Page 3 of Rebel

I made it to the women’s restroom before I threw up, my knees hitting the cold tile floor, my breakfast burning its way back up my throat.When there was nothing left, I sat back against the stall door, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stared at the ceiling.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, just like in Harrison’s office.The same sterile white light everywhere in this place.No shadows allowed.No place to hide.

I laughed until I cried, then cried until I couldn’t anymore.Then I got up, washed my face in the sink, smoothed my uniform, and walked out with my spine straight and my chin up.

Just another day in the United States Army.

Just another soldier following orders.

Just another woman learning justice was never meant for people like me.

* * *

The counseling room looked exactly how I expected.Beige walls.Generic landscape print that someone had ordered from an office supply catalog.Two chairs facing each other, close enough for “connection” but far enough apart to avoid discomfort.A box of tissues positioned within easy reach.I’d been in this room before, even if I’d never stepped foot in Building C, Room 112.The Army loved its templates -- same layout, different base.Same bullshit, different day.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, military habits dying hard.The door was unlocked, so I went in and chose the chair facing the exit.Always have an escape route.That was something the Army had taught me, something I actually planned to keep.

The overhead light hummed.The constant drone set my teeth on edge.I crossed my ankles, uncrossed them, then crossed them again.My uniform felt too tight across my shoulders, even though I knew it fit perfectly.Everything felt wrong these days, like my skin didn’t belong to me anymore.

The door opened at precisely 0900.Military punctuality.The counselor walked in carrying a leather portfolio and a coffee mug with the Army logo.Of course.

“Private Taylor?”He extended his hand.“I’m Dr.Winters.”

I stood briefly, shook his hand with the exact pressure and duration that was socially acceptable, then sat back down.“Sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir.”He smiled, settling into the chair across from me.“Doctor is fine, or James if you prefer.”

I didn’t respond to that.Kept my expression neutral as he flipped open his portfolio and clicked his pen.Another bureaucrat with forms to fill.Another box to check before they could wash their hands of me.

“I understand you’re being processed for medical discharge,” he said, glancing at what I assumed was my file.“How do you feel about that?”

Straight to the point.No warm up.No gentle lead in.

“Fine.”

He looked up, studied my face.“Fineis a word people use when they don’t want to say how they’re really feeling.”

I shrugged.“It’s a word people use when their feelings aren’t relevant to the situation.”

“Your feelings are very relevant here, Private Taylor.”He glanced down.“May I call you Rio?”

“It’s my name.”

He smiled again, patient and professional.I hated it.Hated the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle to solve in the fifty minutes we had together.

“Let me explain the purpose of this session,” he said, setting his pen down.“This isn’t therapy, though I would recommend ongoing therapeutic support after your discharge.This is an exit assessment to help determine what resources might benefit you as you transition to civilian life.”

I tapped my foot against the floor, a quick staccato rhythm.“I know what resources I need.”

“And what are those?”

“My discharge papers and my last paycheck.”

Dr.Winters leaned back slightly.“I understand your frustration with the system --”

“Do you?”The words came out sharper than I intended.“Because I don’t think you do.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”His voice remained even, professional.Like he heard women like me every day.Maybe he did.

---