Topic: Rehabilitation

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-12 17:44 EST
Late June; 2009

"C"mon, Carter. We showed you ours, show us yours."

"I ain't showin" nothin"," he snickered, looking through the shaded windows of the hummer to the endless sandy terrain before he looked to his two brothers in arms.

Payton turned to look over his shoulder, a sly grin developing on his face. "You fresh?"

Dallas" flicked his eyes to Payton, a glance to that grin. "Ain't none of us fresh, Payton," he wrinkled his nose, shifting the rifle on his lap.

Fredricks sputtered out a laugh, nodding his head in the passenger seat. "You got that right, buddy!"

A growing smirk curled on his lips as Fredricks got a light shove from their driver, and it seemed the attention was diverted with the humor. Carter was fresh. No battle wounds, no real stories to tell. He'd hardly seen the heat of the war. He was young, freshly enlisted. He didn't have much to show for his efforts.

"You got a—"

It all happened so fast. The mirage of tactical vehicles peeling over the rising dunes ahead that the driver missed, having looked over his shoulder to Carter.

"Payton!" Fredricks scrambled, gripping his gun.

"Look out!" Dallas called, gripping his own rifle tight as his other hand pointed past the driver's line of view to the windshield.

"Shit! Hold on, boys!"



"Carter" " Dallas Carter?"

Red, bloodshot whites surrounding muddy pools flicked from his hospital bed to the woman that entered his room. How had he not heard her come in"

"Ye-," he paused to clear his hoarse voice, using his right arm to shift his slumped position more upright. "Yes, ma"am," he muttered, turning his sights to the woman approaching his bedside. For the moment, he expected another nurse and her voice wasn't familiar to him. More introductions, wond"rful.

"Hi, I'm Katherine Taylor." The woman held out her hand to him, standing on his right side once she made it to his beside. She was blonde, pretty. She looked young, but there was knowledge in her eyes for years beyond her looks. Her smile was crooked that hinted to a good sense of humor, but was sweet as molasses that showed genuine care and sympathy. She was dressed to impress, in a classy but simple slate grey dress suit that spoke of a professional.

"You a doctor?" He croaked, lifting his eyes to the woman but childhood of strict manners and a soldier's mind wouldn't allow him to refuse the handshake. His handshake was forced strength to make up for the weakness of muscles from recovery, and hers was stronger than he was anticipating. Certain, confident. It was a handshake to respect, and he did.

She released his hand with a smile, reaching behind her for one of those generic and uncomfortable hospital chairs for guests, scooting it closer to the bed before taking a seat to get more on his level. "No, I'm not. Before you get too excited to find out I don't have needles," she gave him an apologetic look. "I'm a counsellor."

The relief on his face that she wasn't a doctor was quick to disappear once that word came flying out of her mouth. Counsellor. His expression was made of stone, his eyes turning away from her to stare ahead as the muscles of a square jaw shifted and twitched with the clenching of his teeth. "Counsellor," he snickered, looking down to his lap. "Course you're a couns"lor," he muttered, already visibly closing off from her.

"Hey," she whispered, setting the folder she'd been holding aside on the wheeled table beside his bed. His eyes glanced to the manilla folder, reading his printed name on the tab before he gave her a bleak look. Her smile was soft, understanding. He was uncertain, unsteady, but he was fine tuned in the art of reading people, long before the military. Her smile was genuine, more than he'd ever expect of a therapist. "I know you probably don't want to talk about what happened...I understand that. It's hard, and it was a traumatic experience," she whispered, her head tilting as she leaned forward in her seat, her elbows resting on her knees as she clasped her fingers together.

"One way to put it," he muttered, bland in tone and as closed off as the set of his features.

"So let's start with this. I just wanna get to know you. Person to person. Ignore my title, my purpose for being here. Before you cut me off, give me a chance to gain your trust."

He stared at her while she spoke, blonde brows knitting together as he wasn't sure how to comprehend it. "Hard to ignore som"n like that," he lifted his chin.

"Yeah, it is," she smiled, laughing softly as she leaned back and swiped her professional demeanor from her posture, resting her arms leisurely on the armrests. "I'm just here to talk. You can choose what it's about, but I just wanna get to know you, Dallas."

"Carter."

She was quiet a moment before she nodded slowly. "Carter," she corrected herself.

He was quiet even longer, looking to his lap as he considered it. "Just talk?"

A nod. "Just talk. No intrusive questions. But I may ask you your favorite color." She grinned, giving him an example.

The gesture made his lips twitch. Brief, fleeting. "You don't look like no Katherine," he observed, glancing over to her, then over her.

"I get that more than you'll ever know," she laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. Full of life, full of love. "You can call me K. Most everyone I associate with does."

"K," he repeated, mulling it over for a moment before he gave a short nod. "I can do that. So you're like that teacher that lets their students call you by your first name instead of Mrs. Taylor." His lips twitched again, his eyes flicking to her with the remnants of humor that he could muster.

She smiled, showing dual dimples on her cheeks before she lifted her eyes to the ceiling in thought. "Something like that," she nodded, returning her eyes back to him.

"It's a good tactic," he whispered. "Makes it feel less like we're having a patient to therapist conversation." But there was no way he could forget it.

"I prefer to stay out of the office when having my sessions, and this is the best we can do for the moment," she looked around the hospital room before she looked at him. "You want a coffee" I want a coffee."

He raised a brow at her. "I'm not supposed to have caffeine. Doc's orders."

K's smile turned slick, if not coy as she rose from her chair. "I like to bend the rules, Carter. I'll write you a prescription," she teased lightly, turning for the door. "How you like it?"

"Black. No sugar. No cream."

"You got it."

"And..K?" He paused, his voice as uncertain as the furrow of his brows. He didn't look at her, but the crocheted white blanket covering his legs.

"Yeah?" She paused at the door, looking over at the shattered man on the hospital bed.

"My favorite color's sea green. Like the ocean before the storm hits," he whispered, his South Carolina drawl weighing heavily on his tongue.

Her smile was soft, lingering on the bow of her lips as she gave a slow, twitching nod. "That's a good color, Carter. A great color. Mine's a shade of green, too," she admitted, a moment before her smile returned to it's sly curve. "Like the glass of a Jameson bottle."

Carter's eyes lifted to the woman as she told him, speaking of liquor that seemed as unprofessional as could be. He watched her walk out of the room before a small smile curved his sharp mouth.

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-12 18:14 EST
K kept her promise. They'd only talked, most of it was general topics that might've bored others but to Carter, it was refreshing. Since arriving at the hospital, almost to his death from blood loss and shrapnel, two bullet wounds placed dangerously, the only treatment he'd received was intrusive. From poking and prodding, to questions of what had happened, medical history, and doctors trying to evaluate his psyche.

The two had talked about everything, from where he grew up, his favorite places, places he wanted to visit. She offered information for everything he answered.

"Where'd you grow up?"

"Don't it say in my file?"

"Yes" but I wanna learn from you, not a sheet of paper."

"South Carolina. S"where I grew up."

"Tell me about it. I've never been."

"What you wanna know?"

"Much as you're willing to tell me. The weather, the landscape. Tell me about it like I'm a tourist considering visiting, I wanna hear the best and worst things about it."

He did.

"What about you, K?"

"I grew up in the South, myself."

"You don't sound like it, but you sure got the attitude."

She smiled. "Don't I know it, my mother knows it, too."

"Where in the South?"

"So far South, it might as well be Hell." She snickered.

"...Fair "nough," he smiled a bit. That was as good an answer for him as any.

She stayed for an hour and a half, drinking coffee and talking with him like they were new strangers that just met in a coffee shop. She didn't ask anything too personal he didn't want to share, and if they got close, he'd shake his head and she'd move on. She was patient, more than any woman he ever knew.

It wasn't until the pain of a phantom limb was enough to scatter his brain and slur his words that she smiled to him, told him she enjoyed talking with him and thanked him for letting her stay to do so. She promised the relief of a nurse with medications for the pain. She squeezed his intact shoulder, and said something that stole his breath away. You've sacrificed a lot for your country, Soldier. I'm sorry for your losses, and I'm glad I got to talk to you today.

He couldn't respond, he didn't know how to. He sat there swallowing his pain and only managed a silent nod before she excused herself and rid the evidence of their coffee cups before leaving.

Left with his pain, both physical and emotional, he kept cycling to their conversation. She kept sympathy in her eyes, but it wasn't pity. There was a fine line, and she managed not to cross it. He was thankful for that. He didn't want to be pitied, and there was no question there was some survivor's guilt laced in his eyes.

Looking down to his left shoulder, his right hand move to clutch at nothing. "I can still feel it,? he whispered, wincing as he rode out another wave of pain and pressed his palm to the bandages covering the severed limb that once was, but was no longer. His head fell back with the closing roll of his eyes as he heard the nurse's steps approach his bed, releasing a bittersweet sigh of relief that he wasn't sure he deserved.

Kokabiel

Date: 2017-09-12 19:49 EST
Kokabiel had taken Carter's folder home that night, as if she hadn't already memorized a majority of the information on it. Sitting at a desk in one of her many offices, the swell of muscle in her chest cavity was breaking for this man. "He's got nothing," she whispered, flipping through the crisp white pages scarred with text. Looking over his family history, the list of relatives that were in short supply.

Reaching for the glass of Jameson poured in the stout container, she lifted it as she flipped through the other pages. His military potential that was cut short by the accident, his insurance information that she couldn't bring herself to care about now. She rifled through until she found his medical records, reading over the most recent again and again. He's been through so much. She kept glancing to his birthday, calculating for the upteenth time his youth.

She was playing therapist for the moment, but she had a plethora of experience as a surgeon. She read the confusing medical terminology describing his surgeries, the amputation of his left arm after it'd been shredded from the bicep down. She couldn't imagine the loss of a limb, but it wasn't the only loss she'd read about in his file. Certain points rimmed her spherical wells with moisture and she had to use her wrist to wipe at her sockets, smudging her makeup carelessly before she sniffled inward and shook her head. She needed a break, she knew it, but a part of her couldn't. He doesn't get a break from this. This is his life now.

Leaning back with a creak in her office chair, she swallowed the Irish whiskey roughly before swiping her mouth on her forearm. Hearing the words told to her by more people she could count, she scowled.

You get too close to your patients, Kokabiel. I don't know why you do this to yourself. They're humans, they live for a while and then they die.

I'm human' kinda.

No, you're not. You're something else entirely, stop pretending to be them.

Why not' Are you saying I shouldn't be like Mom"

That's different, Kokabiel.

No, it's not. She'd get it. They might not live long, but they deserve a chance. Trying to make me believe differently just means they're better than all of us. They deserve this.

But you don't. You need to step back from them and—

Feeling like this is part of it, all of it. It means something. I'll take the lessons I've learned from humanity over the lesson's learned in Hell any day. We might live longer, but they know so much more than we ever will.

She picked up the photograph attached to the file, a man with blonde hair in a military uniform. Fresh out of training and ready to take on the world. "He deserves a chance,? she muttered. No one could ever tell her she wasn't like her mother, she knew exactly where she got the Bleeding Heart Syndrome from.

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-14 19:47 EST
Early August; 2009

A couple weeks passed with little change. K kept showing up periodically, never seeming to overstay her welcome and not once did she ask about the accident. She snuck him coffee, sat at his bedside and seemed to never run out of things to talk about. She tried to get him to laugh, to smile. She came to the point of coming to visit him in jeans and tee shirts, making it seem like casual visits. But she couldn't fool him. He knew what she was there for, or at least he thought he did.

During those weeks, he healed. Nights were almost sleepless unless he was doped up on pain medication, and they'd even had to give him something to get to sleep most nights. The dreams were the worst, had him waking in medicated dazes until his heart rate calmed enough. The bullet holes were closing up, making it easier for him to breathe but the burns itched, scorched. The skin was tight and made moving difficult. He couldn't count the times he'd sat there staring where his left arm used to be, his lips a thin line as he swore he was still moving fingers that were stuck in a state of phantom limbo. He could feel them. A painful ache as the muscles refused to relax with the desperate need to move those digits but couldn't.

Katherine tried to ease his discomfort, but there was only so much she could do for him at the moment. He wasn't opening up, and pushing him would only get the opposite effect: closing in. It was a losing battle, however. The longer she didn't ask him intrusive, personal questions, the more unsettled he became. While the talks were nice, and distracting for the moments she was there, he couldn't forget. As casual as she was dressed, it was still under the surface of their meaningless conversations. As warm as her smile was, he knew it's purpose.

It wasn't until she came in one day, with two coffee cups in her hand from an outside source since a deep, philosophical conversation about how terrible hospital coffee was, that he couldn't keep it in anymore. He was too antsy, too anxious, it was like pissing someone off and waiting for a slap that wasn't coming.

She'd just stepped through the door, her smile on full display. Dual travel cups in her hands as she used an elbow to push open his hospital room door. "Hey, Cart-"

"Why don't you ask me about the accident?" He blurted, his eyes that had been cast to the sheet covering his legs, and he hadn't intended for the question to come out. He'd been thinking about it so hard for the past few weeks, he just supposed his tongue couldn't stay bit forever.

It took him a long moment to look up from the sheet, embarrassed for the abruptness of the question to see her floored, the door slowly closing behind her. She looked stunned for a moment, her brows elevated slightly as her lips parted. Blinking rapidly thrice, she muttered with a sigh, "that's one hell of a greeting, Carter.."

"Sorry," he murmured, averting his eyes to the opposite side of the bed she was walking towards. "Just' it's been on m"mind all this time. I know you're bein" nice, gettin" me comfortable with you. You've been actin" real nice, and you seem to care-"

"I do care, Carter," she looked at him fiercely, with that attitude he'd admitted to liking about her during one of those meaningless conversations where she'd ranted about Starbucks not selling real coffee but milkshakes.

"Sure," he muttered, snickering. "I'd care too if I got paid as well as you do," he countered, almost bitterly.

Sighing, she set his coffee down on the table next to his right arm, sitting down in that uncomfortable hospital chair with her own mug cradled between both hands. "I know you think that's what this is about, and I'll admit it might've been at first."

Unable to hold his tongue, he almost snorted out a laugh as a lash of smart-assery came out as quick as a whip. "Dr. Taylor, if you're gonna tell me you're fallin" for me, I don't think that's very professional."

Her lips parted to his comment, and she let out a laugh. "Carter!"

His remaining hand rose, his smirk evident as he was glad it at least broke the tension. "I'm just pullin" ya leg."

"Brat," she muttered, leaning back in her chair as she crossed one leg over the other. She was quiet for a moment, pursing her lips as she scraped the side of her styrofoam cup with her thumb nail. "I'm not getting paid to do this," she admitted in a whisper.

"What?" His brows furrowed, his head whipping fast enough to almost make him dizzy to stare at her. "Is something wrong with my insurance" "Cause they said.."

"No," she smiled softly, looking up from her cup to him. "It's nothing to do with your insurance. They were going to pay me just fine. I refused."

"Why would you go do som"n like that?" He spat, abashed at the idea. "It's what you do. You're a therapist. You get paid to hear people whine about their problems and hand off medication to zombie "em out," he snickered, wishing he could cross his arms but it'd only make him feel childish. Like a whiny teenager whose parents forced him into therapy.

"What kind of counsellor do you think I am, Carter?" She raised a brow, lifting her cup to her lips as she stared him down.

"You know the type."

"I have a feeling I do, but I want you to tell me."

"..Why?"

"Clarification. Be as direct as you wanna be."

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-14 19:48 EST
"As direct as I wanna be," he echoed, snickering with a shake of his head. He stared at his lap for a long moment before raising his head, turning his eyes to the woman. "You really wanna know?"

"Yeah, I do," she said, almost fiercely, but with a calmness that said she could take it.

"I think you're the kinda therapist that sits there in your fancy office, listening to women whine about their husbands. Maybe some couples therapy, you look like the type to be into fixin" that sorta thing."

She shrugged her shoulders, tipping her head from one side to the other. "Kinda. My office isn't all that fancy. It's just comfortable." She couldn't deny that she liked getting in the heated mix between spouse quarrels and fixing it. She was a sap who believes love should last forever, and that people quit too soon. "Go on," she lifted her chin to him before taking another sip of her coffee.

"I think you're the kinda therapist who wears her patients like a badge of honor. The harder the case, the more reputation you'll get for fixin" em. Like people's pain is somethin" to boast about. The fact you tossed the fee aside means you're an idiot, and maybe seekin" approval. Your own personal peace corp, it'll make ya look good. Selfless, charitable. But I'll tell ya, Dr. Taylor, I ain't gonna be your next charity case," he seethed, shifting with a wince from getting too worked up, and moving too fast to sit up. It was the best he could do in his condition to stand tall.

She was quiet for a moment, giving him a blank stare as she leaned in that chair. "You done?"

"Yeah, m'done," he muttered, turning his eyes away from her.

"Good, "cause I'm about bust up that flawed vision you have of me," she announced to him, sitting up from her slouch as she folded her arms over her crossed legs, leaning closer to him. "I do wear my patients as a badge of honor, but it's not for reputation's sake or to make my job look good. You know why?" She rose her brows, staring at him. She waited for an answer. Or maybe to make sure he was actually listening.

The fact she did that had him rolling his eyes. "No, why?" He humored her.

"Because if they get better, that's nothing on me. The patients did it. I may have held out my hand and guided them, but they were the ones to stand and teeter, to take those steps in the direction they wanted. They did it. So yes, there is honor in my patients, and I do have pride for them. Not for reputation," she narrowed her eyes on him.

"You're bein" awfully unprofessional," he informed her, shifting his eyes to the almost glare she was giving him.

"I'm off the clock. And you're not my patient," she reminded him, her lips twitching to a smirk that said she was fighting it tooth and nail.

He glared right back at her.

"You think this is charity' No. I dropped the fee because I didn't want your money, Carter. Or your insurance's money. I want to see you get better because you deserve it," she spat those kind words at him. "I don't care if you don't think you do, I do. I've seen people who have lost all their limbs," gritting her teeth as she had to get tough on him. But he couldn't blame her, couldn't even wince to the reminder of his loss, because a part of him knew she had to be. He was stubborn, bullheaded. He saw things his way and it took a heavy hammer to knock some sense into him sometimes. "And they were broken, shells of men. I can still see something in your eyes. What you've gone through, I've seen strong men become catatonic over it. And you talked to me, you cracked jokes. You smiled, even if it was just a little bit." She swallowed, rattling on in her rant as her expression softened. "But even through our conversations, Carter" I saw the pain. I saw the regret. You're good at hiding it, I'll admit," she muttered, glancing down to her cup before looking up at him. "And I may be wrong, but it's almost?" She frowned. "It's almost like you keep it in, just so others don't know that pain.?

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-14 19:48 EST
He was quiet for a long time, unable to look at her. Many of her words hit home, and being slapped in the face with how he'd misjudged her had him wanting to apologize. It was the last part that had him squeezing his eyes shut, against the wells rising to the rims of his burnt honey eyes as he took a hissing breath. His right hand clenched against the hospital sheets and he couldn't open his eyes as he spoke. "You're wrong."

"About".." She whispered, encouraging without pushing him to continue.

It was a struggle, wanting to give her something. A big part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell, and get out of his room. A smaller part didn't want her to give up on him, help him get back on track. Find a way to survive. To live again. That only made him feel guiltier.

She was quiet while he had his own war inside his head. Patient. So patient. For a moment, he wondered if she'd slipped out soundlessly until he heard her take a sip of her coffee, his eyes still closed. "It ain't about not wantin" people to feel what I am," he murmured, taking a deep breath. "I mean, I don't. It's a terrible feelin" and I wouldn't wish it on anyone," he admitted. "But I?" He swallowed hard. He hadn't been good with talking this intimately with anyone even before the accident, and certainly not now. "I don't deserve it."

"No, honey, you don't—"

"No, not like that," he muttered, opening his eyes that stung from holding back. "I don't deserve to shed a damn tear for what I lost. I lost an arm," he seethed.

"You almost lost your life, Carter."

"But I didn't!" He barked, turning red eyes to her as he stared. "Don't you get it' I know you've seen my ****in" file, Katherine. I ain't got family. I ain't got a wife, no kids. Both my parents are dead. I don't talk to my damn family. But I lived. Why' For what? I lose an arm, but Payton?" His voice was getting coarse, raspy. "..Fredricks.." He winced, squeezing his eyes shut as he took a shaky breath. "Mothers lost their sons, wives lost their husbands...Kids lost their fathers," he muttered. "Men, women, they lost two brothers. And I'm still sitting here," he hissed. "I've got nothin" to lose, but I lived. It's not ****in" fair, and if I could trade places with "em, I would," he mumbled, dual spears of salty tears streaked down his cheeks until he swiped at them with his right wrist, frustrated. "I sure the fuck don't deserve to cry over it," he growled.

She watched him, not uttering a word as he finally opened up after those long weeks of visits and conversations. When his hand met the mattress, his eyes staying closed to recover from his breakdown, he opened them to the feel of her hand on his. Her fingers curling around his hand and he turned his head to see those blue-green eyes of hers brimmed with tears. "Honey, I could tell you the technical term for what you're feeling but it won't change a damn thing for you. You don't think your life is more deserving than the other two," she shrugged her shoulder. "Maybe it's not. No life is more valuable than another. You don't deserve to die any more than they did, and they didn't deserve to die either. They knew what they were getting into when they enlisted, the risks," she whispered. "Their families will mourn them, and grief from the loss. And you don't think you deserve to grieve for them' With them?" She raised her brows, tipping her chin as she squeezed his hand, and he let her. "You've got a good heart, Carter. I can see it, I know it. That's why you deserved to live, and why I don't want to be your therapist. I want to be your friend, and to see you through this. Because you deserve to live again," she whispered.

For the first time since he met her over a month ago, he trusted her. Her words felt sincere, but anyone could fake tones. They were just sounds. It was the look in her eyes, genuine and hopeful, sad and sympathetic - but not pity. Never pity. He didn't understand her, at all. Why she'd want any of that, nevertheless from him. But he believed her, and whether he believed what she said or not, he nodded his head, at a loss for words. "Think I could use that coffee now," he rasped, "...wouldn't happen to have anything to spike it with, would ya?"

She let out a soft laugh, letting go of his hand to pass him his coffee with a smirk. "I'm already breakin" the rules, you want me to get kicked out of this place to?"

"Nah, guess not," he gave her a dull smile, taking the coffee as he took a deep breath.

Kokabiel

Date: 2017-09-14 20:52 EST
The day had been long, but not in any sense of time. She hadn't done much besides drink on her couch then visit Carter. It was absolutely, irrevocably and emotionally exhausting. Yet, even with those doubtful words swarming in her mind, she didn't — couldn't — regret it. He'd had a breakthrough today. For the first time since she met him, he opened up his well of pain and though it hit her like a thousand tons of steel and stole her breath, her heartbeat, it was the beginning of his healing process that had nothing to do with the physical wounds that marred his body.

Raking her fingers through those blonde locks, she slid the key into the doorknob to her apartment. Covering the metallic scrape of key to lock with a heavy breath pushed from her lungs, strong enough to puff her cheeks. Nearly spilling into her apartment, she swung the door wide and tossed her purse onto the plush lounge chair close by. Yanking the key free from the lock, she kicked the door shut with the heel of her sneaker before looking immediately to the kitchen cabinets. "Driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink," she groaned, roaming toward the cabinet she'd locked her eyes on, a flick of the wrist sending her keys crashing to the kitchen table. Cabinet jerked open, she chose one of the five bottles from the shelf before twisting off that cap and drinking straight from the bottle. Looking down to the green sheen of the Irish whiskey container, her eyes closed tight before she turned and fell back against the counter, sliding down until her butt smacked down to the floor, pulling her legs up with another heavy swallow of the liquor. She was so used to it that the burn was more like a tingle, the heat in her belly more like a pleasant warmth, and it took more and more to get the effects sought out.

"How can you do that, anyways?"

"What?"

"Take on everyone's luggage" Doesn't it bother you eventually?"

"Sure, some days are worse than others" some people come to me, they resonate in me. It's not just them bitching about a bad day at work. Venting for an hour to go about their lives. It's the ones who are struggling to live every moment they're awake are the ones that I try to find."

"But why?"

Her feet slid against the linoleum to stretch out in front of her, the bottle held between her legs as her thumb nail scraped at the label. At the time, she didn't have an answer for them. She'd shrugged, she'd smiled. She'd told them that she loved to help people, and it was true. It was still true. But the reason behind it, it hadn't been apparent to her at that time. Now, it was slapping her in the face with every new patient. Finding the more difficult cases, seeking the challenges. She needed them. All of them. She needed to fix their problems.

"Maybe seekin" approval. Your own personal peace corp, it'll make ya look good. Selfless, charitable."

How could someone be so right, but so wrong at the same time"

Dallas Carter

Date: 2017-09-18 15:42 EST
A hero of war Yeah that's what I'll be And when I come home They'll be damn proud of me I'll carry this flag To the grave if I must Because it's a flag that I love And a flag that I trust. Hero of War; Rise Against

Mid-August; 2009



They moved him to a better room. Well, as "better" as one could get bound to a hospital bed. But it was a room with larger windows, a view. It offered more light into the room, and he was allowed to keep the windows open to let the breeze into the room. It helped wash out some of the hospital-clean smell out of the room.

He was growing restless and the nurses allowed him to walk the halls with their supervision. They wouldn't give him a cigarette, but further breaking the rules, K used her therapeutic standing to request short outside visits, claiming outside stimulation would be good for his therapy. Then, she'd sneak him a cigarette. He still didn't understand why she was going above and beyond for him, but he couldn't say he wasn't grateful.

He had a hard time thanking her, a part of him considering it was still charity, but he thanked her in other ways. He offered her deeper, more intimate information on him than just superficial trivial answers.

"Tell me about your parents."

"I was an orphan at 16. My grandfather took me in on his farm."

"What happened to them?"

"...You have my fi—"

"You know I prefer hearing from you than a sheet of paper, Carter."

"Fair "nough. It was a car accident, Pops was a drinker."

"And your grandfather?"

"He was a hardworking man and he'd probably kick my ass for talking to you."

"Why?"

"He had a code."

"...A code?"

"Yeah, a code of livin'. He had his views, and there wasn't anyone that could talk him out of 'em." Quoting what he'd assume his Grandfather would say, his voice turned more gruff and a thicker drawl laced his tongue. " "Boy, there's nothin" hard labor and sunshine can't fix. You don't need no therapy, you need s"more calluses." He snickered.

She smiled. "He was a smart man."

"Yeah, he was."

"Do you think he'd be proud?"

Silence.

"Sorry, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Silence for a few more moments, then, "He was happy when I told 'im I was enlisting. He was never a soft man, all hard work and rough philosophies. He wasn't affectionate. I don't think I ever saw him even hold my grandmother's hand in public or kiss"er. But when I showed him the letter, he smiled. He said he was proud of me" he hugged me. I still don't know to this day if he was proud of me servin" my country or simply not turning out like my father," he muttered before his demeanor shifted, flicking a spent cigarette to the ground.

She touched his hand, a brief and soft gesture before she smiled for him opening up to her so deeply. "Think the nurses can wait for you a few minutes longer," she told him, holding out the pack of cigarettes.

"Always breakin" the rules," he murmured, a small smirk curling his mouth as he plucked one out of the box.

"Always," she laughed.

Days passed since that conversation, and when he was left to his pain and quiet, he'd often think of that man. Would he be proud of me" Is he proud of me, wherever he is" A part of him hoped he was, just to wince at the thought as guilt washed over him again. He didn't see much to be proud of in those moments.