Chapter 6

Minutes turn into hours turn into days. Christopher finds himself fighting guilt over his fallen comrades alternating with even more guilt at being injured and unable, at least in his mind, to properly care for Valentine or himself.

This was not the homecoming he envisioned, and he knows she did not either. On those rare occasions when he finds himself in his grey, pathetic hospital room alone with his memories of Mugsy and all the others and fitting in, he can taste sand in the back of his mouth and feel it burning his feet even when he knows that he is only lying on his back on the lumpy mattress of a hospital bed. All the sadness and the ridiculousness of deadly conflict and the idiocy of truly thinking…really believing that by getting involved would actually help out somehow…all of that paired with the pull of what he now knows is labeled survivor's guilt (from the explanation given to him about his feelings from the staff psychologist)…it all threatens to drown him...then take him apart bone by bone, opening him up and leaving him filled with nothing but sand-colored particles.

At least until Valentine returns with her golden hair and kindness in her eyes. For a few moments then, he can believe that everything is going to be alright, that the love he sees emanating from her whole self really belongs there…that he really deserves it and that he can heal and be whole again.

Yet even when she is beside him, holding his hand while he struggles to take a step between the bars during his physical therapy, the weakness of his body threatens to overtake his mind.

Trying to pull himself out of his uncomfortable thoughts, Christopher leans heavily on his hands until the knuckles are turning white from the strain of holding his body upright. Pain radiates down his spine and the doctor's words about having very little motor control push him to try harder. He can reach out with his right leg and balance on that foot but as soon as his left foot moves forward, he crashes to the mat and slumps forward, his head hanging, big hands limp in front of his knees. Christopher stays that way for a few seconds then Valentine is beside him, her hands on his shoulders.

"Chrissie, look at me, please. You are doing so well; please…please don't give up now. You're farther along in just a few weeks than the doctor thought you would be. Don't be discouraged." Valentine croons softly as she moves around in front of him, runs her fingers into his quickly-becoming-shaggy hair, not forcing him to look at her, but not allowing him to remain too deeply into his head, either.

When he finally raises his head, she lays one hand against his scruffy cheek and uses the other to balance herself on the floor. He suddenly hates everything.

"Just go, Valentine." He growls. Her hand disappears from his face but she does not move otherwise, merely narrows her eyes at him.

"Where would I go?" She asks quietly, but there is something hard behind the tone of her voice the crosses her hands over her chest and sits down on the mat, facing him.

"Just go." Christopher snarls. "I hate all of this," he gestures around the room. The therapist has left the immediate vicinity, presumably to be out of the line of fire. Anger has been radiating from Christopher since the moment Valentine helped him into the wheelchair to take him down to have breakfast in the cafeteria this morning. He is aware of it, all so aware, being caught up in it now like a motorless boat in a tidal wave; powerless to stop it.

"It's all too much. I understand. Go on; go find someone hale and hearty. Be done with me, all broken and useless." Christopher's hands tighten into fists, his arms tremble with the strain. "I may always be like this." He says between clenched teeth.

Valentine regards him coolly. "Don't, Christopher." Her own expression hardens; two spots of red appear high on her cheeks. He refuses to meet her eyes, instead staring at the blue plastic mat spread on the floor beneath the exercise bars.

Christopher is glad to see some other emotion on her features besides the soft caring she has been offering all this time. "Get out of here. You are free to go and live the life you…want." Of course, the phrase he wants to use is '...go and live the life you deserve', but it doesn't quite make it past the end of his tongue. When she doesn't move a muscle, he slams a fist against the mat hard enough that the sound of his cracking knuckles echoes through the room.

Christopher does not see his therapist step into the doorway, take one look at them staring each other down and make a tactical retreat, going so far as to close the door behind himself. If he had, Christopher would understand that his reaction is a normal one, and had been expected long before now. Right now all he can see is defiance in Valentine's eyes.

"You want me gone, is that it?" She asks.

This reply catches him up short. Is that really what he wants? No. Not really; he wants her to be happy and caring for a broken soldier is not a road to the life they had planned, not on any count. He knows he is out of control; the vitriol has become too difficult to control.

"You don't want me. You don't want this." He spits in an attempt to fight the tears threatening behind his eyes.

Valentine uncrosses her arms and stands up gracefully without offering to help him get off the floor. He accepts it as his due when she turns on her heel and leaves the room. He remains there, refusing to ask for help long enough that his thighs begin to shake from the odd position. When it finally dawns on him that he's been left alone—like he asked to be—the tears really do fall. There is a gentle touch on his shoulder but he shakes his head and hides his face behind his hands and the person leaves him be.