These Scars I Carry
Chapter 2
"Changes"
Vanzilla is still exactly the same as I remember it being— though that shouldn't be much of a surprise, considering just how old the damn thing is. My hands run along the worn leather of the front console, identifying every new scratch and tear that has marred the old car since I left.
The faint scent of fast food mixed with the overwhelming aroma of leaky engine fluids and exhaust brings back memories of all the countless hours I've spent in this car. From simple commutes to school, to family road trips— from our weekly trips to the movie theater, to the first time Dad taught me how to drive. The memories are soft and faint, but still manage to bring a small smile to my face.
Despite my offer, Mom is adamant on being the one to drive us back home. I think she believes that I've forgotten the way back, and the thought does nothing but piss me off royally. The rational side of me— what little of that remains— manages to convince the other half that she's just being motherly. She probably just wants me to relax after my long-ass flight, and I have to agree with my rational side.
The internal arguments in my head are unnerving. This is the third time I've gotten pissed off for no good fucking reason, other than the fact that my Mother loves me. Marines aren't supposed to behave this way. Normal functioning people aren't supposed to behave this way.
That thought pisses me off even more than the latter one, and I try to get my mind off it by focusing on the world outside Vanzilla's window. Unlike our family van, I notice the differences in the landscape of the city. New businesses that weren't there last year. Old businesses that are gone. It's like a whole chunk of time has just… disappeared.
Billboards have changed. The gas prices are ridiculous. The songs on the radio are different. The faces on the celebrity tabloids at the airport newsstand were people I didn't recognize. And people were using new lingo that I have never even heard of before.
For the real world, time didn't stop ticking onward just because I was out in the suck. I knew the Royal Woods I would come back to wouldn't be the same as the one I left— but I just didn't expect the changes to hit me this hard. Bother me this much. I had no idea what just one year can do to change a place. Change a home.
Stranger in a strange land, indeed.
A small victory is gained in the fact that the Loud family house looks exactly the same as it did when I left. Sports balls and frisbees litter the front lawn, a small fleet of bicycles remain tethered to the side of the house— I even spy that stupid fucking boomerang still chilling on top of the house. I don't even know how or when that thing got to the roof. It's been up there as long as I remember.
Mom still has her ceramic frog set next to the front steps. She keeps a spare key hidden beneath in case myself or any of my sisters were to get locked out. I wonder if it's still there now?
My boot gently kicks over the lead frog and— to my surprising relief— I spy a small, worn key hidden underneath. Somethings never change I guess.
My mom leads me through the house, up to my bedroom, as if I don't remember the way. She opens the door and— like the rest of the house— it looks like it was frozen in time. Yellow paint? Check. Color-coordinated comforter? Check. Comic book superhero flyers taped randomly to the walls to disguise the decorator paint job? Check. Bun-Bun sitting off the corner of my bed? Check. Even the book on the bedside table is the same one I was reading before I left. The whole thing is… creepy.
"I left everything the way it was," she says proudly as I drop my bag on the floor. "So it would feel familiar. Like home."
I don't tell her it doesn't feel like home at all. I grab my knife from my duffel and hide it underneath my pillow.
"Why don't you rest?" Mom suggests. "Take a nap. I'll come get you when Dad and your sisters are home."
When she's gone, I dive onto the bed. It's the one thing I'm very happy about. The mattress is soft and the comforter is clean, luxuries I've lived without since I left for boot camp. I stretch out on my back, my boots hanging off the side edge of the bed, and close my eyes. Only I can't seem to get comfortable. I roll over onto my side and try again. Then my stomach. I pry off my boots with my toes. Nothing's working.
This bed is too soft. I finally realize after a few minutes of struggle. So I grab my pillow and hit the floor, dragging the comforter with me.
I've slept on the top bunk of a squeaky metal rack in the squad bay at Parris Island, on a cot at Camp Leatherneck while we waited to start our mission, and in the dirt and sand of Helmand Province within our patrol base. I've learned to make misery my company.
Once before, back in February, the temperature dropped so low one night I had to share a sleeping bag with Clyde. We woke up the next morning with a thick sheet of frost coating the bag. All things considered, the ground feels familiar, the thick carpet is comfortable, and I find myself falling fast asleep.
I'm walking down a road in Marjah. It's a road I've walked down a hundred times already. I'm on point with Clyde and Spencer behind me. It's cold, clear, and quiet, except for the crunch of our boots and the sound of prayer we hear every morning. The street will come alive soon with people going to the mosque, washing in the canal, or going to work in their fields.
Right now, though, the street is empty. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I know something is going to go down.
I stop and try to warn Spencer and Clyde, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to signal with my hands, but I can't lift them. I want to run back to stop them, but my legs won't move no matter how hard I try.
I watch, helpless, as Spencer steps on the pressure plate. And then, boom. He's disappeared, enveloped in a cloud of dust and smoke and fire. The bomb, hidden in the base of a tree, sprays him with shrapnel.
Clyde dives to the dirt road, taking cover within a wadi. My limbs unfreeze and I run over to check that he's okay.
The lucky son of a bitch is bleeding, but only from his nose. Just like usual. I'm laughing as I check the rest of his body for injuries, but he's clean. We both laugh about it.
Only we stop laughing as we remember Spencer and the IED that enveloped him. The dust has cleared and I can now see, plain as day, Spencer's motionless body lying in the mud. Clyde starts screaming for a corpsman and I find myself running over to his corpse.
Only, it's not a corpse. At least not yet. Spencer is alive and gurgling blood as he trashes upon the ground. Doc is kneeling over him, attempting to triage his wounds. He screams at me to hold him steady and my hands wrap around Spencer's shoulders to keep him still.
Warm blood splashes my face, seeping into the neck gaiter I have protecting my mouth and I gag. Spencer is screaming, or trying to at least. Pleading and praying to God not to let him die here in this mud-hole. Doc is doing all he can— shoving bundles of bandages and quikclot combat gauze into Spencer's wounds, desperately trying to stem the bleeding.
Spencer grabs at his own throat— a shard of shrapnel has split his esophagus in two. I pin one of his hands down with my knee, my palm presses down on the wound to keep pressure. My fingers are drowning in red.
My other remaining hand grasps with Spencer's. I give it a squeeze, if nothing more than to remind my brother that I'm still here and will be here until the end. I spy a black titanium band around Spencer's ring finger. He had just gotten married before we deployed— and he has a daughter on the way.
Suddenly the world shifts and I'm on my back, pain radiating through my body, as if I'm the one who stepped on the mine, and not Spencer. I open my eyes and there's a face above me. An Afghan boy I've seen before who smiles as he fades away.
I shoot upright on the floor, my bloodshot eyes open and my body on alert, but my brain is still in the hazy space between nightmare and being awake. I can't focus.
My mother is shaking me. Crying. My hands curl around her wrists, squeezing until she cries out in pain. "Lincoln, stop!"
I let go immediately and just sit there, blinking. My heart rate is going crazy and my clothes are soaked through with sweat. I'm shaking a little. Mom smoothes her hand across my forehead the way she did when I was small and had a fever. "It's only a dream. Let it go. It's not real."
I'm fully awake now and I know she's right. It's not real. This nightmare is a patchwork of my worst fears and memories. But my imagination wraps itself in this quilt of horror whenever I sleep. I haven't averaged more than a couple hours a night for the last few weeks.
As my heart rate drops back to normal, I watch her rub her wrists. They're red and raw and probably going to bruise. I could have broken them.
"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say shamefully. "I didn't mean to do that."
"It's okay." She looks at me sadly and I find myself hating everything about being me. "I wish I could erase whatever troubles your dreams."
I'm sorry Mom, but the past can't be rewound and this is the life I chose for myself.
I didn't have a noble purpose in joining the Marine Corps, or at least not one involving patriotism. I didn't do it to protect American freedom and I wasn't inspired to action by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. I wasn't even born back then. And while the war was still going on while I was in grade school, the biggest priority in my life at the time was any bell that signaled it was time to leave school.
I had several reasons for enlisting really. Only one of them can really be considered noble however. As one can imagine, a family of eleven children can get quite taxing financially. My parents and their economic savings plan played a huge role while I was growing up— take Vanzilla actually. Perfect example. Decent enough gas mileage, sure, but large and roomy enough for the whole family— to help cut costs on buying another vehicle. At least until Lori went out and bought her very own beater-mobile.
Dad learning how to cook was another good example. We had thirteen people living in our house. Thirt-fucking-teen. Normal families have no idea just how expensive that can get for just dinner alone. Unbelievable, I'd tell them. And while fast food is cheap and easy— that shit is not very nutritious, especially not for young children to make a regular diet off of.
So Dad learned how to cook, to stop us from having to go out to eat often. And although his culinary skills at the beginning were… rough, so to speak, he got pretty damn good at it. Eventually.
Those are simple examples. Basic examples. The real economic hurdles didn't start until the most of us were close to graduation.
Mainly? College is fucking expensive.
My sisters are smart. Smarter than me, at the very least. Even Leni, who many people consider to be an airhead— she may not be book smart, but she has skills in other areas, a gift really. She knows how to talk to people, how to understand them. Plus she was designing and sewing and stitching professionally made dresses at eighteen. That's insane.
My sisters are smart. And smart people get educated— college or trade school. They go, spend a few years studying, graduate and move on to become successful in the real world. The cycle of life.
However, there's eleven of us. Eleven mouths to feed. Eleven futures to worry about. Mom and Dad, they wouldn't be able to handle a financial burden like that. Not for all of us at least. Sacrifices had to be made.
Which was where I came in.
The Post 9/11 G.I Bill can be seen a blessing from above. For four years— enough time to gain a bachelor's degree— good old Uncle Sam will pay for your tuition, books and amenities. Shit, it'll even cover housing. You literally get paid to go to school, to any school you want. The government will give you everything… all they ask in return is for the recipient to write a blank check made payable to The United States of America, for an amount up to and including their life. Not a bad deal to be completely honest.
I brought this up with Lisa once, back when I was still on the fence about the whole 'serving my country' thing. The logical side of her agreed that it was a smart idea. A good solution… but the emotional side of her, the one that doesn't show often, was against the whole thing.
"Statistically speaking brother," Lisa had said to me, her face buried behind her computer monitor. "During the year of the highest surge of military personnel in Afghanistan, there were four hundred and ninety-six fatalities." She said without missing a beat, and I think all I did was blink in response. "That is out of a troop count of one hundred thousand— which, when properly rounded, calculates itself to zero-point-zero-zero-five. You have a one half of a percent chance to be injured or worse in Afghanistan."
At the time, that number seemed ridiculously low to me. "Sooo the odds are nothing bad'll happen to me?" I grinned as her eyes grew as wide as dinner plates behind her glasses. "Y'know, you're really selling this for me sis. You sure you're not a recruiter in disguise?"
Lisa didn't mean it that way, not even close. "No you dolt!" She had jumped up off her chair, marched over and started to poke me in the chest. "The data does not lie! That equals out to a one in two-hundred chance of dying! Such a risk— of any risk— is far too high!"
I tried to reassure her, but to no avail. Same old song and dance with the rest of my sisters. They were all convinced it was a terrible decision, that I was essentially throwing my life away. The overprotective nature of my siblings had taken hold, which led me to my second, more selfish reason on enlisting.
I was tired of being coddled.
Growing up as the only boy with ten sisters— half of them being older— I started noticing just how pronounced the 'motherly instinct' is in a woman. I never paid much mind when I was younger, but as the years went by, it really started bothering me. Annoying me. Infuriating me.
I was supposed to be becoming a man. Instead, I was still being treated as a child. And not even by my parents, but by my own sisters, who were just barely a few years older than me.
I needed to get away— needed to leave the nest, to spread my wings and fly on my own.
The day I turned eighteen— just a few weeks after I graduated high school— I went to the Marine recruiter's office and signed up. More or less. The process is more involved than simply signing your life over to the Marine Corps, but the result is the same: four years of active duty, the next four years in ready reserve. It might not make sense to want to go from a lifetime of bossy sisters yelling in my face to having a drill instructor yelling in my face, but I figured it couldn't be that much different. And at least at boot camp I wouldn't be known as Lincoln Loud, brother to ten sisters and the only son of the Loud family.
Instead, I'd just be me.
Mom cried when I told her because, in her mind, enlistment meant certain death in a foreign country. She begged me to enroll at Michigan State instead. "I know you didn't get the best grades," she said. "But you can take the basics until you decide on a major. Please, Lincoln, don't do this."
My dad just looked at me for a long time, his brow furrowed, mouth held in a thin line across his face. It was a familiar expression. One reserved for when he was deep in thought. He asked Mom if he could talk to me alone.
We talked. We talked for what felt like forever, and I told him my reasons. No bullshit either. I told him that they'd pay for my college after I was done - that this was best for the family. But I also told him why I personally wanted this. I had to grow up, I had to become my own man. And I couldn't do that here, back at home. I needed to go out on my own.
He hugged me then. Hugged me tight. And that was the first time I'd seen him cry since grandma died.
"I'm proud of you Lincoln," he whispered in my ear, his tears making my own eyes water. "Not because you're enlisting, but because you're making your own decisions." He kissed the top of my head and I remembered feeling like I was eleven years old again.
"You've grown into a fine young man and I'm proud to call you my son."
Funnily enough, at the time, I didn't feel like a man. Not when I was busy completely bawling my eyes out into my father's chest. But it was a start.
Three weeks later, I shipped to boot camp, and didn't come back. Until now.
I can admit now it might not have been one of my smarter decisions, but I didn't want to go to college with our financial worries, and I didn't think I was going to end up in Afghanistan right out of infantry school. I figured I'd be assigned to a base stateside or be sent off to Okinawa or something.
Regardless of my reasons for joining, the funny thing is, I'm a good Marine. Better than pretty much anything else I've ever done in my life. So even though the Marine Corps has its moments of extreme suck— and man do they fucking suck— I don't really regret my choice.
"Lincoln?" Someone taps at my bedroom door as I'm doing up the last button on a blue flannel shirt I found hanging in my room. It's either one of Dad's old shirts or something my mom bought me before I left, hoping I'd wear it. The sleeves pinch at the elbows when I bend my arms, but I've worn the same desert cammies for seven months. My fashion sense has atrophied. "Lincoln, you in there?"
"Yeah, one sec." I jam my foot into one of my tan combat boots. On the outside it's scuffed and worn from continuous wear, with a spatter of rusty bloodstains across the toe. Inside it smells like shit, but I don't have anything else to wear except my running shoes, and I hate those.
I move to unlock the entrance, and the latch just barely clicks open before the door is nearly blown off its hinges and I'm tackled by a supersonic blur of red. My ass hits the deck, and I suddenly find it quite impossible to breathe, what with the impossibly strong deathgrip my sister has around my chest.
Christ. Yes Lynn, I missed you too dude.
"Lynn," I manage to feebly choke out. "Can't...breathe...!"
"Oh Sorry! Sorry!" She pulls back with a toothy grin and I suck in gulps full of much needed air. "Got a little carried away there, so yeah, sorry!"
First thing I notice is that Lynn has cut her hair. While she never really was one to make a fuss over her hairstyle, she was still a girl, and she always kept her hair nice and long. Though it was always pulled up into a tight ponytail for sports. Now, her hair is cut short into a cute little pixiecut— not nearly as short as Luna's, but a far cry from where her length used to be— her tips resting at the edges of her chin.
"Nice to see your tackle is still in good from." I groan, rubbing my now sore chest. Lynn beams back, her freckled face split wide into a grin. "Somethings never change."
"Speaking of change— dude! You're like, so tan!" She gawks and I roll my eyes.
"Yeah, that kinda happens when you live in a desert country for half a year."
"Yeah well, I didn't expect it smartass." She reaches forward to playfully sock my shoulder, but the action causes me to pull back in reflex and I swear mentally to myself. That's still not normal behavior.
Lynn doesn't seem bothered by it. In fact, she reverts back to her childish ways. "Ha! Two for flinching!" She snorts, jabbing me twice with a fist, acting as if nothing has changed between us over the years.
Despite the contact and my now sore shoulder, I feel a small smile creeping upon my face. Part of me starts to thinks that maybe coming back home for awhile isn't all that bad. "Case and point. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"I was, but the coach let me off early today."
"I thought you were the coach?"
"Assistant coach." She grumbles, holding out a hand to help lift me up off the deck. "I'm not old enough to be head-honcho. Mostly I just drill the kids until they puke."
I imagine Lynn dressed as a drill instructor, campaign cover and all, screaming with spit and bile, and smoking little kids out on some random baseball field. The thought makes me smile. "Yeah that definitely sounds like you."
"Lincoln!"
"Lincoln!"
"Big brother!"
A trio of voices sound off from beyond the hallway, and I find it hard to breathe as I'm once again buried beneath the bodies of my sisters. My vision is obscured by nothing but gold— three heads of blonde that are pinning me to the ground as they laugh and cry. I spy Lynn smirking above and I silently mouth to her "Please help me."
Instead, she joins in on the dogpile— further expelling whatever air I have left in my lungs. Traitor.
Lola, Lana and Lily have all grown big from the last time I saw them. Lola looks as if she needs to beat off boys at school with a stick, Lana looks as tough as half of the guys in my unit, Lily's grown a few inches and she's wearing glasses now too— I wonder when that happened?
"Big brother's home! Big brother's hooome!" Lily sings as she straddles my chest, Lana and Lola joining in as they jump up and down on my body. And I think to myself— this is it. This is how I die. Not by getting shot by the Taliban, or blown to shit by an IED. But right here, in my old room, suffocated to death by half of my sisters. Goodbye cruel world.
"Guys please," I mutter through their laughter. "I'm happy to see you too, but can I do this on my feet? With some dignity?"
"Dignity-shmignity," Lily says. "You've been gone a whole year. You've missed Christmas, and my birthday! And Lana's and Lola's!" She pouts and I can see why Mom and Dad still spoil her. Absolutely adorable.
"You missed mine too by the way." Lynn says, offering me another a hand up— Lily and the twins try to pull me back down but I've gained plenty of muscle and weight over the past year. They're fighting a losing battle.
"I apologize in earnest." I state dryly, dusting myself off. "I'll buy you all a belated birthday present. Something nice."
"Ohhhhh. Something nice, huh?" Lola has got sparkles in her eyes, and that's how I know she hasn't changed at all in the year I've been gone. Not really at least - once a princess, always a princess. "Shopping spree this weekend?!"
"We'll see," I say, leaning over to give each of them a hug. Lynn is outside my door, still grinning her toothy grin. I feel an urge to join her in the hallway. It's getting too crowded in my room now and I feel claustrophobic.
The scent of cooked beef and potatoes greets me in the hallway, and I swear if Ronnie Anne were standing naked in front of me, begging to get back together, I'd pass her by just to get to the table. The closest we came to a home-cooked meal in-country was the time some of the Afghan National Army soldiers roasted a whole goat, which we ate with a local rice dish and Afghan bread. We had chicken curry from the village bazaar a couple of times too, but that always seemed to give me the shits. Afghans— as nice as most of their people are— aren't the greatest at personal hygiene. And the water they use to prepare their food comes straight from their canals— dirty and full of bacteria.
Mostly we just ate our MREs. Which is short for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. Or, as we usually called it, Meal, Rarely Edible. Or Meals, Rejected by Everyone. Or whatever other stupid name you could come up with that acronym. The chow was instant and you could eat it either warm or cold— it didn't really make a difference though. It was almost always terrible.
"Siblings, our father wishes to inform us that dinner will be ready in ten minutes." Lisa says, making her way up the stairs. She looks completely different— with her hair tied up into a neat bun, wearing a pair of slacks and a business jacket to match— it's a far cry from the maniacal-genius style she had when I left. The suit makes her look way older than any twelve year old should. "Welcome home brother."
"Lisa," I nod. "You're not planning on tackling me too, are you?"
"Of course not." She snorts with an air of superiority. "Such needless human displays of emotion are beneath me." She mumbles something else under her breath, something I can't quite catch.
"What was that Lis?" Lana smirks knowingly and Lisa hides her blush by looking down.
"...I said, I would not be opposed to a hug."
I roll my eyes and my arms engulf her smaller form. Unlike the others, Lisa's hug is quick and reserved— she's still not a fan of dramatic displays of affection. But I know she cares regardless of how she shows it.
"I'm happy to see you've returned, safe and sound, Lincoln." She whispers and my throat goes dry.
Safe? Yeah sure, but sound? Oh Lisa, if you only knew.
Almost as soon as we start, the embrace is over and Lisa is all business again. "Right, I will need to change from my professional business attire before dinner." She coughs, disappearing into her room, leaving us behind in an awkward silence.
"Take that as my cue," I say, heading downstairs. The smell of food starting to become irresistible. "You guys coming?"
"I'll be there in a sec. Gotta call Richie first." Lola says with a faraway look in her eyes. And just who the Hell is 'Richie'? Lana visibly gags from behind her twin, confirming my suspicions. Great, Lola's got a boyfriend now.
"Bathroom first." Lana mutters, rushing down the hall. Lily gasps and is quick on her heels.
"Lana nooo!" She cries after her. "I called dibs!" Lynn rolls her eyes as the two start wrestling over the room. In hindsight— eleven siblings sharing one bathroom still wasn't the best of ideas.
Lynn follows me down, the sounds of struggle fading behind us as we near the bottom steps. Someone's left the TV on in the living room and CNN is running a report on some spoiled celebrity princess who overdosed in her mansion the other day. Underneath the main headline— ignored completely by commentators too busy faking tears for the dead celeb— is a small insignificant scroll of text reporting on a VBIED, or Vehicle-Borne-Improvised-Explosive-Device, that went off last week in Afghanistan. I silently read the text, three Marines from the unit that relieved us were killed, with another two seriously injured and probably medically fucked for the rest of their lives.
The report passes by without a passing mention from the newscasters, who are now spouting off about the rich drug addict over several clips of her party days. They call her a troubled inspiration and a hero to many, and their endless praise makes my fists clench with rage. Three Marines are dead, three of my brothers are dead, but instead of remembrance from the country they loved, all they get is a passing mention in the nightly news. All while the nation mourns some useless celebrity whose only qualification in life was that she was hot and her daddy had money.
Nobody would remember their names. Nobody would remember Clyde's name.
The TV shuts off with a click, and I notice that my jaw hurts— my teeth gritting together so hard they feel as if they're breaking. Lynn has the remote in her hand, an unreadable expression across her face. I want to say something to her but I just can't find the words. Silence looms over us both, and I'm the first to break contact, my eyes focusing on the living room couch and on the dog asleep on the cushions.
Charles is far older than I remember him ever looking. His soft snores echo across the now silent living room, each labored breath he takes causing his chest to ripple. I asked Lana to watch after him when I left, but he's taken on at least ten pounds since last I've seen him, and I wonder idly if she ever bothered to walk him. If anybody in this house ever bothered.
I rub his head softly and the pitbull terrier shoots his head up in surprise. His eyes are milky-white and glassed over. My heart breaks when he doesn't seem to recognize me.
"His vision started to go just a few months after you left." Lynn softly says beside me. Charles may not know it's me, but he does recognize the familiar comfort of someone touching him and he rolls over to his side. "His hearing went shortly after."
"He doesn't recognize me." I whisper as I scratch the old dog's belly.
"He doesn't recognize anyone really, it's not just you Linc." Her words are supposed to comfort, but just wind up feeling empty instead. Hollow. And I feel like I want to break something. Charles was my dog growing up and to see him like this? I just, I can't-
"Hello Lincoln," a voice echos over on my right and myself plus Lynn jump back in alarm— the sudden movement startling Charles, who jumps off the couch in search of shelter. Instinct takes hold and my weight shifts as I instantly square my body into a proper fighting stance. I'm about to throw a punch to defend myself, before I realize— I'm not getting attacked, it's not the fucking Taliban, it's just fucking Lucy sneaking up on me again.
"Jesus Christ Lucy," I snap at her. My heart feels like it's about to explode— anger ignites itself in my chest but this time I don't have the control nor means to put it out. "Don't ever fucking do that again." I'm upset, but more at myself than her. I think I'm just angry in general— angry over the news, angry over Charles' state, and angry over life.
It's not Lucy's fault, I know that. But I can't help myself. I built a dam around my emotions, trying to bottle them back, but the strain is too much and cracks are forming. Leaking through.
The small, almost invisible smile upon Lucy's face is gone now, gone and replace with shock. She stumbles back a few steps and— even though I can't see her expression— I just know that her eyes are probably wide as dinner plates right now. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Lynn gaping at me, and behind her— from the kitchen— I can hear utensils dropping to the floor.
Fuck. I need to get out of here. I didn't mean to do that. Fuck.
I hear Dad calling my name, but I've already crossed the threshold of the door by then, and it slams shut behind me. I'm almost a block down the road by the time my legs stop pumping and I double over, puking.
Or try to, at least. I dry heave again and again, but nothing up comes except painful contractions. I emptied my tank back at the airport— I've got nothing left to puke up. Instead, I sit down on the curb, my hands rummage through my pockets for a pack of smokes and I light up a cigarette as I wait for my heart-rate to die back down.
I once promised myself, back when I was younger, that I would never take up something as stupidly irresponsible as smoking. Lung cancer is what took grandma from us, and I saw firsthand the toll it took on her body in her final years. But tobacco use is as commonplace as breathing in the infantry. It was bound to happen soon or later.
I still remember the time I had my first taste— it was about an hour after our first patrol in-country, the first time I had somebody shoot at me. Clyde and I, we were resting against the mudwalls of some compound we had set up a patrol base in and the adrenaline was still pumping through our veins. I was still shaking.
"Here," Corporal Sanders, our team leader, said to us. In his hand he held out a crumpled pack of Marlboros, but when I went to refuse, he shook his head. "It'll help Loud, trust me on this." He'd been to Afghanistan once before, so I didn't dare second guess him.
"Aye Corporal," I said, accepting a cigarette for the two of us.
"Quit it with that 'aye corporal' garrison shit." He snapped, lighting one up for himself. "We're in-country, and you two just got into a firefight. Far as I'm concerned, you guys ain't boots anymore." He blew out a puff of smoke from his nose, the cloud dissipating through dry Afghan air. "Call me A.J, dude."
Clyde and I spent the next few minutes passing that cigarette back and forth. Between the nicotine buzz, our dying adrenaline, and A.J giving us permission to call him by name and not rank— we felt more at home in the squad than we ever had before. And the country of Afghanistan seemed a little less scary than it did earlier that morning.
Somebody's weight shifts down beside me and I blink in surprise as Lynn takes a seat on the curb. I give her a glance but her face is unreadable, so I turn away to smoke in silence.
"Those things'll kill ya, y'know?" Lynn's voice is quiet, but I can't really sense any disapproval in her tone. Surprisingly.
"Lots of thing will kill me." I shrug lamely. It's not much of a response and just like that, we're quiet again. The only sound between us is the faint, crackling burn of my smoke, and of her faded chucks carving circles into the asphalt.
"Lucy didn't mean to upset you."
"I know," I nod. "She just… I don't really want to talk about this Lynn."
"Lincoln," she sighs but I wasn't about to budge.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay," she frowns defeated. She lets the subject drop and I'm eternally grateful to her for it. She nudges my knee with her own in solidarity, but I say nothing else in response.
Even if I were up to talk about it, I don't even know where I would start. Lucy was always so reserved, so dark and moody— she hardly ever smiled. And here she was, smiling for me. Smiling because her only brother in the whole damn world had marched on to war and made it back home. Smiling because she was happy he was alive.
And the first thing he does when sees her? He fucking snaps at her. Like an angry, ungrateful little shit.
I shouldn't be acting like this. This is my family, the people who raised me, yet I can't help but get angry at them. First mom, now Lucy— who's next? Am I going to scream at Lola? Am I going to explode on Lily? I feel like a powder keg, and everyone around me is a lit match, seconds away from detonation.
Fuck me. I should never had come back here.
"Come on Lynn," I stand and she quietly follows. The cigarette is burnt to its filter and I crush the butt beneath my boot. It's time to face the music.
Dad is out on the porch, waiting for us when we get back. Lynn quietly excuses herself back inside and I'm left alone. Alone with my father.
"Hey Dad," I say with a fake smile. He pulls me into a tight hug and I release a weak, shuddering breath in his chest. I hate myself for it.
"Welcome home son." He doesn't ask about what I did to Lucy. He doesn't even ask if I'm okay. He just holds me close, making me feel like a little kid again. "I'm proud of you Lincoln."
"I know Dad," I swallow and I hate how easily the lie forms on my lips. How easy it is to lie to his face. "I'm okay now, I'm happy to be home."
Nobody says anything at dinner, at least not anything substantial. Just simple small talk and pleasantries that always end in a silence which ends up feeling both welcoming, yet suffocating at the same time— I don't even try to understand why.
Eating with the family is different now, just like everything else I left behind. A few years back, when Lori first left for Florida— it felt as if there was a void in the house, a missing piece to the puzzle that was our abnormally large family. The empty feeling was, for the most part, easy to ignore, up until we would all gather for dinner. It's hard to describe, but conversations would feel strangely unfinished without hearing Lori and her smart-ass comments. Quiet moments would feel off without the constant idle typing of her and her phone, eternally glued to her hand— of her soft giggles in response to Bobby sending her a particularly cute message.
Now though? Lori's not the only one of my sister's missing. Without Leni's bubbly personality, or Luna's enthusiastic nature, or even Luan's constant onslaught of terrible jokes— dinner is just uncertain. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
Across the table, my eyes make fleeting contact with Lucy's, who immediately averts her gaze in response. She hasn't said a single word to me or anyone else since she first sat down, and know I should be apologizing to her but the words catch in my throat when they form. I don't know what to say.
The gloom hangs over the table like a rain cloud from those old cartoons I used to watch as a kid. Lynn was the only one of my sisters to see what happened, but word spreads like wildfire in our home. Everyone knows I snapped at her, but no one is willing to bring it up. No one's willing to say anything really.
Jesus, this is awkward.
"Lincoln, did you get all the packages I sent?" Mom asks, breaking the silence as she passes me the serving dish of mashed potatoes.
After she accepted that I was going to enlist with or without her blessing, she pursued being a Marine Mom with the same enthusiasm as she was being a Sports Mom for Lynn. She registered on a bunch of internet USMC parent websites, slapped a yellow magnetic Support Our Troops ribbon on Vanzilla, and went insane with care packages while I was away.
In-country, mail was our lifeline to the world back home. Between church groups, the different "any service member" organizations, and parents, it wasn't unusual for a guy to get half a dozen care packages at once. Honestly, getting mail was like Christmas morning, sitting there cross-legged on the ground opening presents. And my mom usually sent me quality stuff— instant heat packs, a coffee press, baby-wipes, beef jerky, even a solar shower that was unfortunately stolen by one of the Afghan National Army soldiers before I even had a chance to use it.
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." I was pretty terrible at keeping in touch, but in my defense, we were cut off from the outside world for the first couple of months we were there. Then we got a satellite phone and were allowed to call home every couple of weeks, but only for about five minutes at a time. During one call I suggested she could probably cut back on the dental floss and paperback mysteries and instead send some school supplies for the kids who would mob us on patrol, begging for everything.
"The kids went nuts for the pens and crayons." Water. Candy. Food. Pens. I don't know why, but they loved pens. Afghan children are crazy. "I'm, um—sorry I didn't call much."
Her eyes widen. Probably because I've never been in the habit of apologizing. "Well, we figured you were probably busy," she says.
In Afghanistan, that was true, but I have no excuse for boot camp or for school of infantry. She sent me tons of letters and I never answered any of them. I called her once on the first day of boot camp and recited the words fastened to the wall beside the phone:
This is recruit Loud. I have arrived safely at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island. Please do not send any food or bulky items to me in the mail. I will contact you in three to five days by postcard with my new address. Thank you for your support. I love you, goodbye.
And that was about it. Aside from that handful of five-minute phone calls, I haven't talked to her for more than a year.
"Howard always called me after he got a letter from Clyde," Mom says quietly. "So I knew you were okay."
I freeze, mid bite into my shepherd's pie, as a feeling of regret opens up in my stomach. Suddenly I'm not so hungry anymore— I drop the fork to my plate and try to swallow, my mouth impossibly dry.
"Lola, how about you tell everyone how your audition went?" Dad speaks, diverting the conversation away and I couldn't be more grateful to him than I am in this moment.
"Oh yeah!" Lola perks up, a wide smile beaming across her face. "I totally got the part!"
"Big surprise there," Lily smirks. "Lola getting what she wants."
"It's just the way the world works dude." Lana adds in.
"Hush you two. This is a big deal for me." Lola juts her chin up, triumphant.
"What was the audition for?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"There's a youth modeling agency up in Detroit," she explains with a smile. "I got a role for a commercial they're shooting in a few weeks!"
"That's great." I say, happy for her. "You a movie star yet?"
"Give it, like, a few years." Lola childishly sticks her tongue out at me. "I'll send you a postcard from Hollywood."
"Are they paying you?" Lynn asks, shoveling spoonfuls of food into her mouth.
"Lynn," Mom sighs. "Manners please?" Lynn blinks once, swallows and smiles sheepishly at her.
"Sorry! I skipped lunch today."
"It is apparent you refrained from indulging in breakfast as well." Lisa dryly states from her seat. "I took notice our refrigerator unit was uncharacteristically organized come dawn."
Lynn blinks. "What?"
"She means you didn't raid the fridge this morning." Lily chirps beside her.
"Oh." Lynn shakes her head. "I just wasn't hungry today." And I raise an eyebrow at that.
"For both breakfast and lunch?"
"Mmhmm." She shrugs, returning her attention back to her plate.
That… shouldn't be right. The Lynn I remembered was always, and I mean always hungry— like she were a bottomless pit or something. Out of all of us, she was always the one to go back for seconds, Hell sometimes even thirds at dinner. I don't even think I've even seen her skip a meal before, let alone two.
I want to say something about it, ask her about it— but Dad's voice draws me out of my thoughts. And I realize that he's trying to talk to me.
"Sorry, say again?"
"So what was it like?" Dad asks. "Afghanistan, I mean."
"Hot and dirty in the summer, cold and dirty in the winter."
He raises an eyebrow, "So not the best place to set up the next Loud Family vacation home?"
"It wouldn't be my first choice." I snark back at him and there's a familiar gleam in his eye. "Might be worth checking out Somalia though. Weather's similar, but we can get beachfront property there for real cheap. Just gotta watch out for the local warlords."
"Hmm, I'll consider it." He taps his chin, mocking a deep thought and I can't help but grin.
"Did you shoot anyone?" Lana blurts out and my mood instantly sours.
"Lana!" Somebody scolds, but I already zone out the conversation, glaring down at my plate in silence.
I don't blame her, she's just curious. Who wouldn't be? But how the Hell am I supposed to answer that question? Killing someone isn't like picking off bad guys in a video game. You're not shooting pixels and data and code in real life, you're shooting flesh and blood. The first time I shot someone, I thought I was going to puke, but I couldn't because we were in the middle of a firefight and I couldn't stop shooting. It's only after all was said and done that I began to dwell it. Dwell on the fact that I just took someone else's life.
I won't tell my sister that. Not at dinner. Not ever.
"I don't want to talk about it." I say.
Lana has her hands cupped, covering her mouth, eyes wide in fear. Or is that shame? I know she didn't mean to ask that question, but what's done is done and like I said, I don't blame her for it. I offer her a simple shrug and go back to eating, even though I've long lost my appetite.
A thick tension falls over the table, one which Dad tries to break with small talk and bad jokes, but he's unsuccessful in his efforts. Whatever moment we had, it's gone now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lynn shooting several concerned glances my way— I ignore them to the best of my ability.
"May I be excused?" Lucy balls up her napkin and drops it on her plate. The table looks over in surprise at her sudden lack of silence. "I'm not so hungry anymore." Her gaze meets mine for a split second before nervously sliding away. It makes me feel like shit.
"Of course honey." Mom says, an unreadable expression upon her face.
Lucy shoves away from the table and the eight of us spend the rest of the meal in a silence thick with things unsaid. The only sound is the clinking of silverware against the plates. I hate that a simple question from my sister could get under my skin so bad, and I hate that a single year could alienate me so much from the people who raised me. Why am I like this? Shouldn't I feel good to be with them again? Why do I feel closer to a group of guys I've known less than a year than I do my own family?
When it's finally over, I go to my room and lock the door. Mom asks if I want to stay up and wait for Luan to get home, but I ignore her. I'm angry, I'm tired and I just want to go to sleep.
My unit got back to Camp Lejeune a couple of weeks ago and we had to have a post-deployment health assessment to take care of any physical problems we developed in-country— primarily skin problems from washing in muddy canals, acne from having a constantly dirty face, bug bites, and a few guys had lingering coughs from chest infections. The evaluation is also supposed to gauge our mental wellness, but that's a joke. We say everything is okay even if it's not, because the fastest way to wreck your career is to admit that you're screwed up. So I didn't tell anyone about my recurring nightmare. I didn't tell them about Clyde. I only told the doctor I was having trouble sleeping and he prescribed me some pills.
They rattle as I pull the amber bottle out of my bag and dump three tablets into my hand. I swallow them dry, then ease myself to the floor and let the world fade away.
Author's Note:
Coming back home from your first deployment is always the roughest. No matter how prepared you say you are, change will always hit you in your most intimate of moments. Lincoln is dealing with what countless other men and woman deal with when they return home from war. Myself included.
When I got back from my first deployment to Afghanistan, I was ecstatic to go back home on leave. To see my family and just enjoy being back in my hometown. Only problem was, three days into my two week leave block, and I was ready to go back to base. I missed my friends I made on my deployment— the guys I shed blood, sweat, and tears with. Now don't get me wrong, I loved my family back home, and I would do anything for them... but I never really had to suffer with them, if that makes any sense.
The bonds of brotherhood are forged in fire and that bond is hard to break. I spent 6 months training with my unit, then spent 7 month in the suck that was Afghanistan. And those were some of the best times of my life. Something special is formed between the man to your left and right, a love that can only form in the mutual suffering of a whole— where the only comfort you get out of life is your brother on either side of you.
When I got first got back, all I wanted to do was go home on leave. It was only when I was back in my hometown, did I realize that my true home was back in my shitty barracks room in Camp Pendleton— getting drunk as fuck with my brothers and reminiscing about that one time we almost all got killed by a danger-close airstrike.
Lincoln isn't being OOC, and he's not trying to be moody-angsty-dark protagonist. He's just grown up and he's homesick— he doesn't hate his sisters and he doesn't hate his parents— he just wants to be back with the guys he raised Hell with. He wants to be back with his brothers.
Coming back from your first deployment is always the roughest. But it gets easier as you go on. And eventually, you learn that it's entirely possible to have two families.
Regardless, I thank you for reading and if you review, for your support.
Till next time—