Fall and Rise of the Reaper
(/death mentions, injury mentions, piss-poor parenting, PTSD flashbacks, murderous intentions)
Jell-O's and pudding cups turned to soup, soup turned to stew, and stew turned to whole meals; Gatorade and Pedialyte switched to water and tea, then coffee and juice; months in bed crawled into weeks, then days, then hours, then only for sleep. You healed physically throughout each day but were without mental vitality. Any semblance of the person before the fall was gone; you were just a shell going through the motions of every therapy session.
Day in, day out; therapy, eat, sleep, repeat. Mom didn't visit for a while, she didn't believe it, not for a bit, at least. When she did visit, however, the room was understandably silent. Mourning her husband beside her nearly-vegetable of a kid was rough.
It had been nearly eleven months post-fall that you actually got to the cemetery to see him yourself, each breath more labored than the last while the grass, crusted in frost and icy slush, crunched under your feet. You'd had to endure the other funerals for the 831, visit Rigo, and deal with the legal repercussions of being legally missing, then dead, for apparently a day. The timing didn't line up, you'd thought as you scribbled your signature across the seemingly endless stack of papers. That didn't matter, though, and you knew that. All sensibility and understanding of the world had flown out the window with Navarro and Okazaki that day.
Canvas shoes stopped before the freshly chiseled granite slab that read out that familiar name of your father. The tombstone looked at you, and you looked back. Neither one of you moved. The crows didn't squawk either, they just watched, as did the rest of the fauna surrounding the graveyard. Shockingly enough, you almost wanted the corvids to cut in, to yell and shriek at the human stepping into their territory; but they didn't. They just watched, as most birds do.
Words weren't spoken, merely thought, as you stared down at the ground as the gears in your head click, click, clicked. Rigo was returning to the military, he'd said that weeks ago. Click, click, click. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt like he had to. You supposed he'd be sticking with that as his post-fall career. Click, click, click. The legality of your actions with Owens was still in play, but they said they'd let you go if you went to outpatient, huh? Click, click, click. The turning of gears faded into whipping helo blades, and you stopped breathing for a moment, no air puffing from your warm lungs into the crisp air. Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. What did you do after the outpatient requirement finished? Did you... go look for another job? Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Could you even work anything remotely minimum wage with the scars on your face? They hadn't even healed yet, not fully anyway. Would anyone even consider you for an interview? Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Did you really have a choice to go... anywhere?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Navarro was ripped out of the safety of the metal bird. Okazaki was next to go. Achebe was long dead before she even saw her sergeants fling out to their deaths. Johnny was missing. Rigo was going through the motions. Marisha was enduring the guilt of almost being the only survivor. You were a walking corpse. Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. What about Phil?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Someone screamed.
What about Graves?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Something red and wet slapped onto your skin.
Why wasn't he...
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Your stomach flew up into your lungs as you were thrown around, glancing at Rigo. He was scared.
Why wasn't he hurting?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. You were scared.
Why wasn't he in the helo?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Death considered both of you for those moments.
Why wasn't Graves dead too?
Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. Vwoom, vwoom, vwoom. But Death did not have either of you on her list.
Your ears had been ringing, an inaudible siren to the corvids that watched on as your hands flexed and relaxed. The thoughts trickled easily together, molding like water molecules that clung and enlarged each other. Why wasn't Graves dead? Out of all of the 831, he came out unscathed, smiling, happy, that things went the way they did.
Caw!
Jumping in place, head snapping to the crow, it stood on a distant headstone, watching you with its beady black eyes. To him, you were a human standing near a rock, unmoving for minutes. To you, the corvid was a sign, an encouragement. Finish the job.
Beginning your trek through the graves, over the dirt, and past the gates, you yanked your phone out of your jacket pocket and pulled up Marisha's contact, finger practically breaking your screen with how hard you pressed the "call" button.
Ring, ring.
...
Ring, ring.
...
"-- Hello?"
Her voice was tired. She must be after all of the dead-teammate paperwork she had gone through up to that point. "Call a plane to Cincinnati," you replied, frame turned back to watch the crow from before. He had moved from the previous headstone to your fathers, still watching you. A beat passed, why did you stop? Was it hesitation? The corvid cawed and your thoughts came to fruition. No, it wasn't hesitation, but instead, a wait for confirmation. "I'm reenlisting."
RWYS is back in production! I will be taking on classes next semester, and am working over the break, but RWYS is now officially off the backburner. Thank you all for your patience, continued support, and love.
(Take this as an early holiday gift)
