“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” —Matthew 11:28
The cold steel of my combat knife, honed to a razor’s edge, pierced between his fourth and fifth ribs. I drove it deep into his heart. His eyes widened—pleading, desperate. But his fate was sealed. Warm blood cascaded down my wrist, mingling with my own, its metallic scent thick in the air. Less than a foot away, his body convulsed, his final breath rattling out like shards of broken glass. The room blurred, the edges fracturing under the weight of the moment. The heartbeat stopped, leaving behind an echo that lingered longer than it should—deafening and cruel.
There was a photograph in the pocket over his heart. It came loose when I pulled the blade, and I looked at it because it was already in my hand.
Him, younger, in a shirt with a collar. A woman beside him with her hand laid flat on his chest.
I put it back where it came from. You search a man for what he knows. You leave him what he had.
I jolted awake, sweat cooling against my skin, a bitter reminder of the nightmare. The phantom weight of the knife still gripped my hand, the smell of blood clinging to me like a shadow. A door slammed in the next room, shattering the silence. The sound hit me like an uppercut, my chest tightening as though trapped in the moment all over again.
My shirt clung to me, soaked through with sweat—a cold, clammy second skin. Metal on metal—the sharp clang echoed in my ears, the unmistakable sound of a Humvee door slamming shut, right before the IED. My breath hitched. I clutched the edge of the hotel mattress, my fingers digging into the damp, twisted sheets. Tourists’ voices filtered through the thin walls, sharp and far too loud. Just a door, just people.
I ran a hand over my face. The echoes lingered, clawing at the edges of my mind even as I forced my breathing to slow. The yelling from the next room carried on, pulling me into the present. A rude awakening, but a mercy. A blessing. An escape.
The hotel room crouched in cool dimness—a temporary lodging for a temporary man. I sat, letting my thoughts wander down the paths I’d walked, both high and low.
Some roads had led to grandeur. The Weddell Sea stretched pristine in my memory, its beauty reigning even over Antarctica’s desolation. A Blue Morpho butterfly danced through the Amazon air, its wings flashing life as it spread pollen, quietly working to bear fruit and flower.
But other roads... Those led only to blood-soaked earth and twisted metal, to buildings crumbled into dust as far as sight could reach. Children’s cries echoed across barren ground, while the homeless stared with hollow eyes. Even hardened soldiers turned away, covering their faces—futile shields against images that would haunt them forever.
Now I was home, but I carried only the low roads with me. The high ones rarely surfaced anymore. Pain had staked its claim, guilt and remorse draping over my shoulders like a leaden cape. The weight grew heavier with every breath. How could I face my family while wearing my horrors so plainly?