Flippy was at a loss. He had no idea why, which - paradoxically - only made him more afraid. How could he be afraid, though? - he was a Soldier, for God's sake.
At least, he was a Soldier. The shrapnel that embedded itself in his back and severed his right leg from the knee down, furthermore, brought an end to a fairly illustrious military career. Seven years, he spent in the military: three combat deployments, a Distinguished Service Medal, and four purple hearts were allotted to his name.
He figured, that eventually, things would begin to resettle. They have, in a technical sense, yes. In the 1st year since his discharge, Flippy held a middle-wage job, had a decent home, and even a girlfriend, who - wouldn't you know it? - he had known since his early teens. Despite all of these things - things that some people would kill to have - there was always a lingering emotion that haunted Flippy: one that filled the chest with a suffocating sense of discomfort and marred one's mind with dark thoughts. Thoughts of helplessness, fear; even suicide.
Bang and get it over with, right? Then he's worry-free, but that's bullshit. Flaky, his girlfriend, loved him dearly. Despite all of the tales of "Jody" and his promiscuous misadventures with the wives and girlfriends of military members, Flaky stayed faithful to him; even despite their long lapses in communication (a fairly common occurrence given Flippy's previous role as a Special Forces member), she loved him, and him alone; and he, her.
To reiterate, though Flippy said he had no idea as to why he felt the things he did, deep down, it was pretty apparent what led to his mental deterioration. Flippy fell from grace: at least, that's what he chooses to believe. He was only 22 years old then; and though certainly not the most fit of individuals, he was a go-getter - someone with the tenacity and whit required to pass Special Forces selection. He had seen professional athletes - in much better physical condition than he was - quit the selection process three weeks in. Of the 40 or so guys selected for Special Forces tryouts, only Flippy and four others qualified.
He was proud. Despite all of the the "shit" that the military had to offer, he embraced it with open arms: good memories of general tomfoolery and camaraderie; bad memories, especially those regarding the almost-impressive levels of incompetence exhibited by brass: he wouldn't trade any of those experiences for the world.
Now, just shy of 26, Flippy was a husk of what he used to be: his stomach had softened up somewhat, with noticeable folds and creases (though it should be noted that he was still in fairy good shape), his slim-yet-toned physique had disappeared and left but frail, almost stick-like extremities; and following the injuries he sustained during his last deployment, he now walks with a cane. And a rather noticeable limp.
Even in low-populated areas of town, he always felt as though people were staring at him: maybe it was a figment of his own mind; maybe not. If so, was it out of curiosity? Or worse: pity?
He didn't know, nor did it make any difference: regardless, he felt vulnerable. Flippy noted the irony: he felt less anxious getting shot at than, say, shopping for groceries at the local market. It was a mental hurdle he had yet to overcome, and yet, despite all of his achievements, there was still a mental blockage which prevented him from moving forward.
If only he had died back in country. Better still, it would have been a miracle that he hadn't lost his right leg, or the sensation in his upper back - which brought with it a numbness in his right hand as well. He supposed it was fortunate that he lived despite it all: a bunch of other guys didn't get to receive such a luxury. Then again, a larger sum came home in one piece; he was especially envious of them.
Flaky was well aware of his insecurities, even though he never openly expressed them. He simultaneously loved and hated that about her: she was so attentive to every facet of his character, it was as though she could read his mind like that. "Don't you wanna talk about it?" She would say in her timid, angelic voice. He would simply shrug it off.
Now, though, his facade was beginning to crack.
Bit by bit, there would be a lull in his feigned mask of indifference: a callous "joke" unbecoming of his otherwise easygoing demeanor; a brief but no less intense moment of paranoia, spontaneous aggression, and the like.
It was a quarter past twelve. Flippy had woke up in a cold sweat. He was screaming and thrashing about: his movement was so erratic that he inadvertently hit his girlfriend square in the arm. A bruise would surely form.
He had another episode. Just two months after his discharge, these moments of terror would prey on him in his most vulnerable state. They were uncommon - he only had nightmares on three separate occasions in the span of a year - but they were especially intense.
A smell likened to that of copper or nickel, defeaning sounds of self-induced human suffering, amongst so much more: these are what he occasionally dreamt about. It was all so explicit.
The episode only lasted for about half a minute, but it seemed like hours. Despite her meek appearance, Flaky was a tough girl. Far tougher than Flippy, he thought.
She was a beautiful girl: her hair cascaded down her back like a velvet waterfall; her petite frame, no less held the most gentle of curves; and her face, though pale, gave off an air of demure beauty that Flippy could only describe as "beautiful as the moon." It wasn't just her looks, of course: Flaky was smart, kind, intuitive, gentle, amongst so many other nouns that he couldn't find the words for.
He held her in high regards: despite being five years younger than him, she was the voice of reason - the only sense of purpose that Flippy needed to move forward.
Almost contradictingly, their relationship incited a sense of worthlessness within him: the feeling that he didn't deserve her.
"Why are you with me?" Flippy asked in a tired voice. Flaky, obviously caught by surprise by this question, set down her bandages. The gauze was halfway wrapped around her arm - the arm that he had struck in his sleep. He winced at that.
Flaky inched her way towards his side of the bed. She placed a gentle palm on his thigh, her golden eyes trying to meet with his. He didn't have the courage to look her in the eyes. "Why wouldn't I be? I love you Flippy. I have since I was eleven."
"Since we met," he stated as though he already knew that. Flippy said nothing. After a while, he let out a sigh and placed a hand over hers. "I've been pretty distant, huh?" He chuckled dryly
"Yeah, you have," she giggled in reply. "I don't know much about war, or the military, or how any of that works, but I do know that it can mess you up pretty bad. Not just physically, either."
He nodded. It was a genuine nod, as if he agreed with that sentiment so much he couldn't help but to express it with an exaggerated bob of the head. "Fuck yeah, it does."
"I know I said this before, but you can talk to me if you want. Actually, I would prefer it if you do," Flaky softly stated. She was fitted in nothing but a black tank top and a pair of rose panties, and had it been any other situation, Flippy would have openly expressed his hormone-induced approval, but right now; as she laid her head against his arm, even as a strap fell down her shoulder, he didn't feel anything towards it. His mind was too much in shambles, right now.
Flippy stared longingly at nothing. He held a deadpan expression, but beneath the faux mask of indifference, a flurry of emotions swelled inside of him. "The first time I killed someone was on my second deployment."
He paused to guage his girlfriend's reaction. She didn't say anything. Rather, she kept her full attention on him, like a child engrossed in a good story. "Prior to that, you know, you would see the occasional body. Most of the time, dogs and other scavengers would follow our convoy, 'cause they realized that where we went, we usually left bodies. It's grim, I know but please-"
"Flippy." Flaky stopped him. "I'm not judging you." He was slightly reassured by this. Taking a moment to recompose himself, Flippy started up again.
"Anyway, a humvee behind us gets blown up by a mine. Its thrown straight up into the air. One of the guys was manning the turret on top. The humvee flipped upside down, so his head and arm were caught between the roof of the humvee and the ground. His head was crushed..." Flaky let out a slight gasp. Her hand gripped his tighter. "...and his arm was severed, too. It was a young kid, too; just nineteen. Decapitated. I can imagine how his parents must have felt, knowing their son wouldn't get an open casket."
"What happened after?" Flaky asked. She was obviously uncomfortable: her tone and expression were far easier to read. Yeah, Flaky never really was good with violence. He remembered her crying for weeks on end when they had accidentally run over a cat. She was still listening, though: for his sake. Flippy took a moment to steady his breathing.
"We were in a valley, mountains on either side. It was fairly narrow, all things considered, so we could just barely see the enemy. I hate to admit it, Flaky, but I hated them." He stopped subconsciously. His gaze was intense, filled with an unbridled rage that never truly left him. "Long story short, I shoot a guy 150 meters of me - he falls. Must have hit a vital area, too, 'cause he dropped like a sack of potatoes and bled out in seconds."
"Hmm," Flaky hummed. She faced Flippy directly. Her gaze didn't cast judgement: only concern. If it were anybody else, Flippy would have shrugged them off, but Flaky was his everything. "You can stop if you want to," she assured him.
"No, it's fine," he said. "You know how in the movies, they make a big deal out of killing someone? You know, the protagonist has a sort of panic attack, or they cry themselves to sleep?" Flippy asked.
"Yeah?" She said with uncertainty.
"I didn't feel any of that. When we got back to the FOB, I laid down in my barracks. I laid there for a while, thinking, 'shouldn't I feel anything? Why don't I feel anything?' It wasn't the fact that I killed someone that stuck with me: it was the fact that I didn't feel anything towards it that did, if you know what I mean. " Flippy held his breath. "If anything, I actually kind of enjoyed it. I want to say it was because I was protecting my friends, but now? I don't know anymore."
A long silence soon followed. Flippy waited for her to say something: to call him out for his apparent disregard for human decency; to call him a murderer, a psychopath - anything. Flaky slowly retreated to her side of the bed, but she made sure to maintain eye contact. Her face portrayed a myriad of different emotions: maybe fear? Disgust? Perhaps a healthy blend of the two. He wasn't all too sure.
Flaky gathered her thoughts. "I, uh, don't know what to say."
"It's okay, I understand," Flippy said. The depressing cadence of his voice said otherwise. "That's the thing about war: it brings out the best, and worst in humanity. I found out a lot about myself; mostly bad things."
Flaky stared out of the bedroom window, and towards the dark-blue sky. The moon was casting a brilliant glow from above, giving a surreal ambience as it peered from window. "I can't judge you, Flippy. I'll be honest: when you first came back home, I was actually a little afraid of you." That last sentence had punched a hole into his chest. If anything, she was reaffirming his innermost insecurities. Then she spoke again. "But after a while, I come to find that you're still the same Flippy that I fell in love with. The same kind, happy, Flippy. You're a little damaged, yes, but that's what I'm here for."
That had done it. He spent an entire year trying to mask his emotions, but pretending that everything was alright when it, infact, was not, wouldn't make the problem go away. He was broken inside and out: his very sense of self-worth was held together by fragile strands which threatened to break at any moment. He cried: at first it was but a mere whimper, that eventually devolved into wailing. "I'm sorry!" Flippy sputtered. He wasn't sure why he was apologizing exactly, but he felt as though he owed Flaky, and by extension the world, that much. "I'm so sorry..."
In a quick motion, Flaky held his head, her small bosom acting as a makeshift pillow. The soft thump of her beating heart was all that he could hear. It was he needed to hear. Flippy sniffled. "If you're ready to get help, I'll be here for you, ok?" Flaky stated in a parental tone. It was a tad demeaning, but Flippy didn't care at the moment: he was too tired to fake it by now.
Maybe, just maybe; he'll learn to cope.