Luckless

by moonbeam28

Summary:

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m not a poet. I’m not Tim with the emotional shit. Maybe I thought that getting it down on paper would make the voices go quiet. Maybe it won’t, but the nagging in the back of my head tells me that if scared little Timmy got better, that I could too.

Or
Azar writes a short story after coming back from the war, and he reflects on his own life and how he’s coped with PTSD

Notes:

I wrote this for a school project but I really liked it and wanted to share it :)

Good old Timmy boy came to see me last week. He said: “Azar, I’m writing a book about ‘Nam, can I include your story?” I don’t have shit to lose anymore, so I agreed. I imagined Kiowa would’ve given him a toothy smile, breaking out the candles and crying in some sappy way. Maybe Lieutenant agreed, but only if Tim changed his name. I’d bet you a buck Tim changed all our names. 

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m not a poet. I’m not Tim with the emotional shit. Maybe I thought that getting it down on paper would make the voices go quiet. Maybe it won’t, but the nagging in the back of my head tells me that if scared little Timmy got better, that I could too.

When I close my eyes I’m back in that house. Beer cans decorating each surface, a ragged old chair sitting in front of the tv. I still see the patterned wallpaper that looks like a thousand eyes staring at you when you zone out on it. The third step on the stairs that creaks when you put too much pressure on it. 

It’s sorta like the war zone- one wrong step and you could blow a foot off. One snarky remark and I’m back in the bathroom with my father grabbing me by the tuft of my hair and shoving my head underneath the water. You can’t breathe behind the lines, one breath and you empathize with the dead soldiers that you're responsible for killing. 

When you start caring too much your brain fogs up, like my head felt underneath the water. When you care, you’re dead. Maybe that’s how I survived the goddamn war. 

I ask myself every single day how the hell I did it. Lavender was the paranoid one, safety was his first concern and he was the first one blown to smithereens. The irony is too much sometimes. I find myself laughing out loud because how did Kiowa- the kindest, most honest man of them all die. While I’m still kicking…the one who went into the war wanting to die? 

Sometimes I think it’s God’s final laugh at me, sending me home to the old house after everything I valued was already gone. Surviving my upbringing was one thing, but a war. That’s just the cherry on the goddamn sundae. That’s what Jordan Luck used to tell me. 

What a stupid name- Luck. Luck doesn’t even exist, it’s just made up shit they tell the rich folks. Even how we’d met was luckless. 

I’d been an hour and a couple minutes late to school that day. I’d tried to wake my dad up to take me but he’d been knocked out cold from the night before. Lying back in that damn armchair with a beer gripped in his hand like a lifeline. I kept shaking and shaking and shaking him until he’d eventually peeped his eyes open and squinted with an angry brow. 

“Get ya fucking hands off- whatchu want?” He slurred and I remembered feeling like I wanted to punch his lights out. I wanted to watch the color drain from his face when he remembered that I’m the product of his neglect. 

“School,” I roughly spat. His face tightened and purpled. “Don’t give me any attitude son, I’m your Pop.” I looked him up and down. The dried beer in his beard, the hollow eyes and silver teeth. 

“A shit one,” I muttered under my breath. I watched him turn from a purple to a dark red. His mouth almost foamed from the anger. Before I even could think to run, or hide, or just escape- his fist sank into my face. 

“Don’t say that to me again or I’ll leave you with worse,” My eye was swollen, my face felt numb and weak. He left the room and didn’t even look back. I’d iced my face the best I could, slid on my shoes, and started my trek to school. 

Halfway between school and my house I’d passed a boy and his dad riding a bike. I’d tightened my hoodie strings so no one would have to see the horrible colors on my face. 

I couldn’t look away for any longer when I heard a loud thud, and choked sobs-  the boy had fallen off the bike. My hoodie fell loose from how quickly my head had turned. I waited for the punishment, the screaming, the fighting. It never came. 

“Hey, hey you’re okay. It was just a little fall,” The dad reassured the boy. I couldn’t help but stare. Even to this day I still remember the boy on the bike and his dad because this was the moment I realized family doesn’t hurt you. 

I forced myself to keep walking, and pinched my wrist to stop the tears. Focusing on the pain to ground me. 

When I arrived at school I could feel the eyes watching my every move. No one dared to ask me what’s wrong. All the rumors about the gang fights I’ve been in was enough for people to keep some distance. 

I escaped to the bathroom during lunch. I let out a choked sob but flushed the toilet to drown the noise. My ears rang with my dads voice saying, “whatchu crying for Azar? Boys don’t cry.” 

That’s when I met Jordan Luck. He’d been in the stall next to me, probably heard me crying. He was a skinny boy back then, messy blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Looked like a fucking poster boy. 

We stood quiet at the sinks. I could feel his worried glances glazing over my skin like pottery. 

“The fucks your problem?” I glared, rubbing my hands raw with the soap. “Nothing,” he squeaked, cheeks flushing crimson from being caught.

 “Spit it out.” I turned to face him sharply. “Are you okay?” He asks, toying with his bottom lip like an idiot. I didn’t have an answer so I just stared blankly. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you or anything…just I- well.. I heard you crying and I saw that your face was swollen so I just assumed maybe you weren’t okay. But I totally get it if you don’t want to talk about it. Unless you do want to talk about it- which is fine too.” I continued to study him. He blinks at me expectantly. 

“Did you just have a stroke?” I question, squinting my eyes. He frowns and I sigh, continuing my thought. “Jesus, I’m not good with this shit. Thanks for uh- yeah.” 

I didn't understand at the time why he cared so much, but I get it now- that’s just who Jordan was. When his dog died he cried for a whole day, even putting the dog’s name tag on his neck like an army necklace. I told him he looked like a dork, he said he didn’t care. 

That pretty much summed up our whole friendship. He’d help me out wordlessly- his little charity project. I’d teach him grit, how to stand up to people and how to let loose. I’d like to pretend he learned from my lessons, but we both know he didn’t. 

We went on to be inseparable for years, until everything turned to shit. 

We’d been at the sports bar all day. Both of us were barely 19, neither of us were drafted last year when we’d been raw meat. So we assumed it was safe. What a dumb fucking mistake. 

“…October 14th…” I whipped my head around so fast I almost gave myself whiplash. Jordan. My heart raced in my chest, everything ached. Jordan stared ahead at the wall, his expression was blank and worn. 

“Fuck the military, don’t go.” I pleaded with him after a long beat of silence, but he didn’t listen. “Can’t,” he said shortly, and I knew the discussion was over. He was a goddamn saint, our personal Captain America storming into war with a point to prove. 

If I could go back to this moment I would’ve begged, climbed down on my knees to tell him to turn around. War isn’t built for boys. No one is built for war, anyone who says otherwise is lying to themselves. 

He never would’ve listened. Even if I told him how they found him lying in a pit of sand with his leg torn off and blood oozing down his clothes. How they’d been too late, forgot to warn him about the traps. I wish I could’ve made him stay. 

6 months after he’d been deployed I got drafted. Part of me secretly wished to be selected so I could look after him. Just like I’d done through high school. 

The minute I stepped into Vietnam I could feel the soggy heat dripping off my bones. The air was salty, and Norman Bowker had been fidgeting with the hem of his shirt all flight over. Everyone was scared, even the ones with painted on brave faces, 

I immediately asked around about Jordan, where his site was- I just needed to see him. 

“Jordan Luck? That guy died last week. Brutal death too, but he was the idiot who went first.” My bag dropped from my shoulder and everything felt slow motion. The laugh between the two experienced soldiers played like a broken record in my head. Just spinning and spinning and spinning. 

Everything is too real now that I’m back. I’ve driven by Jordan’s old house more times than I can count. The ghost of our past horsing around in the warm kitchen. The soldiers dumb laughs echo in my head, taunting me. 

My world has slipped through my fingers like sand and there was nothing for me to hold onto. My day to day consists of feeling like a towel rung dry too many times, desperately clinging to any hope I can get. 

When I blew up that puppy back in ‘Nam, I blew up my old self with it. I’m not gonna throw a fucking pity party because I know deep down I deserve it. Who was I to get my hopes up at a good life. 

So when Tim asked to tell my story- I let him. How can I lose more? You tell me.