Road to Damascus

Chapter 1 - Pitifully

Chapter 1

Pitiful was his first thought as he sneered at his reflection in the polished bathroom mirror. Two years had left him hollow, lifeless, and incomplete. Literally. The left sleeve of his uniform sagged pathetically and the murky green sat sickly against his tawny complexion. His left breast was brightly decorated, but the deceiving rainbow was a mockery to him. A mockery of his service and his sacrifice.

Honorary Discharge.

There was nothing honorary about it but he would not say it aloud. Not as the men he adored and worshipped since boyhood stood on the other side of the bathroom door. They had been the ones to condemn him to a fate of humiliation under the guise of having 'served' his country. They had called him a 'true patriot', a symbol of the 'American spirit'. Their praise of him only lasted the course of the dinner and as soon as he was off the stage their acknowledgment of him dissipated into a far-off memory.

Pitifully.

That's how they looked at him.

A groan of frustration bounced off the bathroom walls as he gripped the porcelain sink.

"Four tours – Damnit!" he muttered as continuously bashed his clenched fist against the sink with the hope of causing it some form of damage. The only damage instilled was on his now bleeding fist.

Composing himself, he ran his hand through his tousled dark locks before opening the faucet and splashing the cold water onto his face. However, no amount of cold water could temper the burning rage he felt.

He paced the bathroom for another ten minutes before joining the crowd of soulless bureaucrats and politicians. Noticing the bundles of men filling every space, he decided to call it a night and descended the large staircase towards the exit.

"Anthony! – Sorry!– Wait up! – Excuse me! – Hey man, wait up!"

The mentioned, cringed at the unmistakable voice of his fellow in arms. Bounding down the stairs with heavy steps, was one Lieutenant Pedro Alonso, colloquially known as 'Floss'. He was a short man, only just reaching under the taller man's chin. However, what he lacked in height, he made up wholly for in muscle. His shoulders were broad and his arms would bulge against the sleeves of his uniform his comrades routinely teased him about buying a larger uniform.

Catching up to him, the aforementioned slung his arm around the brooding man and flashed him a wide grin, showcasing alabaster white teeth, aka, the reason for his odd nickname.

"Come on Duke, don't tell me you're leaving already. We haven't even gotten a chance to get back at Brown for last year," pleaded the Latino man.

"Sorry Floss, but I'm just not feeling it tonight. I'm going to hit the sack," Anthony mumbled.

Sensing his friend's dark mood, Floss solemnly nodded his head and made his way back up the stone stairs but not before shouting,

"You're going to make this up to me."

The bus ride was peaceful, which was what he'd longed for. His rage had simmered down to bitterness as the events of the evening played over in his head. 

He had spent the entire day sitting through bureaucratic ceremony and political show-and-tell. Just a big show for a bunch of Jacks-in-Office to boast their money, and their military accomplishments, and to give the pitiful servicemen five minutes of stage time, a handshake, and a meaningless medal. 

Imagine losing an arm, and getting a handshake in return. Anthony laughed at the thought and remembered how the General giving him this esteemed handshake looked at him.