Bring Down the Stars

“Yeah, guys,” I muttered. “It’s cool.”

For a moment, I thought nothing was cool at all, and my ass kicking would go on as scheduled. But out of deference for Connor, the guys disbursed, many of them shooting me dark, warning looks.

Connor shook his head. “Dude.”

“I know.”

“You gotta stop with the face.” He reached out to slap my cheek lightly and laughed as I ducked out of his reach. Connor was having the time of his life. He was physically fit enough that the PT didn’t kill him. The DI’s grilled him but he was hardly ever singled out. And the guys loved him.

In other words, business as usual.

“You want to join us?” he asked, with a nod toward the poker table.

“No, I was going to write to Ma.” I glanced at him sideways. “You going to write to Autumn?”

“Oh yeah, I should,” Connor said. “I miss her.”

“You do?”

He gave me a look. “Of course I do. But I suck at writing, as we’ve established. You could write something for me. Since you’re already writing letters, and all.”

Yes, I could. But for me. Not you.

It was wrong and stupid, but I needed to write to Autumn. I needed her, any way I could.

“Drop her a line for me,” Connor said. “News and weather. Tell her I’m thinking about her and I miss her.” He grinned and chucked my arm. “But make it pretty. No harm in that, right?”

“No harm,” I muttered.

Connor beamed, chucked my shoulder again, and headed back to the table.

“All right, boys, what’d I miss? You cheating, Mendez?”

I retrieved a pen and notebook from my footlocker and lay on my back on my bunk. Since email and cell phones weren’t allowed, we had to resort to pen and paper. Which was how I did all my writing anyway. A flow of thoughts and words into the ink and onto the page felt natural to me. Like breathing.

But this is wrong…

I should’ve told Connor to write his own letters. The last time I’d spoken to Autumn on the phone, pretending to be Connor, was months ago when she was in Nebraska, and I’d felt like shit for deceiving her. It was wrong and risky, but I missed her too much. The disgust I’d felt was distant compared to the hunger that gnawed at my insides now. I was starving. No matter how hard I tried to resist, the machine of Boot Camp was hollowing me out. Its job was to strip men down, turn them into war drones who could do the job that needed to be done. To kill if necessary.

Staying connected to Autumn was like holding onto a piece of myself. I needed to indulge in her now; gorge myself on my helpless, hopeless feelings for her, and hate myself for it later.

I’m in love with her.

The truth was bold and stark on the blank page of my heart.

I put my pen to paper and began to write.

Autumn

Fort Jackson

South Carolina

Feb 19th

Autumn,

We are seven weeks in and the physical pain of PT is imbedded in our muscle memory. Sarge’s insults are the music by which we march. Softness. Warmth. Beauty. They’re mirages in the distance, where you are. There is nothing of you here, but what I create in my mind and memory, and that is harder to endure than any physical pain. Not holding you hurts my hands more than having my palms scraped raw on the ropes. Not hearing your voice cuts deeper than any insult. Boot Camp has stripped me down to the bone, where what I feel for you is stark and naked, and the distance between us is longer than the last mile on the last run of the day.