Even though I walked away from the wreck, my life changed that night too. I’ve had tremendous guilt since then and often think about the harm we could’ve caused others. To think we could’ve done something like what happened to your dad—to your family–it rocked me to my core. It still does. I joined the Army soon after that. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I didn’t want to be defined by those actions, and although I knew you were long gone—that I had effectively pushed you from my life—I still wanted to be worthy of you.
The man who took your father’s life could have easily been me a few years back. What’s worse is that I hadn’t even experienced combat yet. We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived. We become numb, our emotions sedated. Death becomes merely a noun, something we neither process nor heal from.
I make no excuse for the man who killed your father. Maybe he is a monster, one of those who kill with pleasure. Maybe he’s a young, dumb grunt who has no regard for the sanctity of human life. Or maybe he’s one of many who drink away the pain they can’t begin to understand. No matter the circumstance, a life was taken—the life of a wonderful man—and for that I am so incredibly sorry. I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
I’m thinking right about now that I’ve probably done more harm than good. I hope I haven’t heightened the ugliness you see in all of us, me especially, because that wasn’t my intention. I only hoped to explain the potential side effects of playing Russian roulette with roadside bombs and bullets for an entire year. And then another year, and another, and another ...
Don’t treat your grief as we do. Don’t let it simmer until, before you know what’s happened, it’s boiling over the edge. Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be. Don’t let him own your existence.
I know it must be hard, Katie. I’m no expert; I just know I haven’t been doing it the right way. Hell, I don’t even know what the right way is. But I do know that by hanging on to all this stuff and burying it deep down inside, it’ll all catch up to me one day. I can feel the cracks forming already, and I know the foundation will eventually come tumbling down.
I hope to hear back from you. I really enjoyed your letter, although it’s possible that it might be the first letter in pen pal program history where a soldier was called a ‘fucking dick.’
But seriously, thank you for writing. And thank you for not letting the past dictate the future.
Sincerely,
Devin
Devin.U.Clay@us.army.mil
The letter falls from my hands, the papers floating aimlessly until they come to rest noiselessly on the ground. My mind is racing at warp speed as I work to process his words, but I can’t. There’s too much, too many emotions, too many things he said that I wasn’t prepared to hear or read, and now I can’t seem to focus on anything at all except this overwhelming, indescribable emotion that’s creeping its way through me.
My brows furrow when I think back to the letter that I wrote him and the callous things I said without abandon. And yet here he is, this soldier—this man who should feel like a stranger but doesn’t—fighting for our country, living in his own version of hell every single day, trying to give me peace. He clearly has his own cuts that run just as deep, if not deeper, than mine, but he’s offering me comfort in the only way he can—with his words.
I don’t regret expressing my feelings in the letter I wrote, but after reading his response, I feel like I don’t deserve his compassion. I want it though. God help me, I want it.
I squeeze my eyes shut as his words drift around in my head.
So to answer your question; are we all monsters? No, we’re not. We are fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. We are dreamers, lovers, and God-fearing men.
But the majority of us are just like you … people dealing with something so traumatic, so heartbreaking, and so horrific that the heart never quite learns to mend.
Lieutenant Drexler’s face pops in my head. I’ve only seen it once, pictured on the news, but it’s been branded in my memory and now I can’t help but wonder. Does he have a precious little girl or boy running around who will now grow up without him? Will his kids mourn the loss of their father the way I have mine? Does he have a wife who is scared and lost and lonely? Is his mother crying herself to sleep every night because the son who safely returned from the battlefield will never really return home now?
Not once have I allowed these possibilities to enter my mind. I haven’t wanted to consider anything about the man who killed my father, and I’m still not sure I want to. But Devin’s words have opened a gate, and it doesn’t matter how hard I push, the damn thing won’t shut.
I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived.
Is Lt. Drexler’s pain as raw as mine?
Does he think about us as often as I think about him?
Pressure builds behind my eyes, making them burn, and a few tears manage to slip past the confines of my lashes and drip down the side of my face.
If I gave him the opportunity to explain or apologize, would he take it?
Is that something I’m strong enough to do?
A wave of heat washes over me, and without warning, a strangled cry flies from my mouth.
Don’t treat your grief as we do.
Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be.
Don’t let him own your existence.
Clutching at my stomach, my shoulders curl inward, heaving as my body expels three months worth of grief, pain, anger and guilt. “Oh, God,” I moan, slipping my hands in my hair, wrapping them around the windblown strands. Slow and steady, my body rocks back and forth as my mind replays all the times I’ve taken my emotions out on my family. I’ve ignored them, shut them out and refused their comfort and love. I’ve said hateful things in fits of anger and sorrow … things that I can’t ever take back. I tug roughly on my hair, needing to feel some sort of physical pain in exchange for all the pain that I’ve caused. My breath hitches when I suck in a deep breath and another round of sobs wrack my body.
Lifting my head out of my hands, I tilt my tear-streaked face up to the sky. Raw, nervous energy courses through me and I push to my feet, needing to move somewhere—anywhere. Walking toward Mac, I grab onto his reins and lead him toward the creek. “What is wrong with me?” I mumble, my eyes searching the clouds for some hidden answer. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” My chin trembles and I swipe away the tears running down my face, but they keep coming and I eventually give up.
Minutes tick by, or maybe hours, but the sobs finally subside. I’m exhausted—beyond exhausted—and already regretting the decision to pick up an extra shift at work tonight. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel as though I could crawl in bed and sleep for hours on end. I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out slowly, letting everything from Devin’s letter sink in.