nowhere near as crowded as it would be in a few more hours. At least at this hour they could move around without pushing and could hold a conversation without leaning in and yelling into each other’s ears.
Jennifer had shown up at Skeeter’s condo on the Isle of Palms a little over two hours ago. Skeeter appeared surprised that Jennifer had shown up, and went out of her way to make sure she was settled in, kicking out the coed currently sleeping in one of the guest rooms and giving Jennifer the bed. Surrounded by the other girls having a good time, Jennifer began to feel glad she had come. Now, standing inside the Windjammer, she wasn’t so sure.
Four frat boys stood in the middle of the large dance floor, loud and obnoxious. Jennifer recognized the ringleader. His name was Tad, and he reminded Jennifer of her ex-husband both in looks and attitude. Great. Just what I need to ruin the evening. Tad himself seemed to think it was his destiny to sleep with Jennifer and came on to her at every opportunity. Just ignore him. He’s not your ex-husband. He’s just a loudmouth. She felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Hello . . . are you listening?” said Skeeter.
“Yeah. Sorry. What did you say?”
“What do you want to drink? I’ll