Page 97 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"I don't have PTSD. The army just wants to stamp my forehead and move along."
Poppy looks at me like an abandoned puppy on one of those TV adverts. "It's not a bad thing to have,” she says. “You can’t help it, Brandon.”
I tilt my head back, focusing on the harsh fluorescent lights above me. "Possum..."
"For me. Just be honest with her; let her help you.Please."
I swear to God, I should just hand her my balls for safekeeping. I've almost finished growing my vagina anyway. "Fine," I huff, meeting her gaze.
A smile lights up her face, and she leans across the table, placing a chaste kiss on my lips. I reach for her, but she backs up quickly. Letting out a groan, I grip the edge of the table. A week without her, and I'm feeling particularly uptight.
"I have to go, or I'll miss my train, but I love you."
We both stand, and I pull her close. I inhale the scent of her perfume deep into my lungs. "I love you."
54
Brandon
November 2015
Iturned myself in, fully expecting to spend months, if not years locked up for going AWOL.
I didn't go to prison, though, because I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. There, I admitted it to myself. It feels cliché and whiny, a blanket diagnosis for every guy who has demons. But whatever it is, it is real.
The rage is real, and according to the doctor, it always will be. This is permanent, an altered aspect of my personality that I now have to live with. It seems daunting and damn right depressing, but I have Poppy. I have a reason to fight this, a reason to be better.
I scowl at the reflection in the full-length mirror. This is what normal life looks like apparently, a twat in grey polyester trousers that clearly were not made for a guy of my build. I'm going to have thigh chaff within the hour. I leave the bedroom, and Mort runs over, his bell tinkling with every step. I scoop him up, stroking the little ginger tuft on his head and I think how he looks like one of those troll toys that Poppy used to collect when she was a kid.
In the kitchen, I find Poppy singing along to a song on the radio. Her tiny body is swamped by one of my T-shirts.
"Good morning." Her gaze sweeps over me, and her smile deepens. "You look really hot in that uniform." She bites down on her lip before grabbing my tie and yanking me down for a quick kiss.
"You're a bad liar," I say with a glare.
"Are you excited about your first day?"
She looks so hopeful, but seriously, who the hell sits down and thinks: My grand ambition in life is to be a security guard? No one. "Sure."
"Your work isn't far from mine, maybe we could do lunch?"
"Sure, poss.”
Since I got home, I can see this sense of hope in her eyes. As if everything will be okay, and maybe, just maybe I'm fixed. Hope is such a tenuous, yet powerful emotion, and I haven't felt it in a long time. So, I smile. I allow her hope to infect me because perhaps this will all work out. This job could be just what I need—whatweneed.
I eat breakfast and down my coffee. It's not the same without whiskey in it, but normal people don't drink Irish coffee before they go to work. I'm told I should be living rather than surviving, and some twat told me alcohol is simply a mask… Well, right now, this doesn't feel like living; it just feels like shit.
* * *
I glanceat my watch for what feels like the hundredth time. How the hell can anyone get paid to just sit and watch a door? The lobby is filled with classical music that repeats on a loop. I throw back my head and stare at the ceiling, ready to go and jump off the nearest bridge. For the first hour or so, I struggled to deal with all the people, the crowds. But after a time, I guess I got desensitized. Now, I'm desensitized to everything. I want to bash my head on the desk.
"Brandon."
I blink and look up at Poppy. “Hey," I say.
"How's your day going?" She glances around the lobby then back at me.
The truth: It makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a paperclip. "Great," I lie and hope she didn’t see my eye twitch.
