Storyteller

Unfinished- add on

Rena:

“I don’t want any of this leading back to me,” I gripped my hands together. Sweat slipped down my neck. The images kept appearing. The guy’s face. His eyes boldly staring into mine. His spit piled in front of my door. The way they all ran away like cowards when a distant door opened.

The detectives glanced over at each other. “We’ll see what we can do,” Detective Winter responded, staring at Detective Price for a moment longer.

I felt Matt’s big, coarse hand tenderly on my shoulder, encouraging me to tell what I witnessed. I felt as if I was spilling a secret so unknown to the world, as if I was the only one left who knew about it. Taking a deep breath, I unfolded everything I saw, heard, and felt.

Detective Price carefully leaned forward, his handsome face close to mine. He whispered, “Rena, I want to thank you so much for telling us about this. You’re doing great. I think we have everything we need. Thanks for your help. Make sure you take care of yourself, okay?” He gave me a small smile. I nodded, unsure of all of the information I told him. “You have my card. Call me if you need anything. I’m always here to help.”

Matt stood up, his tall body towering over mine. The detectives got up with him and walked over to the door, waiting to be let out. “I’ll be right back,” Matt reassured me and went over to open the door. They were exchanging whispers as I went into my bedroom and rolled into my bed.

When I heard the front door shut, I was already close to sleep. The warm, thick blankets were no longer around me, but my leotard and black parka were. I was upright and packing up my belongings. Everyone had left before me because I had stayed after to make sure I had my pirouettes on key. My ankle throbbed from how it twisted in the performance the day before. Tomorrow was the performance of the year. The Christmas special that everyone in New York went to see. The Nutcracker.

Being Clara was a once in a life time chance. I’d never be able to get my part back if I didn’t work four times as hard as the others. If I made sure every step and jump was exactly on point, I’d have at least some chance of getting into the Joffrey Ballet School. A scout was supposedly going to be watching our last performance, which was the next day. He or she would pick two exceptional dancers to go to the school. I not only wanted it, I needed it desperately. Having classes at Joffrey Ballet School is every ballerina’s dream if they lived in New York. This school had the highest amount of graduates go to work for big companies not only in America, but all around the world. I needed the performance to be perfect.

But I never got the chance. My ankle rolled as I limped through the streets and I collapsed onto the sidewalk, unable to get back up. I felt the sharp pain ice its way up my leg. It caught me off guard and I whined with pain. The next day, I bandaged my ankle and got a cab to drive me to the theater house. The first lesson a ballerina in big shows like these learns is to always- no matter what happens- always have a pleasant look on her face. I went on stage and got through most of the scenes without stumbling and kept most of my weight on my stronger leg.

However, with the last scene, I misplaced my footing and I tumbled to the hard, wooden floor. Excruciating pain sizzled through my veins as I quickly stood up and remained my position. Heat crept up to my cheeks and the back of my neck was full with sweat. I smiled as I blinked my tears away. My heart sunk as I thought of the horror I had just been through. My small chance of getting picked to go to Joffrey Ballet School disappeared when I fell with a loud thud in front of the largest crowd we had- all year.

Matt:

I saw her peacefully sleeping, wondering when the last I ever slept like that was. I furrowed my brows as I remembered the hot and slimy cot I had to sleep in, depending on what you considered sleeping, every night. Everything was just too clear. The heat was suffocating, squeezing sweat out of every pore, dripping onto the hard pillow. Unable to take sufficient breaths, I remember sitting up in the dark. I couldn’t see my hands right in front of my eyes. Had I been blind, I would have no worries sleeping. Each and every moment I tried to close my eyes, the horrid nightmares would jump out in every direction. Pictures of everyone I ended up killing, the thoughts of their families weeping, and the guilt I felt with each bullet that left my gun.

I brought myself back to the present and realized that Rena’s face contorted in her sleep. The same face my mother made when I told her I was leaving. Stepping into a foreign country and committing all of that damage wasn’t what I wanted anyone to know about.

I called up a therapist and arranged to have two sessions a week. At first I was finally relieved that I could get rid of the empty and guilty feelings, but after the first session, I knew it would take a long time before the feelings, if any, disappeared.

Knowing that at any moment, I could be deployed back to the murky countries I left behind scared me the most. It wasn’t about dying that I was worried about. I had signed up in the first place to end my life dying for my country. I would give pride to my family’s name and finally have my dad be proud of me for something. He wouldn’t look at me as the dumb drunk known as his kid, but a true hero. And my mom would never be so happy as to be able to hold me in her arms.

But none of that happened. I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t die, but came back almost untouched physically, but brutally damaged emotionally. Facing a life that I had left to crumble down wasn’t something I had thought about.

On the way home from the unspeakable places, I couldn’t stop thinking that I should have been the guy who died as soon as he stepped foot into the battle field. I should have been the guy who fought in front of the others and was killed, not the kid who somehow miraculously survived each battle because the brave soldiers gave up their lives to save mine.

It might have been comforting that I had survived and was coming home, but it just wasn’t right or fair. I soon realized that I didn’t deserve to have the love and care I received from people I barely knew because I was a veteran. I should have been nobody. I could have been a nobody with a clear conscience and a peaceful mind.

But the nightmares never dwindled. And neither did the guilt.

1. nothingbutadreamer posted this