The Trouble Inside

Aftershock

Being called a hero is suggestive. What truly makes an individual a hero? Is it completing some heroic deed for the greater good? Or possibly doing an action that is inspirational? For Thomas James Collins, being called a hero was assassinating a terrorist leader in Syria. Once he returned home to the states he revived The Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, a Purple Heart, and other medals for his service in Afghanistan and Syria. He was welcomed to the White House and was awarded by the President him self. Thomas also premiered on many talk shows, was on the cover of People Magazine, and even had a biography written about his exploits. Even through all of it, the praise and admiration of millions, he felt empty inside. He felt that the true hero's were the men and women who weren't able to return home, those who gave their life for the presuit of democracy and peace. Thomas saw too many of his friends die before his eyes. He often questioned what made him so speacial to return home and they didn't? He felt why should he be praised for doing his duty? And why call him a hero for killing so many? These thoughts of guilt trailed him everyday. The faces of his dead friends and those he's killed haunts his dreams, making a restful sleep impossible. The things Thomas once loved, he hates. The simple pleasures in life he once appreciated, he no longer has a desire for them. The crushing guilt of being a surviour and the stress of what he did over there, drove Thomas to alcoholism. The King Crows, a local bar, has now become home to Thomas. This is what war has done to him, taken his spirit and crushed it. Whenever Thomas looks in the mirror, he sees all those who've died, friend and foe. His one bedroom, one bath appartment is a pigsty. The apartment is dark and gloomy, the window curtains are always drawn against the light. Pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, and various alcohol bottles litter the floor. The mess he calls his home is a rat's paradice, which there probably are rats lurking behind every discarded pizza box. However, Thomas doesn't care. He doesn't have a concern for the state of his house, for he's always inebriated. While drunk, it's the only time the faces fade from thought, the only time the screams in his head are silenced.
Feeling nostalgic, Thomas picked up one of his old high school year books. He sat down at his black wooden desk and began to flip through it. As he remembered the old friends, most now with families and good jobs, he drank. Page after page, his vision became more blurred. From sheer exhaustion, or just being plain drunk, he laid his head down and passed out.