A Heart's War (The Broken Men Chronicles - #5)(SAMPLE ONLY)

Chapter 1

© Carey Decevito, 2016

Chapter 1

"Welcome to Jacksonville, North Carolina, folks! The current temperature..." The flight attendant's voice startles me awake from my flashback. My breathing is erratic, my skin is crawling and clammy as I force myself to take in my surroundings and calm myself. Suffice to say, my nightmares were back. If I'm being honest, they hadn't really disappeared. But, with my imminent return home, they'd grown in frequency.

The elderly lady sitting next to me cowered in the furthest corner of her seat, her eyes wide, face pale. Her expression of fear morphed to one of sympathy as she eyed my fatigues, evidently processing my attire along with my behavior as soon as "I'm sorry," had left my mouth. Patting my arm, she turned to face forward without a word. It's too bad there weren't more people like her. I didn't need anyone claiming to understand what I'd been through. I didn't need their pity. And I certainly didn't need their praise and thanks.

I hadn't been home in ten years. Half of that time hadn't been by choice, either. I had owed it to my country to serve with distinction. Or, that's what I'd believed at one time.

A hero is what most everyone dubs me. The thought itself makes me cringe. Where's the honour, the glory, even the pride in it? Did anyone who killed, who witnessed death in all its violent forms, who slept every night with one eye open, wondering if they'd live to see the next day, think of themselves a hero? I can't speak for anyone else but the short answer for me is no.

Grabbing my rucksack, I head for the exit. The flight attendant sends a flirtatious smile my way. "Have an enjoyable stay, sir." I walked off the plane with only a curt nod as an acknowledgment.

After a quick stop at luggage claim, I exit the airport with nothing but my rucksack and a large duffle strewn over my shoulder, words of praise from passers-by having fallen on deaf ears. The pats on the back made me want to shrink away. It all made me want to scream, but those that haven't been where I've been, that haven't done what I've done, or seen what I've seen didn't know any better, did they? They held on to this romanticised version of what the media portrayed. If they only knew that the boogey man came in the form of a man, woman, or child and not with pins sticking out of their heads, or blades for fingers.

No, there was no glory in being considered a hero for my country. Those considered heroes in my book are the ones who fought and lost their lives, that have made the ultimate sacrifice. Those who were now six feet under, if their families were lucky enough to have a piece of their loved ones shipped back to them for a proper farewell.

My scars, both physical and emotional, run deeper than they appear. They serve as a reminder of those I've lost in the line of duty, those I had been in charge of, sworn to protect and bring back to their families. Alive. Those I had failed.

I hailed a cab and jumped in as soon as one pulled up in front of me.

"Where to?"

I don't know, home? Where the hell was home, really? Everyone thought I was dead.

"Hey buddy," the driver said. "Did you hear me?"

"Is there a bar around here? I'd kill for a cold beer and a decent burger."

"I know just the place." The mid-fifties man's eyes crinkled in the mirror.

Despite the curious looks the driver threw my way, the drive was made in silence and I was grateful. As the tree-lined streets and lights from oncoming traffic whizzed by, I found myself thinking about a plan of attack to reintegrate myself into what most people would call a normal life.