Chapter 5: The Struggle is Real

Sparkles glistened off the ocean waves in the horizon. Simmons leaned over the deck as he rested his whole weight against the railing. He took in a deep breath of the afternoon breeze, and his lungs inflated with new life. His eyes were half closed, with his mouth curved downward into a clear frown. Above him, he heard the echoes of a flying object. A bird? He pondered only to find the bubbly echo to be unrecognizable of any bird type he knew of. From his left, above he saw a small red object in the distance. It approached him closer till it became clear like the golden sky. It was a flying car. They sure are amazing. He looked at the propulsion system on the vehicle and lowered his eyes to the few sand particles that flew away with the wind. It's strange how before I would have gladly jumped at the chance to study every little inch of that thing that I could dig up, but now...even that feels like a dull shade in this grey world. He felt a sudden bump to the back of his head as he held the spot in confusion. Behind him stood one of his co-workers who gave a disapproving gaze. "It's not your break time Simmons. Quit slacking off."

Simmons turned around rather promptly and followed his co-worker back inside. The employee pointed towards the abandoned tables, where the afternoon crowd had once rested for tea and snacks. "Can you go and clean those tables off? We need to prepare for dinner."

The colder night grew as the golden hour retreated till the next morning. Simmons exited through the front doors of the lodge and walked back towards the employees parking. David sat by one of the parking lots as he stared up at the stars. The ex-freelancer took notice with a respectful nod. Simmons gave a small, yet gentle wave. "How come you are out here?"

"Taking my break," David answered. "Sometimes I just find that getting away from the hectic kitchen, or the usual scenery of the lodge deck helps me refresh my mind."

"I see," Simmons replied as he took the locks off his bike. David watched his friend work diligently to undo the restraints. "How are you holding up?"

"Same old, same old."

David's smile, that once offered a kindness Simmons had perceived a great number of times had disappeared. He heard the engines rev up and squeezed shut his eyes. "Be careful on your way home, Simmons. From what I hear, there has been an increase in accidents lately due to the loosened drinking and driving laws."

Simmons smirked in David's direction, although full well felt his concern. He took out his pill bottle from his jacket and gave the last pill an irritated groan. Consuming his very means to maintaining some level of stability in his life, he gave a nod to his friend and said, "Thanks for the advice, have a good night."

As the bike echoed loudly into the night, he made a sharp turn out of the parking lot. Quickly, he arrived to the nearby local drug clinic. He parked his bike in one of the many spots designated specifically for veterans. He took off his helmet and hung it in his hand. The cold became noticeable as the metal handle left a lasting cold on his hand for several minutes. The queue inside moved ever so slowly, his turn finally came. Behind a glass sat a nurse, he leaned against the wooden counter top and did his best to beam a smile her way. Although it was clear that she was not buying it, and he too knew that he was not fooling anyone like this. His smile quickly turned into a frown as he pulled out his empty pills bottle. "I need a refill."

"Do you have your Veteran status card on you?"

"Here," he quickly pulled it out from his wallet and slid it in the little opening. The nurse took a quick look and nodded with a smile. "We will get you a refill right away. This medicine will come free of charge."

Simmons watched the pharmacists in the back, behind her carry his bottle and begin to refill it with one pill at a time. "Is it that popular, that the government gives it out for free?"

"Sadly yes," the nurse replied. Her smile somewhat faded as she lowered her gaze to the counter. "There have been more cases of PTSD and depression than there were ever before. It really is a sad state of affairs. But we do our best to try and get the veterans back into society as functioning individuals."

Functioning individuals, he pondered as his eyes shifted to his right, at the line-up for the other counters. What are we, some fucking product to put out into society? Is that it, no longer considered to even be people, normal humans? Fucking horseshit.

"Dick Simmons," the pharmacist held up his bottle as Simmons verified. The pharmacist gave a respectful nod with a courteous smile, "Have a good day."

I don't need you showing me that fake smile, thought the ex-red soldier. He nodded back to the nurse as she bid him farewell till his next visit. He exited the building quickly and drove back home. Back in his closed world, he threw the keys onto the kitchen counter as he dragged his heavy feet towards the living area. Simmons scratched his beard as he let himself go, the weight pulled him downward to the soft embrace of his black leather couch. His eyes closed much to the relief of the darkness that awaited behind his eyelids. A heavy sigh escaped him as he slowly re-opened his eyes only to notice a red mist, something amiss beside him. To his right was a red figure within the mist, sitting by the couch. Why do you always just stare at me as if you are judging? He pondered with the slow turn of his head towards Sarge. A silence followed their long gaze. He pushed himself up with a loud groan, ever so slowly. "My body is starting to give out now, isn't it? Probably from all the physically labour intensive tasks. I should have kept in shape."

After yet another brief period of silence, his once mentor spoke up. "How is the civilian life treating you, Simmons?"

Simmons stared at Sarge as he begun to drag himself out of the living area. "It's a bit shit seeing as how I see you and everyone else at the most inopportune of times."

A few moments later, he stood before a dedicated room for work. He flicked on the light switch to his home office, where he kept one simple desk with his computer setup of which he was extremely proud of. As he opted to work tirelessly on the tasks he knew awaited him, he noticed Sarge's reflection on the monitors. Followed me here, like always, Simmons thought with a near broken smirk, and his eyes that signalled the signs of defeat. Simmons instantly turned around only to find his past mentor standing mere centimetres away from his face. Simmons reached out with strong force to push Sarge further back, only to phase right through the fog. He could never hurt them, not matter how much he tried. He could never physically leave them behind. He quietly took a few deep breaths to calm himself and returned to his work.

"Tell me Simmons," Sarge raised his voice to get the attention of his conversationalist. "When you continue living like this, what meaning is there to your existence, how could you ever hope to make amends to all the men for your wrongdoings?"

As the noises dulled in the background for him, he opted to focus harder and harder on his work. Soon however, as the older man's voice began to prevail, so did the harder typing of his keyboard. Eventually though, he could no longer take the voice, he could no longer bear the constant questions hovering over his head. He slammed his fists hard against the table, so much so that he saw his monitors shake in their very stands from the impact. The ex-Red leader was quiet. Simmons turned around with a violent wave of his fist into the air. His eyes peered wide open at Sarge. "Just leave me alone!"

To his surprise, Sarge's figure began to fade as he complied. Simmons sat back down in his chair with a deep breath leaving his very body. He turned back to the bright glow of the monitor, and slumped back into his chair, deeper into his ever growing pool of self-disappointment. He studied the various lines of code and bit his lower lip with frustration just itching to leave his body. So many mistakes, some that are beginner level. He closed shut his eyes and wondered aloud, "Just what am I doing with this life of mine, why am I such a failure?"

The frantic noise of the keyboard died down. He looked around at the emptiness of the room. Hollow, just like this life. He slowly stood up after shutting down the computer and walked back into the kitchen. His chicken that he had put in earlier into the oven was more than ready. He quickly retrieved it as a sharp, unpleasant, charred smell invaded his nostrils. The top was beautifully cooked, golden brown with delectable juices oozing off the top. However the underneath was a different story. Every inch was covered in a black hard layer. As he took a knife to clean the burned layer off. He placed the chicken down onto his cutting board with much vigour. Why, why is it me? He pondered as he stood the chicken upright. With the knife, he stuck it fast into the meat. Why is it me that fell into this deep fucking crevice of a depression, why do these chains insist on holding on to me?!

Halfway through, he felt every tendon split at the razor sharpness of his blade. He looked at the crispy whiteness of the meat underneath and recalled his best friend's eating preference. He always was a chicken guy over the veggies. Simmons discarded the black layer into the bin nearby. I wonder how Grif is doing, if he is holding up fine or not. I wonder if he has improved any since becoming the leader of Red team. He held the chicken close and almost pulled back as the smell still persisted. He took a gentle bite and oddly enough found nothing to hold him back. Unlike his nose, his mouth felt numbed to all sensation. I really shouldn't be eating burned meat. He continued to take another bite. But what does it matter when I can't even feel the pleasure of taste right now?

A loud beep echoed through his kitchen. The microwave called for its owner for it was finished with its job. Simmons trudged over and took out a bowl of hot rice. He cut the chicken into tiny pieces and laid it out on top. With one bottle of whisky in his hand, he was set for dinner. By the window rested an old wooden chair which he used occasionally to try and keep up with the happenings of his neighbourhood. But, only a few bites in and he felt as if he was slapped by the past one more. Back to the past, the days where things were simpler in Blood Gulch. The days where we weren't wrapped up in some crazy, way over our heads situation. It feels like those were the times where I was at most peace with myself, and living to the fullest. But now, now the events that I have experienced have changed me forever, changed all of us. He dropped his fork to the side of the plate and hunched over the table. He gently slide the plate away and looked at the reflection of a barely recognizable figure, a blob in the glass. A soulless doll.

His appetite was no more, he took the plate and dumped its contents into the kitchen's bin. With the bottle of whisky in one hand, he swung it up to his mouth and chugged one-fourth down in an instant. In the living room, he sat on the couch with his back slumped into the cloud of cushion. He held the bottle up to his mouth and slowly began to drain it clean. A few hours passed, and he sat with a hazy head, completely still like an ice statue. He looked at the blurry bottle which had only a few drops left. He held his head in his free hand as he finished with the bottle and groaned in discomfort. Slowly, he lied down on his side onto the couch as he let out yet another groan, this time slightly more aggressive. In the distance, his ears could hear the sound of young feet prancing about on the wooden floor. He shifted himself to face the hallway from which he could indeed see the young boy. He laughed with a careless joy as he ran towards Simmons. Annoyed with his noise, Simmons felt his eyes close in irritation. "Shut up!"

But as if to mock the man, he heard the laughter only get louder. The prancing stopped, and the laughter was now only inches away from him. Simmons opened his eyes to find the boy standing still. You are here again, thought Simmons as he picked himself up in his drunken state. What is this painful feeling, why do I feel this right now? He looked at Edwards' eyes, he could only think to lower his head in shame. The boy bent down to look at him once more in the eyes. "You can't run from reality."

Simmons again closed shut his eyes as he held his head in his hands. His teeth clenched against one another as he slowly dug himself into his own knees. "I can still try."

"But is that what you really want?"

Simmons opened his eyes at the sudden question. He looked into Edwards' big curious irises. Simmons reached down for the bottle lying on its side on the carpeting in the living room. He took the glass bottle with a quick swing to his mouth and felt the last few drops of relief enter his body. Are my own demons causing me to see your ghost manifest right now? He slowly let his legs fall towards the ground, stood up with frustration. Yet with as much force he stood up, he found himself quickly subdued by the sharp edge of the table in front of his sofa. "Fuck!"

He was flat on the ground as he held his knee. Every nerve in his body shook from the unwelcomed stimulation. "God fucking dammit!"

Edwards looked down at him with sadness gleam from his eyes. "Do you remember when we were tech buddies, it was the best time I ever had. It would have been nice if we could have kept going like that."

Suddenly Simmons found his slurs held back as the memory pinged in the back of his head. He looked away towards the couch and bit his lower lip as he saw him and Edwards stand there in the junkyard pile, surrounded by excitement all around for there were many parts for the taking. Edwards climbed up the various mountains and with his keen eye for technology, he picked out the best pieces. Simmons licked his lower lip, bleeding slightly. He faced the boy again and agreed with a gentle nod. "Reality is a cruel mistress, that's why I choose to pay her no heed."

Edward turned around, but faced Simmons one last time. "Reality is the one thing no one can run from forever."

As he walked away, Simmons' vision darkened for the booze finally hit him hard. His body felt heavy as did his head, he had no desire what so ever to move, to do anything and so he slowly drifted off. The next morning, he found his slumber disturbed by a most undesired noise. Outside his window, the world was active and vibrant, bustling with life. He heard his phone ring loudly in his ears and retrieved it from the table. That's the last time I get drunk and sleep on the floor, he thought to himself knowing full well that, that was one promise he could not keep to himself. With an annoyed groan, he held his head tightly in his hand. My head feels like its splitting apart. The pressure seemed the strongest at the top of his head, as if a volcano was going to blow any moment from the surface. Through a side glance, he took note of the empty whisky bottle. What number of bottle was that again this month?

Simmons looked down to the calling number and nearly stood up with speed. It was as if a sharp pain spread throughout his body. The surprise itself was enough to knock some sense back into his heavy mind. He answered the call with a rather weak voice. "Hello?"

"Simmons, are you alright?", asked Carolina. Simmons held his head once more with a small groan. Ugh, fuck this hangover, seriously. He walked over to the kitchen where he could fetch himself some liquid relief from the tap. He looked at the phone as she patiently waited for his answer and said, "Oh yes, just great."

The sarcasm was not one to be missed by her. She however quickly brushed past his wisecrack. "If you are in a condition to be joking like that, then you are in a condition to come to work. You are late."

No way, thought Simmons. Me, late? As if, he turned to face the time on the oven and nearly felt his grip loosen on the phone. "Oh shit..."

He was well over two hours late. "Oh god, I'm so, so sorry Carolina. I'm on my way!"

"Good," Carolina retorted. "We need to have a long chat for when you get here."

Long chat? He stared at the phone, now disconnected. That doesn't sound like the most appealing proposition. He quickly put on the cleanest set of clothing and rushed out the door. What could she possibly want to say to me? I hope its not anything really bad. He grabbed the motorcycle keys and rushed out the door. No, I can't let these nightmarish thoughts get a hold of me. He slowly backed out of the driveway and rode off towards the beach lodge.

A/N: Wow, that took a long time to release. Sorry for the little break in release of the chapters, but I think that will continue (unless you are reading this when the story has been completed, in which case this note is useless). Although I hope it was a short enjoyable chapter!

Feedback is appreciated!

Thank you for your continued support everyone!

~ Monty Mason