Page 67 of Proof Of Life
“My name is Weston Wardell, former Sergeant First Class of the United States Army, and I have PTS and a TBI. I hate myself, and I don’t want to live, and I hate myself because I do want to live. I just want to feel like I deserve to. Like I deserve the life I was spared. And I don’t want to disappoint Brandt. I just wanna stop hurting him.” My head drops into my hands. “I just want to stop hurting.”
“I can help you with that,” Brewer promises, and I want to believe him. Maybe I do believe him. And for the first time in a long time, I have hope.
I make my way down the hall, back to the gym, back to Brandt. He takes one look at me and says, “Fuck no, let’s get you home.”
We don’t say much on the drive home, but I can feel his worry, and I’m silently counting how many times he looks at me, checking in to make sure I’m okay. I’m glad to be going home, to a place that finally feels like home, because of him.
He strips me down and gets me into bed, fussing over me like a mother hen, and we cuddle beneath the thick covers. The solid warmth of his body at my back is a reassuring weight, like a security blanket.
“Wes, I need proof of life,” he says in a rough whisper. “I haven’t asked in a while, but I need to know you’re in there.”
“I’m here. I swear I’m here.” His arms come around me, under my arms, and around my chest. “I want this, Reaper. I want to live, I want a life, and I want you, but I want to not hate myself for it.”
“Do you feel this?” he asks, squeezing me. “Do you feel my arms around you? I’m never gonna let go. When we’re fucking eighty years old, I’m still gonna have my arms around you, holding you tight.”
“Three legs,” I rasp.
“Three fucking legs,” he assures me, dropping a kiss to my head.
This past week dragged ass in an endless blur of grueling rehab, doctor appointments, wings and beer with the Bitches after group, and another long day spent hiding under the covers while West suffered with a head-splitting migraine.
Today, after his session with Brewer, he fell into my arms and croaked, “Take me home”, and that’s what I did.
His nerves were stripped raw, his soul bared and exposed. I could see it in his red-rimmed eyes, in the slack expression on his face. The entire drive home was spent in silence, and I was convinced we would have another day in bed until we pulled up in the gravel drive. The supplies we ordered for the Boot Camp had arrived, and not even West's shit day could stop him from getting excited, like a kid on Christmas, when he saw the stacks of cardboard boxes piled up next to our front door.
I grabbed sandwiches and beer, and West grabbed the ammo and our guns, and we set off on a hike down to the area we designated as safe to use for a gun range. It was easy to burn through the emotions stirring up in his gut with each bullet fired from his gun. Even I feel lighter with each squeeze of the trigger. Target practice is my kind of therapy. The warm sun on my bare arms and face, the higher wind velocity from standing on top of a hill, I feel alive and unencumbered by stress and burdens and anxiety. The steel grip of the pistol is warm in my hand, a familiar weight, almost like an extension of my arm. I almost feel like a soldier again.
The sun glints off West’s dark hair, illuminating amber highlights. He stares down the sight of his pistol, lining up his target with one eye closed, and his jaw tenses. The echo of his shot reverberates through the valley and a slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face.
I fucking love you.
That’s what I think as I stare at him. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him in his element, with a gun in his hand and a smile on his face. He resembles the West I used to know; a little bit dangerous, a little bit careless, but always in control. A leader.
“We’ve got five guys signed up for our first weekend outing. Can you believe it?”
“I can, because you promised me it would work, and you wouldn’t dare break your promise,” West replies.
“It’s gonna be great. You and me, doing our thing again, together.”
“That sounds good. Really good.”
A hawk caws overhead. The silence accompanies the thoughts running through my mind.
“I want to tell my mom about us.”
Where the fuck did that come from out of nowhere? West must be thinking the same thing because his face tightens.
“Don’t say shit like that when I’m holding a loaded gun in my hand.”
“That’s not funny,” I chastise, glaring as I lower my pistol.
“I wasn’t joking,” he smirks. He squeezes off another shot, making my ears ring, and then glances at me again. “Oh, come the fuck on, Brandt. You still owe me for the last time.”
“I need you. I need you to do this for me.”
I understand his reluctance to get involved, but why can’t he understand my need to come clean with my parents? To tell them who I am and who I’m in love with? How can we build a future together on lies?
“How do you think she’s gonna take it? Besides the obvious crying jag she’s famous for. And what about your father?”