The closet swallowed me whole. The air curled around my skin, thick as wool—pressing, smothering. Sweat beaded at my temples. The walls had closed in tighter, or maybe I had shrunk. Folded into myself like something the world had already buried.
I lowered myself to the floor, knees drawn up. My .38 Smith and Wesson’s weight felt heavier than it should have been. My thumb brushed its cylinder. Counting the rounds. It felt as if Hell’s gates had swung open, and Satan himself prowled between the rows of neatly hung shirts and slacks, whispering my failures back to me.
The memories unspooled, dragging me back.
Shrapnel-colored skies. The snap of gunfire. A metallic tang of blood coated my lips. My boots slipped on something wet. Blood soaked into the cracks of my gloves as I pressed down, trying to hold in a life that was already spilling out.
Or were those my screams?
I had failed them. Their faces flickered in my mind’s darkness—crooked smiles, freckle-dotted noses, the way we had laughed before the world swallowed us whole. They danced before me like ghosts on a film’s reel, skipping, stuttering, and looping to the beginning.
I counted the clicks of the revolver’s cylinder—six.
Six rounds. Not enough to match what I lost.
The barrel was at my lips now. My teeth rattled against cold steel.
Soon.
“Daddy, what you doin’?”
The little voice shattered everything.
The pistol clattered to the floor. I turned, my pulse hammering, and saw her—my daughter, her tiny frame silhouetted in the doorway.
“Nothing, sweetie.” My voice cracked. “What are you doing?”
“Finding you. Are you play-ding hide, Daddy?”
She toddled forward, arms outstretched. I lifted her into my arms. Her curls brushed my cheek, soft as spun gold.
“I love you, Daddy.”
I swallowed the rock lodged in my throat. “I love you too, princess.”
She wriggled free and ran out of the closet, her little blonde curls bouncing like springs. I sat there breathless, hands trembling.
I need help.
I stumbled to my desk. A stack of index cards blurred as I fumbled for the right one. Fingers jammed the numbers, pressing the phone to my ear.
After a bout with a robotic voice, I hear a human. “Memphis VA. How may I direct your call?”
“I…I need to speak to someone about PTSD.”
A sigh. “Do you have an appointment?”
What is her problem? “No, but I need to speak to someone ASAP.”
“Next available time is June 8th.”
My grip made the phone crack. Two months. Two more months of this silence gnawing at my ribs, of shadows clawing their way out of my past. My chest heaved fast.
“I need someone today.”
The operator muttered something under her breath. “Sorry, sir, that’s the earliest…”
“Listen, you idiot. I’m headed that way now.”
I packed my daughter’s go-bag and drove her to my parents’ house. My mother smiled, her hands warm on mine, her eyes soft with a knowing sadness. As I backed out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of my daughter through the rearview mirror. The sun caught in her hair, turning into strands of light.
She radiated everything I longed for.
I stormed through the VA hospital’s doors. My boots beat against the tile. The receptionist’s voice was a distant hum. I found the directory board, my finger dragging across its raised names. Room 404.
404. Error. Of course.
The elevator chimed. I flinched.
I found the office and knocked once. A woman glanced up from her desk.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
Her expression tightened. “I am sorry. My schedule is full today.”
I gritted my teeth. “I just about ate a bullet in front of my daughter.”
Something in her eyes shifted. “Okay,” she said softly, “Sit here.”
My first session unfolded on a leather couch.
“You have the purest case of PTSD I’ve ever encountered,” the psychiatrist said.
I left the VA with a prescription in one hand and a slip of paper with follow-up dates on the other. I shook the pill bottle. These will go down nicely with some scotch.
Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into night. I lost the days somewhere between reality and the bottom of the prescription vial. The mirror stopped reflecting anything human.
I couldn’t live like this. Not when she was waiting for me at home. So, I prayed.
It had worked for my father, once.
“God, I need your help. I can’t do this anymore.”
No voice answered. No visible hand reached down through parted clouds. But the prayers settled something inside of me, loosened the grip on the bottle, softened the sharp edges of the past.
“Daddy, what you doin’?”
I turned and scooped her up. “Nothing. What are you doing?”
She was warm against me. Her little blonde curls tickled my cheek.
I held her close.
And I held on.
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