YELLOWJACKET

JANUARY

Gun shots.

The ringing in my ears is so loud, it makes me nauseous.

Everything stinks of burnt carbon and sulfur.

He goes down quickly, but I watch him fall to his knees in slow motion. Running to him feels like wading through quicksand.

On the ground, the dirt turns a ruddy-red as his blood soaks into it. I’m trying to stop the bleeding but it’s just not enough. Now my hands are ruddy-red, too.

He’s saying something, but I can’t make it out. He can’t stop bleeding. The bullets are still flying around us.

With his hands in mine, I pray to God: sorry for being a shitty Catholic; sorry for skipping church; sorry for every bad deed I ever did. I will make it up to you if you don’t take him now.

Stay with me, I tell him. Mi amigo, quédate conmigo. You can’t let your mamá bury her only son.

He looks at me like he’s lost in a daydream. His mouth is moving but I can’t hear him.

I pray in Spanish. I pray in English. I pray in both because I don’t know what language God even speaks.

His hands are cold. His grip weakens.

Take me instead, I plead. He’s got too much back home to lose.

I look into his eyes and I see nothing behind them.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“And then, I wake up.”

Dr. Oh nodded slowly and solemnly. “Recurring nightmares are common amongst veterans,” she said. “You aren’t alone.”

There was a kindness to Dr. Oh’s expression, but it didn’t make me feel better. It was patronizing, as if she pitied me - the line between sympathy and pity was so thin, so fine.

“Yeah, but they’re constant. Inescapable. Some days, I’m too afraid to go to sleep,” I continued. It took effort to steady my voice when the images were still so clear in my mind. “’Cause if I go to sleep, I’ll see him, and I’ll wake up hating myself all over again.”

She nodded again. “Remind me, Manuel— how long have you been having these nightmares?”

I swallowed. The dryness in my throat made it painful. “God, years… I go through phases where I don’t have them at all, but lately, they’ve been ramping back up again. It’s been nearly every night for the past few months. I can’t take it anymore.”

“And how long ago has it been since…” Dr. Oh reviewed her notes before glancing back to me. “You said his name was Philip?”

“Felipe,” I corrected, “but we all called him Feliz.”

“Right.” Dr. Oh wrote something down. “How long has it been since he passed?”

Instead of maintaining eye contact with Dr. Oh, I looked down at my hands. Despite her office being designed like a living room, decorated with pale blue chairs and striped pillows, sitting on that couch felt like being on an autopsy table; a dissection of myself without anesthetic. I looked back up at her steadily.

“Nearly ten years.” Ten years, I echoed in my mind, but it still felt like only yesterday. “In April, it’ll be ten years.”

“Have you noticed a pattern for when these nightmares become more frequent?” She asked. “Since you said you go through phases?”

I paused for a moment. “I dunno. It’s not like I keep track of them; this just… it feels like the longest I’ve gone without a break in them since he first died.”

Dr. Oh scribbled something down quickly. Whenever she took a note, I wondered if this was how chimpanzees felt around Jane Goodall. When the hairs on the back of my neck bristled, I smoothed them down nervously.

“Sometimes I feel like the only one that still misses him,” I sighed. “Cleo was only three when he died, so she doesn’t really remember him, and… well, Mercy just took it better than I did, I suppose. She stopped wearing his wedding ring a couple years after he passed.”

“It’s likely that they’ve had more space to deal with their grief,” she suggested. “Do you find that they give you enough support?”

I frowned. “I don’t need them to. Mercy has enough on her plate already between raising Cleo, and her job, and she’s taking care of her mom, and Cleo— she’s just a kid, who the fuck would expect a thirteen-year-old girl to let them cry on their shoulder?”

Dr. Oh’s gaze softened further. “Maybe you should reach out to some of your colleagues. I’m sure they’ve had similar experiences; I see many emergency service personnel struggle with losses in the line of duty.”

“You think I want to talk about my feelings at the station?” I raised an eyebrow. “Even if we had the time, none of them would want to sit around and watch me feel sorry for myself. They’d just tell me to pack it up and keep it moving, and they’d be right to do so.”

She tapped her pen to her lip thoughtfully. “Is there anyone you’re still in contact with from your days in the service who might be willing to listen?”

“Well, I’m still friends with Cliff, but— we don’t really have that kind of relationship, if that makes sense. And other than him, I’ve grown distant from most of them,” I replied. “There was someone I used to know…”

Even after all these years, I could see him clearly in my mind: his lopsided smile, that odd little birthmark, and those dark, dark eyes.

“But that’s… that’s not something I’m really ready to talk about,” I finished.

Staring at the clock was giving me a headache, and every second that passed felt like it took twice as long. As if to give me some kind of privacy, she turned her focus to her notepad and continued writing.

“I don’t really feel like talking about it to most people in general,” I said. “Talking to you already feels… weird. Like I’m making a bigger deal out of it than I should.”

“Well, while this is only your second session, I believe there’s a lot of potential benefit for you if you push past the initial discomfort.” Dr. Oh’s hands moved quickly across her paper. “These visits aren’t something to be ashamed of. It’s the same as seeing a cardiologist for your heart, or a podiatrist for your feet.”

Shifting uncomfortably, I crossed my arms and leaned back into the couch. “I don’t know…”

“Perhaps we can look at this from a different perspective.” She formed a steeple with her fingers. “Are you really fit for service if you’re chronically underslept? That would make your presence a hazard, wouldn’t it?”

I couldn’t stop myself from glaring at her. I resented that Dr. Oh had a point, which she seemed to know too, judging by the look of satisfaction on her face. She took a moment to reach over toward the laptop that sat near her chair, typing quickly into it.

“So, what I’m going to do is I’m going to send in a prescription—”

Immediately, I threw up my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa— hold on. Aren’t you going to tell me to try meditation or bubble baths or something like that first? You’re jumping straight to meds? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Prescription medication, when combined with talk therapy, can make a big difference in the success of your treatment,” she replied. “You don’t need to take anything you aren’t comfortable with, but I encourage you to be open minded. If you find that you struggle with side effects or it simply isn’t working, we’ll try other strategies.”

I flattened my mouth in a line and nodded silently, unsure if she could sense the disappointment I felt with myself. When she finished typing, she turned her attention back to me.

“Our time is just about up for today. However, I think we’re on the cusp of making very real progress.” Dr. Oh smiled. “I know how eclectic scheduling can be with your line of work, so just let the girls at the front desk know what works best for you. And let them know your preferred pharmacy while you’re up there, too.”

“Gotcha,” I replied flatly.

As I neared the exit to her office, Dr. Oh joined me by the door and opened it herself to let me out. “You should be proud of yourself, Manuel,” she said kindly. “The first step is always the hardest step.”

I smiled back, but it was nothing more than a mask.