Fodder: A Collection of Scenes

To Hell and Back

I was slouched in one of those uncomfortable square wood chairs with my legs extended in front of me, my arms crossed over my chest in discontent. I was sitting in a camouflage circle comprised of myself and other soldiers. It was a group therapy. Yes, therapy.

The Army was trying to readjust us to civilian life, trying to convince us to forget the awful things we witnessed in exchange for more mundane memories. Some of the guys were spilling everything. Some only chipped in to offer their point of view, never actually starting a conversation. Me, I didn't need therapy. I don't talk about my feelings. I forget them. All the death and the blood and the guns...all that I left buried six feet under in Afghanistan.

"Do you have anything you'd like to add?" The therapist's voice jolted me out of my thoughts and I realized I'd been staring intensely at the ground behind my feet.

"Uh, no." I fiddled with my thumbs, my hands still resting in my lap.

"Alright. Well, what're you thinking?" The therapist said in her soft monotone voice.

I tilted my head slightly to the right and looked up at the therapist and said slowly, "Those who escape Hell never talk about it. Nothing bothers me anymore."

The rest of the group members all turned to stare at me, faces solemn in understanding. I returned their gazes and, in the eyes of my fellow servicemen, I saw the devil, numbing the horrors we'd encountered and snuggling up close. I was tense and I saw that same feeling reflected in their dim eyes. We had all changed.