Dress Blues

Prologue

     Corryn Isles planned her whole life to work at a rehabilitation center and help people with their addictions. But then, she was assigned a project in her psychology class that totally changed her viewpoint on what she wanted to do. As a result, she ended up in Afghanistan two years later, nursing wounded Marines. On an average day, she might do things such as removing bullets, stitching up wounds, diagnosing various illnesses. Those were just the on-the-surface tasks.

     But, not the important ones. Those jobs consisted of comforting smiles, encouragement, and the constant stream of bad jokes to be rewarded with the occasional smile. At times, fear would randomly hit you like a ton of bricks, and those times were her least favorite, but they also reminded her of why she was there. The fear was normally a result of gunfire that lasted longer than usual, the pain-stricken shouts that were unmistakable, and could only come from the mouth of a person near death.

     During these times, she worried. Worried for the few friends she'd made, worried for their safety. Above all, worried that perhaps one of them would find their way to the hospital in vain attempts, knowing just as well as her that nothing was to be done. More than anything, this broke her heart. She could see the pain in their eyes, she knew that they understood that there was no possible care that could treat their injuries. And it never failed that they would just know, without her having to say anything.

     Then, came the waiting. Sometimes she would just talk to them, other times she'd just hold their hands. But she would never leave. Not until there was no possible way they could hear her voice or feel her touch. That was what scared her most. 

     Every time one of the nurses rushed in, every time she heard "Corryn, it's bad," there was the pounding in her heart, tears she swallowed because it was the last thing she wanted them to see. Each time was scarier and harder than the last, and with every death, she felt all the more small. Useless. To see someone sitting and struggling for the air they certainly weren't going to get and knowing there was nothing in the world you could do had a way of scaring the shit out of you.

     When she jumped out in active fire to drag the Marine who she'd seen receive a gun wound to the chest, she didn't even think about that feeling. Then she got him onto the table, seeing the extent of his injuries, and she immediately felt her knees were going to buckle. But no. No, she wouldn't let them. This was the average day in the life of a military medic. The crippling fear she felt was average. But the intensity of the fear she felt this time was nowhere near average with the anonymous Marine who she later identified as Jackson Rigsby. For this, she had no explanation, other than he wasn't your average Marine. And, from then on, her life wasn't the average life.