disclaimer: i don't own trauma team, samuel trumbull, or the song soldier boy. and no, the title is not a reference to the rap song. it's the 1950's song made by the shirelles.
Silence. Yes, it was quiet, no matter the blaring engine of the huge military-provided airplane or the air whipping against it. There was no such thing as sound at that moment, and nothing could convince young Samuel Trumbull otherwise.
There were but three things on his mind: his long-last freedom, the surrealism of his aliveness, and his family.
His family.
The same family of his that had may or may not have waited almost a year for him, for this very day. That same daughter of his who may or may not have remembered who he was. That same wife of his who may or may not have moved on by now.
That's right, they didn't think he was ever coming home; the military sought no reason to do anything in their power to keep him alive, and so they had generously gone ahead and informed them of his 'death' ahead of time. They didn't know that he'd heal. He didn't know that he'd heal.
Of course, all of his good luck came with consequence. He shook real hard, maybe you could even call it convulsing. Sometimes he blacked out; was out cold for hours on end, somewhat resemblant of narcolepsy. He barely got any sleep anymore when he wanted it, either. He had the everlasting feeling of needing to be sick from the moment he laid down to the moment he stood up. Even if he could finally rest without wanting to puke... he still couldn't sleep.
He wasn't the same person that he was before coming here.
He was hardened. He wasn't the polite, quiet, gentlemanly 27-year-old that he was before. He was tough now, or at least in some respects. He looked it, too. His eyes were as cold as ice and he rarely looked people in their own anymore.
He was always paranoid. Jumpy. He needed to defend himself- to know that he wouldn't be killed. He listened. He made sure that he couldn't hear anything, and that's why he never slept. Because his mind was always telling him that there was an enemy approaching, but he'd get up and there never was.
His wife would, without a doubt, notice his gruff yet vulnerable demeanor, he was sure of it. His daughter would never be able to meet the real Samuel Trumbull. The non-robotic and heartfelt Sam who was full of life. He doubted she'd even remember him in her whole three-and-a-half years of life.
He was nervous. He didn't think he'd be able to hold his tears back if his wife didn't love him anymore. His heart would break if his daughter didn't know who her daddy was.
yes, i know how ridiculously short chapter one was, but it seemed really unorganized when i put chapter one and two together, so i separated them!
i'm also pretty rusty, i haven't written anything since november, so i know it's not very good!
