These Scars I Carry
Chapter 4
"Breathe"

Even before I open my eyes I can feel the presence of another person in my room, and the hair on the back of my neck puts my body on alert. Hand-to-hand combat is not usually the Taliban's style. They'd rather take our money at the local bazaar and use it to buy weapons to kill us with later. They prefer ambushes, roadside bombs, and sniping from windows and rooftops. But there is someone here with me in the dark and I'm not going to wait to be killed.

I surge upward, grabbing the intruder around his knees, and drop him to the floor. I pin him beneath me, the blade of my knife at his throat. Only in the thin slashes of moonlight coming through the blinds, I realize he is not a he, but actually a she. It's Luan. And for the first time since I've known her, she looks absolutely scared. Terrified.

"Oh, shit!" I drop the knife as if it's red-hot and scrabble backward against the side of my bed. My head is spinning, I'm still drunk— but even then, I'm able to sober up enough to realize just how much I fucked up just now.

"Jesus! Luan, what the fu— Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of my room, and I can see clear the fear on Luan's face. Her eyes are wide with shock, her mouth dropped open and her face pale as the moonlight filtering through my room. But to her credit— in that classic, otherworldly Luan-way of not letting anything get to her— she shrugs it off quick. Her fear falls away as she registers my surprise and she laughs as she picks up the knife.

"It's okay Lincoln, I really get the... point you're trying to make." She chuckles as she twirls my knife like it were a pin used for juggling. "For future reference, I won't try to sneak into your room in the middle of...knife anymore. Eh? Ehhh?"

As she laughs, I just stare, dumbfounded at how rationally she's taking this. That and I'm having trouble grasping the fact that the first thing she says to me after a year of no contact is a fucking pun. Two of them actually.

Then again, this is Luan we're talking about here.

My eyes glance over to the clock on my nightstand. "Jesus Luan, it's like four in the morning!"

"Early bird gets the worm Lincoln!" She grins and I sigh, blinking rapidly to try and will away the haze of my prematurely ended alcoholic slumber.

I reach over to take the knife from her playful hands and put it on the bedside table, on top of the book I'll never finish. I take a seat on my bare bed, Luan parking herself next to me, crisscrossing her legs as she gleams to me with a far too eager smile. It's too early for this.

"What are you doing here?" I ask her and her face falls slightly.

"Wow, really Linc? You spend a year away and the first thing you ask me is 'what are you doing here'?" She says, deepening her voice in a mock tone of my own.

"Sorry," I sigh. "Not what I meant. I mean, what are you doing here at four in the morning?"

"Visiting you dummy." She's back to grinning as she leans forward to catch me in a tight hug. "Welcome home bro-beans. Sorry I couldn't catch you yesterday."

"It's alright," I say as I return her hug. "You were busy."

"Well now I'm free! My next show's not until Thursday. So we have all week to catch up." She chuckles as we pull apart. "I have a new routine to show you. It's a real riot!"

"Can't wait," I yawn. "Can we continue this later? Like, when the sun is back up?"

"Fine then spoilsport." She says, sticking her tongue out at me. "I didn't actually mean to wake you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna die from alcohol poisoning in here." She gestures to my bedside table. Luan's laid out a pair of water bottles for me on it and I'm caught off guard by the caring thoughtfulness behind it.

"Oh." I've got nothing to say, still kinda dazed by the love behind her simple action. "Uh thanks." My mouth is dry so I take a few gulps from one of the bottles and to help fight off my, no doubt, impending hangover.

"No problemo Linky." She grins, "You know what they say about Marines— you've gotta keep them hydrated! Get it?"

She laughs her trademark Luan laugh, and I roll my eyes even as I feel a small smile etching out the corners of my mouth. I blame the alcohol.

"Oh! Did you ever hear about what M.A.R.I.N.E stands for?"

"'My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment.'" I say to her deadpan. "C'mon dude, that one's not even close to original."

"I was gonna say 'Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential.'"

"Heard that one too." I poke her once in the stomach, causing her to squeak and shift away. "What are you doing up? Do you have classes on a Saturday?"

"Oh no, Lynn was super noisy when she got back and I couldn't get back to sleep." She says with a shrug.

I want to ask her what she means by that, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a loud yawn.

"I'll let you get some sleep," Luan says.

"Yeah, thanks. We'll catch up later sis."

Luan gives me one last, lengthy hug before finally leaving. "I missed you little brother."

She smiles warmly as the door shuts behind her, and I pull myself back down to my impromptu bed on the floor. But as my head rests against my pillow, I toss and turn before deciding that it's a lost cause and further sleep has eluded me. I contemplate taking a few pills to help, but instead I just lay there and stare up at the ceiling.

My mind uncontrollably starts running at a rate of a million miles per hour, the events of last night playing through my head on repeat. Over and over, I see myself smashing my fists into Hank's bloodied face. Of Lucy shrieking and begging for me to stop. Of Lynn's panic stricken face.

And before I know it, I'm up and digging through my dresser drawers, searching for a pair of shorts and a fresh shirt.

What the hell am I doing?

I'm standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of a nice orange and white house on Bellflower Avenue, trying to catch my breath as I'm wondering what I'm going to do next, when a man comes out the front door. It's still dark out, so at first I don't think he sees me.

"Is there a good reason why you're outside my house at five thirty in the morning?" He asks, resting a travel mug of coffee on the hood of an ancient looking Land Rover. His keys jingle as he unlocks the driver's side door. He surveys my t-shirt, soaked through with sweat under the arms and in the middle of my chest and raises an eyebrow. It's a long run from my house to the hills of Royal Woods— there's a lot of incline roads and even a bridge involved. It's not exactly what one could classify as an easy, relaxing route. Especially when you've still got alcohol in your system.

But hey, a little self-loathing goes a long way.

"Just ended up here, sir." I shrug lamely since I don't have a good answer for him. After Luan left, I pulled on my old running shoes and took off without any real destination in mind. I didn't even bring my cell phone. I just needed to get out and clear my head. "Wasn't sure where else to go."

"Interesting choice of destinations."

I nod. "Not real well thought out, either."

He chuckles. "Need a lift somewhere?"

"I could use a ride home." I say honestly.

The porch light flickers to life and Girl Jordan steps out of the house, the wooden screen door slamming shut behind her. "Lincoln?"

Her feet are bare and she's wearing little pajama shorts that sit low on her hips and make her mile-long legs seem to go on forever. I have to look away. The last thing I need is to pop a full fledged woody in front of her dad. Instead, I focus on her face— specifically on the small bruise that's formed on her cheek. Internally, I wince. God, I'm such an asshole.

"Yeah, um— hi." I say to her, not really knowing what I'm supposed to do or say at this moment.

Her dad's eyebrows lift, but he sips his coffee without comment.

"What are you doing here?" She steps off the porch into the small patch of damp grass, sounding only marginally annoyed with me at the moment. Small blessing I guess. "Haven't you had enough abuse for one night?"

Apparently not. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to get some air."

"You look like hell," she says. "Did you run the whole way?"

"More or less." I shrug nonchalant. A simple motion I find myself doing more and more these days.

Her mouth falls open. "That has to be at least—"

"Seven miles." They both stare at me like I've got a third ear growing on my face, but seven miles is nothing, especially when you're doing slick without a flak or a pack. Now what's more interesting is the fact that she knows where I live.

"Well, oookay." Jordan's dad glances at his watch. "I need to get to work, so why don't you drop me off and then take Lincoln here on home?"

"Lemme go change real quick," she says, disappearing back into their home.

Bummer. I kinda liked the pajamas.

"Nice Rover sir." Jordan's dad's Land Rover is no doubt older than I am. Ancient even. With the exception of a CD player that he probably installed himself, there are no modern creature comforts inside. The windows are crank operated, the door locks are not automatic, and the spare tire is obnoxiously mounted in the middle of the front hood.

"Thanks." The driver's door creaks tellingly as he slams it shut behind him. "I bought her when I was a freshman in college. Every couple of months, I have to fix something or replace a part, but she's a tough old girl I won't let her die on me yet."

"Hey, if you ever need a hand sir…" My voice trails off as I stop, feeling like a total idiot and sounding like a complete suck-up.

"You know your way around an engine?"

"Somewhat," I answer him. Back in Afghanistan, we used up-armored Humvees and IED resistant gun trucks called MRAPs. Just like everything in the military, they were built by the lowest bidder, and would breakdown on us all the time. While we had legitimate mechanics attached to us, they couldn't be everywhere at once so it helped immensely if you knew at least the basics of vehicle maintenance. Everybody in our platoon was an amateur mechanic in a way.

He nods at me with a bit of appraisal. "You're Rita Loud's boy, aren't you?"

"Yes sir." It's interesting that he mentions my mom, and not referring to the fact that I'm the one and only son of the Loud family. Everyone else in this town has me permanently pegged as the 'boy with ten sisters' or as that 'Loud kid, the one who's a boy'— it's hard trying to escape the shadow of such a large family. Part of the reason I enlisted in the first place.

"Welcome home son."

"Thank you sir."

"You can call me Mark instead of sir," he says. "It makes me feel old."

"Yes, si—" Old habits die hard. "Okay."

"You know, you used to be such a little douchebag." He's one of those older guys who can use a term like "douchebag" without sounding like one. The same way he can get away with wearing a Metal Mulisha t-shirt and not look as if he's trying too hard. Anyways, given the fact that the last two things I did tonight was elbow his daughter in the face and pretty much beat a guy half to death, I'm pretty sure I still qualify as a douchebag.

"Yeah, I'm sure I was." I chuckle, not at all offended.

"I still remember the night you and your friends crashed Jordan's first pool party." He turns the key and the Rover's engine sputters weakly for a few seconds before dying anticlimactically. He has to turn the ignition again, but eventually the engine sparks to life. Barely. "She ran inside our house, crying about how a couple of boys from school ruined everything."

I remember that night vividly. Clyde, Rusty, Zach and I were all supposed to be having a guy's night sleepover at Liam's farm, but we ended up sneaking out to crash Jordan's party instead. Definitely a dick move on our part since we ditched Liam while he was passed out in the barn, but we were planning on being back before he even knew we were gone.

We were all stupid kids back then, the only thing we cared about was how popular we were at school. And Jordan was throwing one of those important 'everybody who's somebody is gonna be there' parties. If you didn't show up, your social standing at school was going to take a harsh nosedive. The ever eternal bro-code didn't really seem to apply to us in that moment.

Joke was on us though— we became the laughing stock of our elementary school at the end of the night. What with Rusty's face blowing up thanks to an allergic reaction to hot sauce, Zach going bald from some very counter-intuitive hair dye, and both me and Clyde flashing the entire party with our whitey-tighties… yeah, it wasn't what I consider to be one of our greatest moments.

I laugh as the memory brings back some light feelings of nostalgia. "Jordan refused to talk to us for a whole month after that night."

"Consider yourself lucky that she doesn't hold grudges." He chuckles back. My mind flashes back to my screwed up actions of last night. I hope he's right.

Jordan reemerges from their house, this time wearing blue jeans and a black band t-shirt. As she climbs into the backseat, I turn around to look at her and notice Jim Morrison's face on the front of her shirt. So cool.

"Hey, I forgot to tell you last night," Jordan's dad says, glancing briefly in the rear-view mirror at her as he backs out of the driveway. "But I reconnected online with an old college friend of mine. She's thinking of coming for a visit."

Jordan rolls her eyes. "My dad discovered Facebook."

I give her a sympathetic look. I remember when my Dad first discovered the wonders of social media. Oh man, what a time that was. Talk about getting sucked into your phone.

"It's too early to deal with your sass Jordan." He snarks, pulling the Rover onto the freeway.

"What do you do that you have to be at work so early?" I ask him.

"I do the morning show on 108.6."

No way. "Wait. You're Mark? As in of Mark and Joe's Morning Call?"

"Yeah," he says with a glance.

"I used to make my roommates listen to your show on the internet."

He laughs. "And they still speak to you?"

"Dude, are you kidding? They loved it. You should be syndicated."

The Morning Call is the perfect show because they don't pretend to know everything when they're talking about stuff. If they bring up politics, they'd be sure be unbiased and shit on both sides. Their guests aren't lame, they play more music than talk and their music selection is actually good. When we and Clyde hit our unit, we introduced a bunch of the guys to them. Half our platoon listens to that show now.

"We've talked about it," he says. "But that brings pressure we aren't sure we want." He glances back at me. "You know, if you ever wanted to come talk about Afghanistan…"

I imagine telling all of central Michigan how we once caught Chopper in a porta-shitter, jacking off to a picture of Wonder Woman— the cartoon, not the Gal Gadot version. The thought makes me chuckle. "I'll think about it."

A few minutes later, we're at the radio station. Mark invites me in for a tour, but I turn him down. I reek after my run and it's been a long, strange night. I feel like I might be tired enough to sleep without the help of my pills. Nightmares be damned.

"I appreciate the offer sir, but I should probably get home."

"I thought I told you not to call me that." He frowns but I can tell his displeasure isn't genuine.

I shrug, "Force of habit sir. I'll try to work on it."

With a wave, he disappears inside the building and Jordan takes over the driving. "Are you hungry?" she asks, turning onto Grove Street in a direction opposite from the way to my house.

This is not a question I expected. I'm not especially hungry. I'm exhausted and I can still smell sweat, booze and even a bit of blood on my skin. Except I think Jordan is asking me to spend more time with her. This might make me a glutton for punishment, but I don't want to refuse. I mean, I still have to apologize for last night, don't I?

"Starved."

She pulls into a Denny's out off the freeway and we sit in a booth by the windows. After ordering a couple of Grand Slam breakfasts with eggs over easy and bacon, Jordan looks at me. "Why are you here?"

I shrug, stirring my black coffee with a spoon, just so I have something to do with my hands. "Guess I just wanted to apologize. I was a total ass last night."

She raises an eyebrow. "Apologize about forgetting who I was? Or for smacking me in the face?"

"For accidentally hitting you… but now that you mention it, sorry for not recognizing you too." I cringe slightly at the hazy memory of it all. Why do I do this to myself? "Guess that makes me a double-ass now, don't it?"

"I don't blame you Lincoln. At least for not remembering me. You were drunk— it happens." She shrugs, her fingers idly playing with a salt shaker.

"And the other thing I did?"

Her fingers cease their fidgeting. "Now that, I might blame you for. At least just a little bit." She glances up at me through her bangs, and I can't help my eyes from trailing downward to the bruise formed on her cheek. She could easily cover it up with some makeup, but that's besides the point.

"I'm sor-"

She holds up a hand. "You're sorry. I know. Just… forget about it. Apology accepted."

Despite what she says, from her tone, I can tell that my apology isn't accepted. Not really at least. She probably just doesn't want to talk about it anymore since it's an uncomfortable subject. She's just looking for an easy out of this conversation and, y'know what? I don't blame her. I'm a terrible conversationalist.

Jordan's hands return to playing with the salt shaker and I'm suddenly and dreadfully aware of how awkward this all is. I look away from her to focus down on my own hands. They're bruised and still a little bleeding— the knuckles having been split open from my fight.

Jordan seems to take notice. "Do they hurt?"

"A little," I shrug, pulling my hands back into my lap, hiding them from view. "How about you? How's the cheek?"

"A little sore, but I iced it right after, so there's no swelling." Her eyes bore themselves into mine, and I suddenly feel naked in front of her. "What about yours?"

"What about my what?" I cock my head slightly.

"Your eye."

"What about it?"

She gawks at me. "You didn't notice? Seriously?" She shifts the napkin dispenser so that the reflective side is facing me and I take a look. Idly, one of my fingers reaches for my face and I let out a small hiss of pain in response.

Ow. Shit.

One of my eyes is bloodshot crimson, the skin surrounding it slightly swollen and discolored black and blue. Like, black as midnight really. Looks like one of Hank's punches last night made a little more solid impact than I originally noticed.

"Oh damn," I mutter as I gingerly prod at my swollen skin. I honestly had no idea— it's not like I took a minute to inspect myself before I went out on my little PT run. I just grabbed my shoes and bailed.

"Hank really did a number on your face, didn't he?" Jordan says and I try to make light of the conversation.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure I got him back good enough." I start to grin at her, but it falls off my face when I see the reserved look she has on. "What?"

"Lincoln," she murmurs quietly. "You beat him pretty bad last night."

I raise an eyebrow. "And your point is?"

Suddenly there's a fire burning in her eyes and I mentally backpedal as I'm caught completely off guard. Shit, she can go from gentle to scary real quick.

"My point is that you could have killed him if we hadn't stopped you." She glares at me and I blink.

"I think you're overreacting just a bit." I say antagonistically but I know it's just mostly bullshit I'm spewing. Hank was an asshole— has always been an asshole— and he deserved to get his ass thoroughly kicked. Same goes with Hawk. And at the time, drunk-me was content with doing just that. Kick their fucking asses.

But when Hawk insulted Clyde— I just— I wanted more. I wanted to hurt him. Hurt him bad. Not just some blood and bruising, but something significant. Something permanent. A broken nose just wasn't enough.

I don't think I would have killed him or anything… but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already imagining myself stomping on his fucking face or breaking his fucking arm. Or maybe taking a baseball bat to his dome and ensuring he would be eating from a tube for the rest of his life. Shit, just thinking about it gets me angry.

I grip my mug tightly, so tight that I'm surprised the ceramic handle doesn't break and shatter to a million different pieces. Jordan clears her throat and I look up to catch her eyes. They're narrowed in an analytical stare. Maybe even a bit judgmental. I can feel heat rising to my face.

"What?" I say, not too pleased about her gaze.

"You have that look on your face again."

"What 'look'?"

"The one you had on last night," Jordan says quietly. "The one after Hawk…" Her voice trails off and I sneer back.

"After Hawk started talking shit on Clyde?" I finish for her and looks away with what seems an awful lot like shame.

"Yeah, that…" She mutters.

"Yeah? Well can you blame me?" I challenge her and she looks back at me.

"Lincoln-"

Suddenly our waitress arrives and slides our plates onto the table. Jordan stops and looks away. Silently, I dig into my hash browns, mentally kicking myself for having this conversation crash and burn right in front of my eyes. Goddamnit, I came here to make things right, not make things even worse.

This isn't Jordan's fault, I know that. But I'm a prideful, selfish, angry little prick and I don't know how to fix that. I wish I knew how to talk to her, I wish I knew what to say. If Clyde were here, he would know. He always did. Back in New York City, he would say sweet things to girls that made them smile and go all soft-eyed. I lacked his finesse. I lacked his compassion.

I look up and Clyde is sitting beside Jordan on the bench, his arms hooked around the back of her booth and his body so close to hers that they're basically touching. I wonder why she doesn't feel him, doesn't see him.

"We fucked up good, didn't we Indy?" he says with a grin.

I just stare at him as he reaches across the table and— just as if we were back at school of infantry— snatches a strip of bacon from off my plate. It doesn't levitate in midair and, beside Clyde, Jordan crunches down on a bite of toast, completely ignorant of the fact that there are three of us at this table.

"I mean…" Clyde folds the whole strip of bacon into his mouth and chews for a moment. Slowly. Deliberately. "I'm dead and you're seeing things that aren't really there, and we have no one else to blame."

I blink at him rapidly, trying to will him away. But each time I open my eyes, Clyde is still sitting there, chewing on my stolen bacon. This isn't right. Before when I would blink, Clyde would be gone. I don't why it's not working now, but I'm starting to freak out.

"We've got no one to blame but ourselves Indy," he says to me with a small, sad smile and I suddenly find it impossible to swallow.

"We should have told somebody about the kid," I whisper and Jordan looks at me.

"What?" she asks, confused.

Clyde turns his head to look at her and I see the gash in the side of his neck, the skin torn open, and dark dried blood crusted around the edges. His glasses crack, and I can suddenly smell smoke and cordite.

My stomach churns and the fork clatters as it hits the plate. I scramble over my seat, tripping once in the process as I haul ass for the restroom. I slam the door open and next thing I know, I'm puking up eggs and bacon and every last damn drop of alcohol I had last night. The taste of it on my tongue is beyond foul and my head starts pounding like a motherfucker. Oh hell, what did I drink so much?

"Lincoln?" Jordan knocks on the bathroom door before very hesitantly poking her head into the room, catching me as I'm wiping my face off, nearly doubled over the sink. "Hey Lincoln, you doing okay?"

Bitterly, I want to laugh and tell her— No Jordan, I'm not okay. I'm actually losing my fucking mind. If you would, please, give me a minute to unfuck my scrambled brain. I'll be out in a sec.

Instead, like an asshole, I just mutter to her. "I need to go."

"Yeah, sure." She looks confused and I can't blame her. First I don't recognize her and proceed to hit on her at a party. Then I end up driving my elbow into her face when she tries to stop me from killing someone, only to show up outside her house in the middle of the night a few hours later. Now I'm slumped over in the men's room of a Denny's, where I had just finished flushing away my stomach after seeing my very much dead best friend joining us for breakfast.

"I'll, um…" She looks at my reflection in the mirror and I can't tell what she's thinking. "I'll take care of the bill."

"I've got it," I say, but the door thumps closed behind her. I pat my pocket, but it's empty. Just as well she didn't hear me. I forgot my wallet, too. Fucking idiot Loud.

There's a small blessing in the fact that we don't talk on the drive back to my house. At least not until she pulls the Land Rover into the driveway.

"Feeling better now?" Jordan asks.

I can't tell her I saw Clyde, that back there in the restaurant he talked to me. Because what Marine— what person, really— wants to admit that their brain is scrambled? Who would want to associate themselves with that guy? "I guess. Thanks."

Awkward silence. I don't leave the Rover just yet because I feel like there should be more I should say— say something to help justify my actions, at least without having to fully explain myself.

But I don't know what to say. So I go with my gut.

"Sorry about snapping at you earlier."

She looks at me and her eyes are soft. "It's okay. My fault for bringing up a sore subject."

Silence falls over us again. Thick and awkward.

"And I'm, uh, sorry for hitting you last night." Again with the pathetic apologies. Smooth Loud. Very smooth.

"You already apologized to me for that dummy."

"Yeah well, I wanted to do it again. So yeah, sorry."

Despite my weirdness though, she giggles and it feels like the air between us has been cleared. Like she got out of her system what has been festering since last night. At least now I know that she doesn't hates me for having been such a dick...or maybe she does, and she just thinks I'm pathetic and feels sorry for me. Which, hey, isn't exactly ideal, but still an improvement over hating me. I guess. Whatever.

There is something that's still bothering me though. Some little detail I can't quite shake off.

"Hey, Jordan, can I ask you something?"

"Okay." Her expression is guarded. Wary.

"You could have brought me straight home, but you didn't," I say. "Why?"

She doesn't look at me, just stares straight ahead through the front windshield. "I have to go Linc. I'm going to be late for work."

I don't press the question as I get out of the Rover. Her non-answer is enough for now.

"I'll see you later, Jordan."

My mom is alone at the kitchen counter when I go inside, her hands curled around a cup of coffee. She gives me a tired smile, then glances up at the clock. "Have you been out all this time?"

"Sort of."

Used to be, she'd try to ground me for staying out all night. She probably still does to Lynn and Luan, despite the fact that they're older. But me? Well now she doesn't even ask where I've been. Instead she just looks at me with eyes that are ringed with a soft sadness.

"Coffee?" She asks, raising her mug slightly in my direction.

I'm so tired I can barely see straight, but I guess I can stay up a few minutes longer with my mom. I scrub my hand over some rough stubble on my face. I need a shave. "Sure, thanks."

She reaches up to the open cupboard and I notice there are several used Keurig cups by the machine. She's been awake for awhile it seems. Maybe she was up when I left this morning and I hadn't noticed. She fills a USMC Mom mug with coffee and slides it to me.

"You okay?" I ask.

She nods with her head down, so I can't see her face, but when she looks up there are tears in her eyes. Shit. This night is never going to end, is it?

She wipes her nose with a tissue. "Your sister and I got into a fight."

"What the—? Who? Why?"

"Me and Lynn," she says. "I called her cell last night when she was out, but she didn't answer."

Something is not right here. Why didn't she call me or Lucy? "Mom, what's going on?"

"I was still up when you three made it home last night. You were so drunk that Lucy and Lynn had to carry you back to your room." She says and I blink. Last night, the last thing I remember was smoking a cigarette out by my Jeep while waiting for my sisters. Then, I guess I blacked out. But shit, they had to carry me back up? Did I get that thrashed?

"Sorry about that." I wince.

"It's okay, I understand." I doubt she does, but I don't correct her. "Anyways, when they finally got you to bed, Lucy went back to her room, but Lynn wanted to go back out."

"What? Why?"

"She—we haven't been getting along very well this past year. And, I don't know, maybe it's my own fault." She manages to choke out, trying hard not to fall to pieces in front of me. "When she was leaving, I tried to stop her but we just started arguing. And then yelling. And then— and then she just left."

Mom starts crying so I move to her side of the counter and put my arms around her. It's hard to be affectionate with her— and not only because I've been away so long. I'm just not used to this. Leni was always the compassionate one of out us all. The careful and comforting one— compared to her, I don't know what I'm doing.

Mom collapses against my chest, her words and sobs spilling out together in a flood. "While you were in Afghanistan, I went a little— well, I went a little crazy," she says. "You have no idea how afraid I was for you. I was on the internet all hours of the night, talking to other Marine parents and googling your name to make sure you were still alive. Whenever I saw a news article that said US troops had been killed, I was terrified the doorbell would ring and someone would tell me you were dead. Then they'd release the names of who died and I'd cry with relief that it wasn't my son and then cry more because it was someone else's son. I was obsessive about keeping my cell phone charged and I checked it a million times a day so I wouldn't miss your call."

Mom wipes her eyes, but she can't stop the flow of tears. And I hate myself even more because when I was deployed, I considered calling home every once in awhile to be such a chore. To call Mom and let her know I was still alive to be a waste of time... me being here, comforting her right now, this isn't an absolution. This doesn't make up for the way I've treated her.

I'm still an asshole, yeah— but this is my Mom. She deserves better.

"When Lynn got injured and dropped out, I was so worried about you that I didn't pay attention to how she was acting. The way she withdrew from everyone." She sniffles, "She's hurting Lincoln, she's hurting and I didn't do anything to try and help her."

This is not her fault. It's mine.

"I'll talk to her."

Mom sucks in a snotty breath and pulls back. "No. It's okay. I didn't mean—" She smooths her hand over the damp spot on my shirt. "I didn't mean to put this on your shoulders. God knows you've got enough on your plate." She looks up at me. "Lincoln, have you been fighting?"

"Long story, don't worry about it," I say. "Have you slept?"

She shakes her head and gestures toward a to-do list lying on the counter. Grocery shopping. Cookies for Lola's cheerleader car wash/bake sale. Dry cleaning. I take the list in hand and crush it.

"Sleep first. Dad can take care of the dry cleaning and I'll get the groceries."

Mom's eyes go watery again. "You're such a good man, Lincoln."

If she knew the things I've done, the pain I wanted to inflict on those guys last night, and the way I took her love for granted while deployed— she'd know I'm not even close to being a good man.

"Go get some sleep, Mom."

About an hour later, I drop the freshly bought groceries off in the kitchen and stumble my way back upstairs. I'm beyond exhausted when I finally reach my own room and collapse onto my bed. My eyes drift as I become too tired to think about Lynn and Mom, or Jordan or even that my mattress is too soft. Somewhere in my head, I think I can just faintly make out Clyde's voice chiding me.

When I finally fall asleep, if I have any nightmares, they're long gone before I wake up again.

Author's Note:

This chapter was originally supposed to be finished and released on the 10th, which was the Marine Corps Birthday. But real life got in the way... Then I planned to finish and release it on the 11th for Veterans Day. But real life got in the way. Again.

What a bag of dicks ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But yeah, back to the chapter — as you can tell, not all is well within the Loud House. There's a reason Lynn is the only sister tagged in the character roles. That much though, will have to wait to be expanded upon for future chapters. Also I have to say, Luan is difficult to write for. Mostly because I lack any sort of creative bone in my body and can't make a good pun to save my life. I hope I can do her justice when she starts making more lengthy appearances later.

Well I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review if you want. Or you can flame me, that's cool too. Your tears will just motivate me further.

Till next time—