Roses & Bullets

I. Nightmares

ERIK

It's half past three in the morning, and I wake up panting. I'm lying in my bed with nothing but lounge pants on. I can feel my heart beating hard against my chest, and I am sweating bullets.

Damn it.

I cover my eyes with my hands as I try to steady my breathing. I mean, even that is hard for me to do. I swallow the bile that's forming in my throat and try to calm myself.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I look up at the ceiling, and even though it's dark, I know that it's white. I'm in my room, in my house, and I'm safe. I look around just to make sure, and this time, I turn on the lamp on the nightstand.

It felt so f*****g real. I'm afraid of what I might see if I close my eyes again. I try to stand up, but my knees are trembling.

"It's just a dream," I say out loud. "Just another dream."

Instead of standing, I take my time and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. There's nothing to be afraid of. It's all in the past.

After what it seems like to be forever, I finally stand up and go to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I'm so damn parched that I drain the glass in three big gulps. I go back to my room, hoping to get some more sleep when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I stare at myself and realize that I don't like what I see. Everyone around me perceives me differently. While men pat me on the back and congratulate me, women swarm around me as if they've never seen a man before.

I'm six feet tall, with a muscular body and tanned skin, which I got from the time I've spent under the sun. With electric blue eyes, pointed nose, chiseled jawline, and dark hair, my mother always told me that any woman would surely fall for me. Not that I care.

As I continue to examine my appearance, my eyes find my scars. Battle scars. I force myself not to think about how I got them, but it's impossible.

There's one on my right shoulder where I got shot during an operation. There's another one on my abdomen where a knife grazed me while trying to disperse an angry mob. I clearly remember how I got each one of them, especially the ones on my chest.

Of all the scars on my body, I hate those the most. I tightly shut my eyes, hoping that they'll fade away, but when I open them, they're still there. God, please, no.

The sight of my scars makes me nauseous. I turn away from the mirror and walk back to the kitchen. I take a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and sit down.

Maybe this will help me sleep. I've been having the same dream for three nights now. My parents had told me to get some professional help, but I vehemently dismissed the idea.

"I'm fine, really," I told them. "I just need some time."

Of course, I wasn't fine, and I don't think that I'll ever be. I'll never forget the look on my parents' faces when I refused to see a doctor. It was a mixture of pity and sadness.

As much as I want to put their minds at ease, this is not about them. It's about me finally accepting that there's nothing I can do to change the past. I just need to get over it.

But now, I think that maybe they were right. I do need professional help. PTSD is no joke.

It's been almost two years, and nothing has changed. When I got home from the Middle East, I was unrecognizable. I was severely underweight, and my hair and beard grew long and unkempt.

All the traces of my happy and handsome self who left years ago were gone. I came back a different man. Even my mother didn't recognize me at first.

When I got off the plane to see my parents, I didn't immediately approach them. My mother burst into tears when she finally hugged me, while my father cried silently beside us. They could not believe what the war did to me.

When we got home, I would isolate myself and not leave my room for days. Whenever my parents would try to make me eat or have small talk, I'd feel irritated, or worse, have angry outbursts. And so they stopped.

They gave me the space they thought I needed. They would only talk to me if I started the conversation. My parents would just leave my food on a tray outside my room, and I would eat it if I felt like it.

My parents thought that things were starting to get better. But they were so f*****g wrong. In fact, things began to get worse.

I started having nightmares. My mother and father would hear me screaming in the middle of the night, so they would run to my room, only to find me whimpering in the corner. That sight broke my mother's heart to pieces.

She did not dare ask me questions, but instead, she would only sit there beside me and wrap me around her arms. I didn't bother pushing her away.

That happened almost every night. My parents had grown used to it, and it made them decide to talk to me about getting help finally. It was also hard for me to sleep.

I would spend hours lying in bed, scared that I might have nightmares again if I fell asleep. I was always on my guard. I was jumpy, and my mood would change quickly.

There was even a time when a driver who was just asking me for directions gave me a tap on the shoulder. Without hesitation, I slapped his hand away and shoved him into his truck's hood. I didn't even realize that I was choking him until people came rushing to the scene to help him get away from me.

When I came to my senses, everyone was staring at me. I quickly apologized and drove away. I was still fuming when I got home.

I couldn't believe my recklessness. What if I accidentally killed that man? My parents were in the living room when I entered the house, sweating and breathing heavily.

"Erik, what happened, dear? Why-" my mother started to say, but I ignored her and went straight to my room. I slammed the door shut and started throwing my stuff everywhere. I threw away my old books, ripped the bedsheets off the mattress, and smashed the lamp.

"Son! What on earth is going on?" my father shouted, banging on the door.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted back.

"Erik, please. Let me in. Let's talk."

"I said, leave me alone! I swear to God, dad, don't you f*****g come in here. I don't want to hurt you."

After a few minutes, I heard my doorknob turn, and the door opened. It was my mother, and she eyed the mess that I made.

"I told you to leave me alone," I said curtly.

"You know I can't do that. Seeing you like this..." she trailed off.

"There's nothing you can do, mom."

"I can be here for you," she replies. "Please let me be here for you. I know you are hurting, and it kills me every day to know that no matter what I do, I won't be able to take your pain away."

I close my eyes and push away the thought of my mother crying. If there's one thing in the world that can hurt me more than a knife or a bullet, it's the sight of my mother crying. I can't live like this anymore.

I stand up and leave the untouched bottle of beer on the kitchen table. I walk to the living room, where I keep my black belt bag. I rummage through it until I find a small calling card.