I based this fic off of a poem I learned in my French class, Dejeuner du Matin, by Jacques Prevert. You can find a copy of the poem (and the English translation), at my website, or just Google it.
It's the same routine every single day. He wakes up, a shell of who he used to be. Like a robot, he takes his shower, gets dressed. He's like a zombie in the kitchen. Making his coffee, he doesn't even noticing that I'm watching him. I want him to talk, but I know that will never happen. He's too stubborn; he's feeling too guilty. I'm afraid he'll do something drastic if he doesn't get it out of his system. But he doesn't grieve like normal people do. I cried, I mourned, and I learned to move on. I won't do the world any good acting like I'm dead. I'm not the one who died. He's not the one who died. He acts like it every day though.
He's increased his smoking habits. On the worse mornings, he lights up with his morning coffee. On the better days, he'll at least wait until lunch. I've suggested that he stop, he'll run himself into an early grave, but he just shrugged and smoked two more cigarettes. He's given up on life, doesn't care how he dies, as long as he does. He probably wants it to be painful, his way of relieving the guilt or something. We both know it won't relieve anything, but he can hope. Hope that maybe, when it does happen, his soul will finally be released, he'll be able to join his son, he'll be able to "live" again. He can't do that with me. He can't even hug me. Touch my shoulder. He's taken to falling asleep on the couch, beer bottles surrounding him, some late night TV show talking to a man that wasn't listening in the first place.
He stopped actually watching the TV a while ago. It's now just on for some noise, something that seems somewhat normal to him. How things should be. His mind is always off, thinking what ifs, suicide plans, any morbid thought that just pops in. His sleep isn't much better. It isn't usually sleep, he's just passed out from draining a bottle of whisky, chased with five beers and some tequila. When he does actually sleep, it's plagued with nightmares, as it should be. Even I get nightmares most nights. But I talk to people about mine. He just dwells on them himself, he doesn't even tell anybody he has them. The only reason I know is because he's usually yelling, thrashing about. It's torture on him, but still he won't tell a soul. It hurts me to see him like this, but he's doing it to himself. Everybody's offered to help him through it, but nobody really knows what to do. What happens when you loose a son? Especially like we lost Charlie. He blames himself every second, but it wasn't entirely his fault. We're both to blame for not knowing where he was, for leaving the gun where he could get it, for a million other reasons that I yell about to my psychologist.
I told him he needed to see somebody, but he just scoffed and went to watch the stars. That's where he goes now, when he's not crying in Charlie's room. Watching the skies for a lost son, only a telescope and a bottle to keep him company. I went to the roof once, to offer him food and somebody to talk to. He told me to get away as he was throwing the food to the ground beneath us. I've left him alone since then.
I'm afraid that if he doesn't start talking soon, he's going to do something drastic. I watch him sometimes, and I've seen the way he looks at his gun. His looks last longer each day, and I worry that next week, I'll be washing the blood of my husband off of the walls of my little boy's room.
I'm not even sure if I can call him my husband anymore. We stopped being a couple a long time ago, when we put our son in the ground. I've stopped holding pretenses, everybody knows my "husband" spends his nights on the roof, and his days on his son's bed. They know we don't touch anymore, not even a simple hand on the shoulder. We stopped talking to each other, he stopped looking at me, and he even leaves the room whenever I enter. Our time together is running low, and I'm not sure if I can take it much longer. I've started looking for divorce attorneys.
The Air Force came looking for him, and now I'm being told by some sergeant that my husband is going on a mission. Doesn't know when he'll be back. If he'll be back. Jack doesn't want to return. Hell, he's gone already, just a shell of what he once was. I don't know what the Air Force is going to do with him, but I'd bet he's going to do anything in his power to not make it back. He's going to make sure he dies out there, and he's going to make sure it hurts. And when I see some no-named sergeant with a flag at my doorstep, I'm not sure I'll be able to cry. I won't feel surprised, I won't feel grief, I won't feel anything but emptiness for that man who stopped being a man as soon as the doctor told us our son was dead.