Reckless Hero

The sound deafened me as my body flew with the force of the blast. Disoriented and confused, I’d lost all my senses for a moment.

When my hearing came back, the noise hurt my ear drums. My vision blurred and a dull ache pulsed on the back of my head.

“Medic,” someone yelled, and I recognized the voice of my squad leader. “We need a medic over here!”

The voice grounded me and my focus became clear. Even though I’d had it in my mind that I wanted to be a lawyer at this point, I had briefly considered being a doctor, and had even done a little medical studying on my own. Granted, my medical knowledge had been minimal, but I still felt compelled to help during the chaos.

I rushed over, steeling my muscles when my legs threatened to buckle under me.

People screamed and some - those who could –ran away from the scene. Words I couldn’t understand were being shouted about. Smoke and debris made it hard to breath, and faces were darkened with the mess the blast had created.

Later, we would learn that the explosion was the work of a suicide bomber with something to prove to a radical group hiding out in the area.

Those fuckers.

But all I’d been able to concentrate on at the time was helping the medics provide for my team, as well as the others who’d been injured.

There were broken bones, limbs, and blood everywhere. I saw a few sightless eyes and unmoving chests, but I ignored them as I moved to where my squad leader was hunched over Lucas. The other men were helping the injured people in the bar.

Lucas was bleeding everywhere, including from his nose and mouth. A large slab of wood protruded from his chest, threatening his life.

Our leader radioed in for more medical support and reported the explosion to the relevant authorities.

As the medics surrounded him, I knelt beside Lucas. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand with surprising strength, holding on to me as if I was his last lifeline. His eyes on mine, he began coughing up more blood.

Feeling helpless, I stared down at him, and just for a second, his face changed—becoming my father’s.

It hadn’t been the first time something like that happened while I was in the presence of an injured person. But I’d gotten better as pushing my personal issues aside, and just as quickly as my father’s face had been superimposed on Lucas, it was gone.

I looked him in the eyes. “Hang in there, buddy. Just hold on. You’re going to get through this.”

Lucas’s eyes had closed, though he maintained his grip on my hand.

Presently, my eyes opened and I found myself transitioning into consciousness.

I lied in bed, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the light drizzle of rain. A sheen of sweat had broken out over my skin. Although my heartbeat slowed back to normal, my mind still relived that fateful night almost a year ago.

Lucas had lived, though his injuries had changed his life forever, leaving him no longer able to serve his country. A lot of people told me that he had pulled through because of my support. While it felt good to hear, the feeling was often followed by insidious guilt.

Because every time I recalled holding Lucas’ hand, I was forced to think about how I hadn’t been there to do the same for my father.

Panic suddenly tightened my chest, making it hard to breathe. Even though I knew there was no one else in the apartment with me, I could hear echoes of the panicked voices from my dream as clear as day.

And I could hear my father’s voice loudest of all.

Recognizing the onset of the PTSD attack, I quickly got out of bed, trying to block out the voices. I went into the bathroom, grabbed the prescription pills out of the medicine cabinet, and filled a glass with water from the sink. My hands shook so badly, it took a few tries before I was able to open the small tube of white pills.

I threw the pills into my mouth and chased them back with the entire glass of water.

Then I just stood there, trying to calm my mind and ground myself in the here and now.

My diagnosis of PTSD was part of the reason I’d left the military. The other was wanting to pursue a career as a lawyer.

While I didn’t like to admit it, what happened with Lucas was also a part of why I firmly gave up on my ambitions of being a doctor. Even though he had survived, the task of trying to stay calm under that kind of pressure—when someone’s life was potentially slipping away right before your eyes—had been too much for me. With the PTSD I suffered, there was no way I could even fathom trying to get through medical school. Doctors were a special breed of soldiers, as far as I was concerned. They dealt with illness, injury, and death on a regular—all things that I wanted to stay away from.

Law was much more my speed. Fighting for justice was another way of fighting for life, in a way that I felt much more equipped to handle.

Eventually the voices ringing in my ears quieted, and I was able to think clearly again.