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Mirage

With the deaths of his parents still plaguing his mind and paralyzing his heart, Matthew ignored the black-suited man who’d come into his sixty-square-foot room in Fort Bellmore Military Behavioral Facility—the shithole where they threw soldiers who’d snapped and lost their shit until whatever pompous superior determined them sane enough to return to duty or, more often than not, dishonorably discharged.

The man was out of uniform and had no badge or identification clipped to his lapel, so Matthew ignored him.

The visitor sat in the one chair in Matthew’s private room—he’d beat the sarcasm out of every roommate they gave him—and looked over a thick file he assumed was his for twenty-five minutes before uttering a single word.

When he did speak, he said the last thing Matthew expected.

“What would you do to be rid of the pain and anguish you’re feeling right now, Dr. Adams?”

Matthew clenched his fist so hard his knuckles popped as he stared out the plexiglass window.

“I assume I can use the title doctor now. There’s no reason to use your rank of lieutenant anymore.”

“Unless you want me to snap your neck in a place that leaves you alive but unable to speak again, I suggest you leave in the same manner you came. Silently.”

His unwanted visitor hummed as if he found the threat intriguing.

“The crippling heartbreak from the recent death of your parents is killing you and—”

Matthew yanked the plastic tray containing his untouched food and hurled it across the room, aiming for the man’s throat, but he dodged it with a quick jerk to his left.

His visitor’s expression remained impassive while continuing to stare at him as if he were still waiting for Matthew to answer his question.

“If only you could’ve thrown that so hard and fast that there’d been no way I could’ve dodged it, maybe even decapitated me.”

I wish.

The mysterious man in the expensive suit and gelled hair closed the file and tossed it onto the thin mattress Matthew never slept on.

He narrowed his eyes, not appreciating the taunt, and turned back toward the window.

He preferred the view of the brick wall next door rather than the condescending prick asking him asinine questions.

“Fuckin’ leave now,” Matthew sighed.

His voice was raspy due to his lack of hydration, and his throat felt as if he’d been eating sandpaper.

Why the hell can’t people just leave me alone?

He’d been taken to the med wing of the brig for five days after banging his head against the concrete wall in his tiny cell until he was unconscious.

After he’d healed enough to be returned to the floor, he’d done it again.

He didn’t want to kill himself—at first—he just wanted to remove the visions of his parents being blown to pieces.

Night after night, nightmare after nightmare.

He wanted it gone.

They’d transferred him to the mental health hospital eight weeks ago, and all he’d done so far was raise hell because these walls weren’t hard enough to knock him out.

“I’ve been where you are,” the stranger said, sitting there as if he had all the time in the world. As if he wasn’t afraid of Matthew’s rage like everyone else was. “I’ve also been consumed with so much anger, resentment, and disappointment that I’d rather die than live another day with the torment.”

Matthew gritted his teeth at the man’s accuracy. If this was his new therapist… Matthew didn’t care how good he was. He wasn’t interested in being treated or related to.