Something Like That

Chapter Eighteen

Warning: chapter contain mentions of suicide, death, and self-harm

A/N: let me know what you guys think about Derek's time in the military


The black-haired man was tense as a pulled bowstring, cautious even as he began to weave his life out in front of her in a tapestry of red and black and gray. He kept his eyes closed the entire time he spoke, his voice low and deep, a gravelly quality compared to his normal rumble.

Tori didn't interrupt.

Simon kept his eyes on his brother.

Chloe listened, enraptured and quiet, as Derek spoke about the crippling anxiety and loneliness that stained his childhood, the outsider within the bonds of blood.

"It wasn't until I hit seventh grade I realized that I just wasn't normal," he said calmly, his head bowed, and long locks of black hair fell across his closed eyelids. His nostrils flared slightly as he sucked his top lip flush against his teeth. "While Simon and Tori flourished, I floundered. I knew adults were weary of me even at that age, and it only became more apparent as I grew older. I was bigger, stronger, faster than most kids in my grade, and that? That made me dangerous."

Much to Chloe's astonishment, there was no emotion in his voice as he spoke, as dutifully and clinically as if speaking of the weather.

Where was the man who had exploded not unlike a firecracker and viciously verbally attacked both her and his sister? Where was the fire that she'd seen when he'd spoken of his father seeing a woman?

This couldn't be the same man who'd given her a twisted smile and was proud of the split lip and black eye he'd readily gotten as a way to blow off steam about his father.

Still she listened.

"As a teenager, I very quickly realized if people saw me as dangerous, then I'd be left alone. I was never one for socializing so I saw it was a reprieve but that was the worst. Left alone with my thoughts. But Zachary was there for me in a way no one had been before; I know Kit tried but there was never that closeness—it wasn't the same as having my dad. But even he couldn't understand how dark my mind could get. So I thought I could run."

He shifted, running his hands through his hair, that bangs that fell way into his eyes. Swallowing hard, he scrubbed his face before he continued, eyes on the floor, avoiding direct eye contact with anyone. "Before I joined the military, I disappeared. The only times I went outside my little apartment was when I went to work or my college classes, and it was okay for a while. I've never been the most social person, and, well, I thought I would be fine by myself, a hermit I guess and finally, it was like something inside me snapped."

Chloe watched the three closely.

Derek had his head down, eyes closed, arms braced on his thighs; despite everything his posture was rather relaxed.

Tori leaned forward, her shoes clunking off her feet loudly, watching with large eyes, largely silent. Her breathing was easy and even, her legs tucked underneath her without the obstacle of her shoes in the way.

Simon complexion was ruddy, his nostrils flared and chin tipped up and the way he clenched and unclenched his hands spoke to his brewing anger; she'd never seen him lose his temper.

Clearing his throat slightly, Derek continued. "Zachary knew this guy, a recruiter, and helped me get in. It wasn't entirely bad and I finally felt like I found a place of my own, my people I guess."

Simon looked ready to interrupt but, sharing a glance at Chloe who shook her head, he held his tongue.

"The men were my brothers. I couldn't have asked for a better unit. My first deployment was pretty quiet, and when I came back home, I resurfaced. I felt new, not completely whole because, despite what they say, time doesn't heal wounds, and I reached out to Kit." His demeanor had become light-hearted while talking about his first trip but soon it grew serious again, his familiar scowl and drawn eyebrows returning. "My second deployment…It…I held some of my closest brothers together while we waited for a medic and held their hand while they were sewn up only to bleed out."

His pale face turned white.

"That's why I didn't talk very much after my second deployment. Their blood was on my hands. Everyone who looked at me would know—would know I couldn't save them. That's when the nightmares started and then there would be days where I didn't sleep. My head was a nasty, ugly place the longer I stayed, and I finally decided I wanted out by my fifth deployment." He licked his lips, grinding the heel of his palms into his eyes.

Chloe couldn't help the way she stared; it was the most emotion he'd shown all afternoon.

"I…my last deployment…One of my brothers, Peter, was a pretty nervous guy. You wouldn't believe he was active duty for three years. I'd made it my job to be the one to lean on for every man. Some nights they'd wake me up at three AM because their minds wouldn't shut off and I'd stay and talk with them. Sometimes they just wanted someone to be there. Peter had never shown any signs, no off-looks, no giving away possessions, nothing. I was making my rounds when I heard him muttering to himself, several yards away from the site, and I made my way to him." He stopped, shuddering as he clenched his jaw, dug his thick fingers into his knees. "Peter…had spoken briefly of his home life. His girlfriend of ten years was expecting. He'd had to bury his mom last spring. But he never talked about his depression or suicidal thoughts."

Simon sucked in a shocked breath.

"Peter. Peter Ricci. He had his entire life ahead of him, and he just—maybe it was the job, maybe it was his depression. He had his gun. Pressed it to his head. I couldn't move fast enough, couldn't stop him, and god, I still wake up sometimes, thinking about that night, his face, think about what I could've done differently. We couldn't just leave him so we buried a shallow grave and made the call. The rest of the mission got worse. We were bombed, fired at, and couldn't save civilians. Have you ever held a baby in your arms, watching her life slip away? Have you ever comforted a grieving mother because you couldn't save her children?"

Derek's exhale was shaking. "The deployment was…horrible start to finish but I think the worst was the civilians I couldn't save, seeing their faces, knowing I couldn't do anything for them. When I got home, I couldn't sleep. Food tasted like vomit. My nightmares, few and far between, were nightly occurrences. Distractions that worked before—the gym, my job, shit like that—couldn't pull me out of this dark headspace, so I turned to…pain. Thought maybe I could make the mess in my head better by marking pain into me. Didn't work."

Now that she thought about, she'd never really seen his skin. Not his wrists or his forearms or his biceps.

As if in response to the question, he pulled off his jacket, revealing his cotton, black t-shirt, and his muscular forearms. He was so pale, it took a second for Chloe's eyes to spot the discrepancies in his complexion, those silvery, hypertrophic scars that lay on his skin as a testament to his pain—a topographical map of agony and self-hatred and depression.

"And now I'm here, in your office, and this is me. Scarred inside and out. And you know the story." With a long sigh, his eyes met Chloe's.

"The floor is yours, Simon," was all she said.