War Torn

Chapter 2-3

I dream of the forest again, but Tomas

is still somewhere beyond the trees. I can feel him reaching but

don’t know where he is and I race through the woods, shouting his

name and waiting for his response before I change direction and

take off again. I know he’s nearby—I can hear him breathing, a

ragged sound that scares me because the next time I gasp to call to

him I realize that’s my own breath, loud as a rush of water in my

ears, drowning out the dream and the world and where he is.

Tomas!

Right here.

When I stop running, my blood pounds

in my head, a steady rhythm that jars me awake. The trees fade into

a mist that swirls around ghost-like shapes until I’m in my living

room, lying on my couch, holding my head in both hands and curled

into myself. And it’s not just my head pounding anymore.

It’s the door, a rapid knocking that

vibrates the house and every part of my body until I’m sure I’ll

shake apart. It’s all I can do to push myself up from the sofa

without falling to the floor. My head is a dull throb and every

step I take blurs my vision—despite the fact it’s early morning and

I’ve just slept the night away passed out, another drink sounds

like a good idea right about now.

But when I open the door, Alden whirls

into my house like a dervish. “Are you seeing this?”

One look at his wild eyes and I’m

awake. “Seeing what?”

I watch him fumble with the remote,

and then the TV’s on, a cacophony of noise that fills my house like

the dread bubbling within me.

“Al? What’s—”

“It started,” he says,

stopping at the first news channel he finds. A windblown reporter

covers one ear and talks into a microphone, his words staccato

bursts that explode in my mind. Bombing began last

night…

In a daze I walk over to the TV,

mesmerized by the images of blood-stained men in camouflage and

fatigues, stretchers and weapons and my God. Oh, my fucking

God.

I wrest the remote from Alden’s hands.

“Bombing where? Turn it up, Alden, I can’t hear it. What did they

hit? Turn it up!”

“It is

up.”

But I still can’t hear it, I can’t

hear anything and all I can see is blood.

“It started last night,

sometime after midnight, caught our camps off guard. They say

almost a hundred dead, a few dozen missing, and that’s just the

beginning. Jace…”

He starts to flick to another channel

and I punch him in the arm, hard. “Stop it! Jesus, just let me hear

it, okay? Don’t go changing channels just yet. I don’t know the

whole story—”

“They say—”

“Shut up!” I push in front

of him until the TV fills my entire world.

What about

Tomas?

I want the reporter to stop talking

about the casualties and start naming names, even though I know

they don’t do that on national television. I want to be there, at

the Bridge, amid the blood and the dead and the dying, I want to

know… “Jesus.” There’s nothing else to say. “Where the

fuck is he?”

Behind me Alden answers, “I don’t

know.”

With one hand I wipe my face,

surprised when my palm comes away slick with sweat. “Tomas,” I

whisper, but it’s more of a sob and when my deep voice breaks,

that’s it, I can’t deal with this. I can’t handle not

knowing.

Sinking to my knees on the plush

carpet, I tell myself the sting in my eyes is more sweat, not

tears. I’m not crying because I don’t know anything yet, and I’m

not going to give in until I know what’s happened. Please, I

pray. I’m not sure who I’m praying to or what I’m praying for, but

I’m not going to stop until I see my boy again.

Please.

Alden makes me a strong cup of coffee;

even though I can taste the brandy lacing the brew, I drink it down

without a word. Together we sit on my couch and watch the TV,

changing channels during commercial breaks and learning nothing

new, nothing at all. Outside activity has picked up—we can hear

large transports rattle past my quarters, heading for the barracks

and the squads ready to join in the fight. Choppers fill the skies,

the heavy beating of their blades drowning out the TV when they fly

overhead.

On every channel it’s the same

thing—different voices but the same images, the same words.

American forces were bombed shortly before dawn…shelling hit the

middle of our military camps…those at the center dead, dying, or

wounded and not expected to survive…the death toll over a hundred

now and rising as rubble is cleared away and more bodies found…

For the hundredth time I ask, “What about Tomas?”

“I don’t know,” Alden says.

“I’m sorry, Jace, I just don’t know.”

As we’re flipping channels, I see

Rosser. “There!” I cry, ripping the remote from Alden’s hand and

turning back until Lieutenant Brook Rosser springs to life on the

TV, his signature aviator shades hiding his eyes, dust settled into

his rumpled fatigues and a smear of someone’s blood marring one

chiseled cheek. “Turn it up.”

“You have the remote,”

Alden points out.

I thumb the volume up as Rosser’s soft

voice fills the room. He sounds weary, but I can’t help noticing

his wicked grin—there’s a sick part of him that enjoys this. “My

men were on the outskirts of the camp,” he’s saying. “We just got

here and were bunked in for the night when it happened.”

“So your men are among

those who survived?” the reporter asks.

God, I love this woman for asking the

one question I want answered more than any other.

But Rosser shrugs and looks at the

camera, at me, I know it. I can feel his gaze burn

through the TV and I know he’s seeing me when he mutters,

“Mostly.”

Then he’s shoved away as another

soldier presses into the mike, reeling off an updated list of

numbers. Faceless, lifeless numbers that aren’t what I need to

hear.

What the f**k is that supposed to

mean? Mostly.