The Collection: Short Stories, Misfits, and One-shots

PTSD

Fear is uncompromising.  It latches on and it doesn't let go.  He knew the reality of war; had had it drilled into him not only by his parents, but history as well.  He remembered the way his teacher had gone on and on about how war was romanticized when he spoke of the young volunteers of the World Wars.  They had gone in picturing themselves heroes and were met by mass death and graves.  War is not pretty, it is not one side winning and the other losing.  It is grey, dirty, and life altering.  You don't return from war a hero, but a survivor.  The winning side is the one who was able to hold out the longest, not the one with zero deaths.  

This was all information he wasn't taught, but shown in his first tour; his only tour before he was discharged-honorably, but that didn't matter-for ptsd.  Not the little kind that haunts for a while, but the depression that sticks around and makes life worse.  It also didn't help that he had no significant other to lean on, just his family who stopped by whenever they could.  The sort of visits that started to become even more infrequent as time passed and they realized how bad it truly was.

Now his only companion was the tapping of the water faucet that he refused to fix.  He didn't speak to it, or anyone as he kept to himself in his small home, living off of the meager funds he had left.  His diet had begun to consist of food that could be delivered to his door, which really limited the selection, even with the new breakthroughs that the e-retailers developed.  He wasn't exactly in the best location for any of their programs.  

There was a sudden knock on his front door, so he waited, tying the cord around his robe in anticipation of collecting whatever package was left.  He let it sit there for another minute, but instead of rising from the seat he was treated with another knock, and then another, his frustration growing as the person on the other side didn't quite get the message he was trying to send.

"Mr. Knowles, I know you're here."  He froze in his chair, surprised by the sound of his own name.  "Please open the door, or I'll find my own way in."  He rushed to the door, grappling with the multitude of locks that were on its side and swiftly opening it.  The other man didn't smile when he was greeted with his sorry state, merely frowning at the younger male.  "Oddly enough, I've seen worse.  Though," he cut off, scrunching his nose a little at the scent that wafted off of Knowles.  "That smell is definitely new."

"What do you want?  How do you know my name?"  He didn't have the energy to deal with delusional strangers.

"The name is Derek Baker.  I'm with a local group that was hoping to speak with you."

"What kind of group knows about me?"

Derek sighed, and pulled out a manila folder, almost forcing it into his hands.  "The kind that you really don't just speak of on the front doorstep.  Read the stuff in there and contact us if you want anything to do with it.  That's all."  Knowles looked down at the folder, failing to see its importance at that moment.

"How do I contact you?"

"You'll know when you're ready."