Page 3 of Beckon

Because of the status of their mission, Wilson’s death wasn’t even listed as killed in action. According to the powers that be, he was assigned to a nearby base and was killed in a mugging gone wrong on his day off heading to the open-air market.

That’s just one of the things Chandler had tried to justify or learn to live with.

Chandler lurched forward and his eyes sprang open, or at least it felt like they did. When he looked down at his hands, there was so much blood.

So, my eyes are only opened in the past.

With those bloodied hands, he tugged at his hair roughly. Trying to rip the memories from his brain and cast them out. It didn’t work, it never did. They were embedded too deep. With twisting, spiraling roots that wove through his gray matter like a multi-tendrilled cancer.

It was a cancer, his cancer to bear. A cancer that would eventually take his life as they all did. Only this wouldn’t continue to metastasize, invading his cells and organs until they ceased to function. No, this cancer had already killed his heart, the stupid organ just didn’t know it yet. The hardest part, it had reached out and infected others before he was brave enough to stop it.

When it eventually ended his life, it would be through a bullet to the brain. That was the only cure for the disease that riddled his mind and strangled his soul.

His inability to just eat a bullet already haunted him endlessly.

A gentle touch to his temple startled him. His eyes were open, but his vision was shit. There was a figure in his face, but it was like trying to watch a channel you didn’t pay for. Something was there but he couldn’t tell what or who.

A soothing voice was there though, in the murky darkness and scrambled pixels. A voice he didn’t recognize and couldn’t make out the words. It was like hearing underwater, but he was still drawn to the sound.

Where was he, and who was with him? He knew it wasn’t Tate because the voice was distinctly feminine and soft. Tate’s was anything but.

Chandler was being lifted and coaxed somewhere. Since the voice seemed friendly, he went with it. After what seemed like forever, the voice stopped, and his motion ceased. He waited and nothing. No ambient sounds, and no objects to focus on.

She must’ve been a dream.Pity. That was his last thought before he slipped back into the past. The bloodcurdling scream of a child violently losing a parent pulled him back. He tried to apologize, like one can say sorry for taking a life.

Chandler didn’t see the little girl when he fired. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry.” The apology wasn’t just for her, but for not protecting his team. For not realizing that following some orders should be questioned. For just everything.

The touch and the voice from before returned, and he wanted to hold it tight and never let it go. That sound cast light in all the dark corners and sent the shadows that dwelled there fleeing.

The nightmare receded but not for long. When the voice stopped, the past came roaring back. Chandler could feel the cold beads of sweat forming on his brow. The stillness in the air before they breached the building. It was an omen, one they—he—ignored. He watched in slow motion as the knife disappeared into flesh and squelched back out coated in red. He raised his weapon to fire the shot. When the little girl screamed, so did he, but it was another sound that rose above the chaotic horror in his mind.

Singing.

A song he’d never heard before. A melody that felt like love and loss and healing all in one. Like a lullaby and a soft touch. The comforting combination pulled him down into slumber.

It was a floating feeling at first, fluffy and warm.

Not a feeling he was at all familiar with.

Not true.

Chandler recognized it… from long ago. It was a throwback sensation from when he’d been young and stupid. Ignorance really was bliss; he just didn’t have a clue then. That was a feeling from before he was a monster… before he’d done unforgivable things.

Goddamn it. He almost wanted to weep for who he was, who he missed. But what good would it do? That person was long dead. Dead and buried in a foreign land under the weight of duty that was a lie.

Tossing his head back and forth, he dislodged the thoughts that were keeping him from enjoying the small measure of peace that voice and touch offered. He didn’t give a shit if they were real or a figment of his alcohol-soaked brain. He would be damned if he would let them go to waste.

Eventually his sleep became so deep the voice quieted and the touch lessened. He was torn. On one hand, it was the sleep he’d searched for. The only time he could truly rest his mind and body, even if it cost his liver. But on the other hand, it meant leaving that quieting voice and soothing touch to the upper levels of sleep where dreams happened. Dreams he hadn’t allowed himself to have for so long he didn’t even know he was still capable of.

Dreams of normality. Of a life and future most would consider a boring death sentence, but one he longed for. He wanted that life where the HOA was the enemy, and his neighbors were annoying.

A future where a wife was by his side even if they didn’t shout down the walls when they had satisfying married sex. A couple of kids doing well in school but would roll their eyes at him by the time they hit junior high. Maybe even hate him a little. The healthy, normal level of hate from a teenager trying to be their own person.

Chandler wanted a shitty job that drove him crazy with the monotony. A job he’d complain about while having domestic beers—but just a few—with the annoying neighbor on Saturday while grilling average burgers and eating them on generic buns.

What sounded like a horrible nightmare of an existence to most sounded like a heavenly dream to him. One he knew he could never have. But this was a dream after all, so he was going for it. He just upped the satisfying married sex to exciting. Scheduled married sex with a smoking hot wife sounded pretty damn good.

And he traded in the generic bun to name brand and the ground beef to ninety-three percent instead of the cheap stuff.

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