Hell Bound

Twelve

I was tense during my meetings, and I was sure Graham picked up on it. I was eager for the day to finish so we could get back home. I didn't like leaving Bucky there alone all day. I didn't know what state my house would be in when we got back or if he'd even be there. I kept catching myself anxiously tapping my fingers on the lectern. I almost regretted the fact that I'd never gotten a landline installed so I could call and check on him. Not that he would have answered anyway.

Thankfully, the second meeting ended almost on time. Graham helped me rush to get everything cleaned up and back into place. Then we hurried out of the building toward the parking structure. We ended up running into my therapist as we reached the elevator. She stepped out and smiled in her usual calmness.

"Johanna, Graham. How are you?" she asked as we bolted past her to take the elevator.

"Fine. We're great. Dandy as ever," Graham told her as I quickly moved to push the button.

"Johanna, you missed your last appointment."

"I'll call you!" I shouted, but the doors slid shut. I nervously bounced on my feet.

"So we see the same therapist. How weird is that?" Graham remarked.

"It's the VA. There are more of us than there are of them."

"God, you're wound up today."

"I'm just terrified of what could have happened while we were gone. My house could be gone. He could be gone. He could be dead."

"Nah, he's resilient. So's your house, it looks like. There is a bullet hole in the front door frame. There are blood stains on the wood. Old ones, I mean. That's not including the new ones."

"Yeah, it's seen better days. Back when I wasn't living in it."

"So how'd the bullet hole get into the door anyway?" The elevator dinged, and we headed out to search for my car.

"Um–well, it's a long story," I told him.

"You seem to have a lot of those."

"You have no idea."

We found my car, stuffed everything back in, and then hurried to get out of there and back home.

"So tell me about the bullet hole," Graham started. I groaned.

"I kind of–shot someone."

"Jesus. Sorry I asked."

"Yeah."

"Did you kill him?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?" He shook his head and looked out the window at passing cars and the afternoon sun.

"I'm just trying to get to know you. You don't talk about yourself hardly ever. If I'm going to stay with you, I'd like to know why the hell there are bullet holes in your house."

"Fair enough. But you don't talk about yourself either."

"Good point." Then he shrugged. "Not much to tell. I grew up in Pennsylvania, barely scraped through basic training, almost got blown up, saw some friends die, came home, stayed with my mom, and she died. Now it's just me."

"You didn't tell me your mom died."

"You didn't ask."

"Is that why you're on your own?"

"My mom had some family back home where she's from. She'd never made a formal will or anything, and she died unexpectedly. So they arranged her funeral and took everything. They sold all her assets. Lawyers wouldn't help me fight it because I couldn't afford them, and everyone just sort of agreed that I wasn't responsible enough to handle it.

"It hasn't been all bad, though. I'll get some payout from my dad's will when I turn twenty-five, and she didn't own a house or anything. I've never had to sleep on the streets. My grandparents even set me up with my own place for a while. The landlords let me stay for a couple more months before I got evicted. I've always found a place to crash. It's just when I lost my job at stupid Chipotle that everything went tits up. I've been trying to find another job, but they always call my last manager, and he hates me."

"Why? What happened?"

"I had an episode. I threw an unfinished burrito at a customer. There was a lot of hot sauce on it. It got in his eyes, and he threatened to sue. It also doesn't help that after I got fired, I told my boss it was a good thing his name was Richard because he was a dick. But I guess no one wants to take on the responsibility of a Marine with a habit of throwing burritos at people. Or calling people dicks, for that matter."

"What kind of episode? Like PTSD?"

"No, I have those. But this guy was just being an asshole and calling me names, and my mom had just died. I lost my temper. I didn't throw it hard or anything." I snorted.

"You got fired for throwing a burrito?"

"Yeah! Can you believe that?"

"Well, I can give you a recommendation since you've been helping me at the VA. But only if you promise not to throw things at people anymore."

"I can't make an exception for assholes?"

"Unfortunately, you won't be able to hold onto a job if you do. There are always going to be assholes. You just have to learn how to internalize it with a smile on your face, like the rest of us. It sucks, but you don't get sued."

"So the guy you shot? Did you kill him?" I took a deep breath and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

"Yeah, I killed him," I admitted.

"Why'd you shoot him?"

"Because I was scared. I didn't mean to kill him. He was waving a gun in my face. He called me a 'little bitch' right after he busted my lip open."

"Sounds like the bastard deserved it then."

"I still didn't want to kill him. He was my boyfriend once. We never got along, and I never loved him, but..."

"It still eats you up inside." I nodded slowly and chewed on my lip.

"I don't think that feeling ever goes away."

"I understand."