His head throbbed.
His left arm throbbed.
His ribs throbbed.
The nausea came and went.
They couldn't give him too many medications.
Because of his head.
Stupid head.
If his head weren't so hard, he would be dead.
He couldn't really sleep.
So he listened.
To Padre Donovan…who spent the nights with him…praying the Rosary, his Breviary, the Psalms.
To Doc reading poetry.
To machines beeping.
To patients in other rooms groaning and screaming.
He did what he was told to do: walked, did breathing exercises, rested his brain.
Not that there was much to think about when a few days ago he'd tried to kill himself.
Doc was there, but he was so confused, Doc kept saying they'd talk later.
He answered the questions that overly cheerful people asked over and over again: What's your name, how old are you, where do you work, what's today's date, who's the President?
Stupid questions.
He knew the answers—most of the time.
Except for the date.
He'd lost a few days.
They told him.
But he still lost the days.
That was the concussion.
He couldn't seem to remember anything.
Except what he wanted to forget.
The crash.
He was in a wheelchair being moved…somewhere.
He couldn't breathe.
He was alone.
They were taking him to lock him up.
He'd never see his family again.
If he opened his eyes, he could see where he was going.
But the light still hurt his head.
So he kept his eyes closed, and tried to breathe.
A familiar voice: "Stop, please."
The wheelchair stopped moving.
The warm hand on his arm.
"Breathe, Danny. It's okay. Do you know who I am?"
"Doc?" he rasped.
"Got it in one. You're being transferred to the sixth floor."
The inpatient psychiatric ward.
He shuddered.
"It's okay, I'm here, you're not alone."
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.
He tried to remember Linda's face and her voice and her touch.
He couldn't.
He needed her.
"I need…Linda."
"You'll see her when you go home—I promise. But for the next few days, you need to focus on getting better. I did talk to her this morning, she said to tell you she loves you more."
Tears started to roll down his face.
Doc's hand on his shoulder.
A handkerchief pressed into his hand.
He tried to curl into a ball and hide his face.
But the pain in his ribs took his breath away.
The wheelchair started moving again.
Up an elevator.
It stopped.
They transferred him like he was a baby.
Stupid doctors.
It wasn't his legs that were broken; it was his arm.
And his ribs.
And his head.
He held his breath at the stabbing pain that shot through him.
When it eased, he opened his eyes.
The room was dim.
Bare.
He shivered.
He didn't like being cold—too many memories of Fallujah.
"Do you want a blanket?"
He nodded.
When the blanket came it was warm.
He huddled under it.
It was scratchy.
But it was warm, so he didn't care.
The nurse came with his pills. "We changed your anti-depressant, gave you something for anxiety, and a mild pain medication for your arm and ribs."
Words. All words.
But the words at least explained why the last…two…three?…days felt so foggy.
He swallowed the pills, let her check to make sure he actually had swallowed them.
She left.
He leaned back on the mattress. No pillow for fear he'd suffocate himself with it. "What day is it?"
"Tuesday, February 25."
"How long will I…?"
"A minimum of 72 hours."
He nodded, took a shaky breath, let it out. "I need help, Doc."
"I know. If you want to tell me why it happened, I'm listening, Danny."
He let out a shaky breath. "I was drowning, Doc. Nothing was helping. The pills weren't helping, stupid group therapy wasn't helping, even those exercises you were having me do…weren't helping. It's not like I planned it…I just went to get milk for Gramps. I got the milk. I was going to take the milk home. Then I got in the car to go home, and I just…"
Tears were stinging his eyes and he let them roll.
"I knew I could go home, or I could just end it all. So I headed for the pier."
"What were you trying to put an end to, Danny?"
"Dammit, Doc! Everything! The pain. The nightmares. The memories. The flashbacks."
"Why didn't you call me, or Padre, or one of your family members?"
"I dropped my phone and killed it."
"Do you still want to kill yourself?"
Why the hell was he crying?
"I want to…go home! I want to see Linda and my boys and get better and go back to work! I don't want to die, Doc!"
Where had that come from?
"I'm glad you don't want to die, Danny. But I need to know: Do you still want to kill yourself?" Doc asked again.
He shook his head. "N…no! I just want to stop hurting!" he sobbed.
"You will, Danny. There will be group therapy for the next couple of days, and one of the things they'll teach you is how to manage and deal with the emotions—without hurting yourself."
"They're not gonna teach me how to stop feeling hopeless," he sniffled.
"You were feeling hopeless on Friday?" Doc asked, and he nodded. "Can you tell me about that?"
He shivered under the blanket. "Like I'm going to have to live with this for the rest of my life—the nightmares and the flashbacks and the feeling like I don't deserve to be alive because my buddies aren't."
"There are some things we can work on to help you with the nightmares. Tell me about the most recent flashback you had."
He closed his eyes. "Friday night, Pops said something at dinner…"