They left the bar shortly thereafter and began their half-drunken walk home. Carl was dissertating about how smooth he was in his introduction and conversation with the illustrious Captain London. Peter was unable to discuss his promotion and what it meant, so all he could do was listen to Carl. Unfortunately, the effects of the alcohol were waning, rendering Carl’s soliloquy nearly unbearable.
Carl noticed his brother squirming. “Hey, listen, I understand if this makes you uncomfortable, she being a senior officer and all.”
Peter didn’t respond. Carl studied his big brother’s face, and then his face lit up as if struck by a great epiphany. “It’s not that, is it?”
Peter just kept looking forward as he walked.
“It’s not that at all,” Carl continued in delight. “You like her.”
“Carl, she’s my goddamned therapist.”
“She’s a shrink? Why are you seeing a shrink?”
Peter looked annoyed. “Carl, haven’t you heard of confidentiality?”
Carl was practically squealing with delight. “You like her. And she said I was cute, and that just burns your ass.”
“Yes, Carl,” Peter responded sarcastically, “it really burns my ass, even though she’s my shrink and there’s no prospect whatsoever.”
For Carl this was Christmas come a little early. “Oh, it burns your ass alright. A girl actually chose me over you.”
“She didn’t choose anything, Carl. She just said you were cute.”
Then it was as if Carl was told that there was no Santa Clause. “Crap…crap, you’re right.”
Peter felt bad at Carl’s disappointment, but he was happy it shut him up.
“Hey, Pete, do you think I’ll see her again?”
Peter just looked at his brother with exasperation. Weary from a night of drinking, he put his arm around his brother and they walked the rest of the way home in silence.
Chapter 4
Peter tossed and turned that night in his old bed. He was dreaming furiously. Visions of Apone, Marx, Spottiswoode, and the others danced in his head. They stared at him, through him, boring into his soul and exposing his guilt to the light of day. He could not hide from their collective gaze and consequently his own shame.
He awoke in a cold sweat with bitterness on his tongue. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, putting his feet on the floor. His shirt was drenched. He rubbed his eyes thoroughly, as if it might rub out the bad memories.
He looked at the clock—three twenty-two in the morning, only a couple of hours before his alarm. He wiped the tears streaming down his face with his forearm, sniffled, and reached for his duffle bag under his bed. He reached in and pulled out his pistol. He felt it in his hand. It was like an extension of his body. But that was his training.
He placed the cool barrel on his forehead as he fought back sobs. He struggled to keep quiet; he didn’t want to wake his parents or Carl. He rocked back and forth, contemplating the unspeakable as his body convulsed with suppressed sadness. He wanted to scream, but he fought the urge.
He slowly slid the barrel of the gun down his forehead until it reached his mouth. He then slowly opened his mouth wider and slid the barrel in. He was now shaking violently as he sat there in his childhood bedroom with a gun in his mouth poised to pull the trigger.
This was the bedroom where he played with his action figures, read his comic books by flashlight, and fantasized about several girls in his class. Life was so much simpler then. It was filled with such possibility.
However, as potential cannot sustain itself indefinitely with the passage of time, all individuals are forced to make choices. And with each choice made, potential erodes, possibilities are left behind, and one’s life path narrows. Then one must face the life he has chosen for himself and all that goes with it. Nevertheless, at three twenty-two in the morning sitting in his childhood bed, Peter could not stomach the absurdity of his situation and the horrors he had unknowingly chosen for himself.
He yearned to sleep forever, to join his fallen comrades, but they had died an honorable death. What he was about to do was…cowardice.
He slid the pistol out of his mouth and put it gingerly on his end table. He realized that suicide would bring further shame and dishonor on himself.
No, he would report back to Fort Bliss and jump head first into this “ID” Program, whatever the hell it was. He would hunt down every last Navajas