#ptsd attack

“Georgie, can’t we just enjoy the couple of days we have left with each other?”

And they did. They spent the next day and a half tangled in each other’s arms.

Their bodies tangled together, a messy knot of arms and legs. George hovered above Martha, his thrusts slow and deliberate. Their mouths pressed together, their kisses gentle, loving. Neither one of them was deriving much pleasure from the sex itself, but rather they were fulfilling their mutual need to be as close to each other as possible.

“Martha, I love you so much, you know that right?”

There were tears welling in her eyes. “George, if I asked you to stay, would you?”

George’s mouth pressed against Martha’s, the kiss desperate. “Martha, you know I can’t. God, I wish with all of my heart that I could stay, that I never have to leave this bed, but you and I both know that I have to. The Army chose me as commander of the battalion. I can’t just let them down.” His voice grew quiet as both of their orgasms began approaching.

He could tell hers was by the way her pelvis arched towards him, the way her breathing stuttered as her heart beat faster. He watched her face, taking in every detail, memorizing the small freckles that decorated the apples of her cheeks, across her nose. He memorized the way her eyebrows furrowed as she reached her release, her head pressing back into the pillow. He focused on the feeling of her body arching against his own, the way her mouth fell open, her breasts heaving as she gasped for breath.

His own orgasm wasn’t far behind, focusing on every part of her being sparked thrusts that he couldn’t control, that were erratic as he reached his peak. His body fell down on hers, their chests rising and falling in a synchronic dance.

He rolled over and pulled her into his arms. His hands danced across her body, across the little roll of fat that made up her stomach- the one she hated but he couldn’t get enough of. His fingers parted her thighs, those glorious thighs, just to feel them one more time. He had to memorize her, he couldn’t forget a single detail.

His head found its way to her chest, his ear pressing against her heartbeat, her gorgeous round breasts directly in his line of view. God, the amount of times he had heard her complaining about how they sagged, how they were asymmetrical- he didn’t care about that at all. He took a breast in his hand, his thumb brushing her nipple just to watch the dark red nub harden from his touch.

“I’ll be gone six months, a year at most. Remember, Martha, you hold my heart.”

He wasn’t gone for two months.

George sat in his office- his head screaming. He had been home close to a year and the pain never got better. His leg pain did though- especially the right one, the one the surgeons completely removed from his body. He felt phantom pains, but a former FBI agent had taught him how to deal with that.

It’s purely psychological, he had said. Tell your brain it’s not there and eventually that’s what it’ll start to believe.  

That pain had finally gone away, but his head- the noises never stopped. The IUD that had exploded beneath their humvee. The voices of his men as they scraped him from the ground. The sound of artillery fire, the helicopter blades whirring, various beeps, clanking from his men’s packs- the noises never stopped.

Nearby, gunshots ran through the air, then silence. One more gunshot and George was throwing himself to the floor. They took his gun. They took his fucking gun. 

A knock sounded at the door. George removed his prosthetic leg and dragged himself to the side of the door.

“George, I hear you moving in there. Open up!”

God, like he was fucking stupid. Never open the door to the enemy. For all George knew, the man on the other side of the door was the one doing the shooting.

George sat on his side of the door, his head resting against the wall. He could hear the breaths of his men around him, their voices all screaming his name. Why did his leg suddenly hurt? He opened his eyes and looked down at his waist. Why were his fatigues splashed red? Why was he suddenly weak?  

“George?”

He closed his eyes once more and did what he always would in times when the fighting calmed down- he thought of his wife. He thought of her beautiful curves, that little pudge she had around her waist, her thighs- oh god, those glorious thighs. He wanted nothing more than to part them, to feel them straddling his lap once again.

He opened his eyes- his beautiful Martha was in front of him, a blue dress wrapped around her, her long olive legs standing in front of him and those heels- those heels.

“Martha-” he whispered. “Martha, I don’t think I’m coming home.”

Those legs, those fucking olive legs, straddled his lap. Her hair smelled fucking delectable.

“Oh god, Martha. If this is how I die, I’ll welcome it gladly.”

“Georgie, please come back to me. You hold my heart in your hands. You always have.”

The lips that pressed against his were too real to be those wet dreams he had. “Martha?”

“Come back to me, Georgie,” she whispered.

No longer was he surrounded by his men. The screams of his men were gone. The room was silent, save the quiet sobs that fell from his mouth. George threw his arms around Martha and pulled her to his chest. Her hair brushed against his face as she pressed her forehead against his.

“Martha,” he sobbed, his hand wrapping her hair in a fist, pulling her closer to him. “Martha.

“Shh George. I’m here. I’m okay, you’re okay.” She pulled his hand from her hair and set it on her chest. “Can you feel my breathing? Breathe with me George. Come on- in, out.”

His sobs quieted and his breathing slowed. “Martha, I can still hear their screams.”

“I know, Georgie. I know.” Her body left his lap and knelt in front of him. “Georgie?”

“Hmm?” he hummed.

“How did you manage to get your legs off without taking off your pants?”

George laughed, wiping at the tears and snot on his face. “Adrenaline, maybe? I don’t really know.” He shifted his body and pulled off his jacket. “Can we go home? I can’t be here anymore.”

“Of course, Georgie. Do you want to put your leg back on or do you want me to get your crutches?”

George took a shuddering breath. “Can you grab my chair instead? It’s in the closet.”

“Of course George. I’d do anything for you.”

George smiled. He knew she would. She was a saint and he had no idea what he did to deserve her, but boy, was he glad he did it. “Martha, you hold my heart in your hands.”

Martha snorted from the closet. “And currently your leg.”