Page 44 of Salute, To Bravery

Craig

I snap awake, my heart racing in my chest, once again remembering the horror of that day. The last thing I recall is looking over at Brandon, my best friend, as his eyes went cold, drained of life before the unconscious darkness finally consumed me.

As death looms ever closer, a wave of remorse crashes over me, relentless and unyielding.

All the missed opportunities and unspoken words flood my mind.

The never-ending to-do list my wife, Jane, constantly reminds me about, tasks I never seem to complete.

The pointless arguments, the harsh words exchanged in moments of anger that now seem so trivial in the shadow of loss.

I cling desperately to the hope of more time to make things right—to apologize for every mistake, to mend every rift.

But not everyone is granted that chance.

I watched Brandon slip away, and I can’t shake the guilt that wraps around me like a shroud suffocating my every breath.

The smell of hospital antiseptic helps ground me, a sterile reminder of my reality.

Deep breaths come in shaky intervals as I grapple with the fragments of memory.

They come in painful flashes, each one a shard of glass piercing my consciousness.

It’s like trying to solve a puzzle with the crucial pieces missing, each recollection blurring into the next, leaving me with a nagging emptiness.

The white walls offer no comfort, the harsh fluorescent lights dulling my senses.

The deflated foam mattress has left me on the hard plastic surface of the bed frame, a cruel reminder of constant suffering.

I can’t endure another night in this depressing cesspool of a recovery hospital, surrounded by people prying into my feelings, pushing me to talk when I’m not ready.

With a grunt, I swing what’s left of my legs over the side. The coolness of the metal rail soothes the ache in my upper thigh, sharpening my focus.

In the days following the mission, I was sent to Germany, where the finality of Brandon’s death hit me like a freight train.

In my heart, I had already known, but that didn’t stop the flicker of hope that it could still all be a nightmare, that I might wake up to find it untrue.

The mission, Brandon, my sister Reilynn —they all swirl together in my mind, vivid and haunting.

I remember the chaos, the sound of gunfire echoing in my ears, and the frantic shouts that filled the air.

Getting to the chopper, watching Brandon throw himself over Rei to shield her. His body absorbing each bullet aimed at her, a debt I can never repay. His life slipping away, the silent questions in his eyes piercing me, leaving me to wonder if any of it was real.

Why? Why did this happen? I ask myself in vain, desperation clawing at my insides.

Each night I wake, terror grips me as I relive the day, the suffocating fear that I might die out there, fighting through pain for the ones I love.

My wife, our children—how much time have I wasted?

I lie awake, hoping that the next time I close my eyes, I’ll wake up in a different world.

A world where Brandon walks back in, his smile lighting up the room, joking about my injuries, laughing like the day we first met.

I lie back down, seeking solace in the darkness, praying for answers in my dreams. Why did this happen?

Why did he have to sacrifice everything?

Why did I survive? The questions swirl endlessly, echoing in the silence of my hospital room, but no answers come.

Just the weight of my grief, heavy and suffocating, pressing down until I feel like I might drown in it.

I close my eyes, trying to drown out the sterile sounds of the hospital, but the cacophony of memories refuses to fade. Each one is a reminder of what I’ve lost, and I can’t escape the regret that clings to me like a second skin.

Brandon wasn’t just my best friend; he was my brother, my confidant. We had shared dreams and secrets, the kind that bind souls together.

Now, I’m left with nothing but an echo of laughter that feels like a distant memory, my sister left in unimaginable agony knowing his sacrifice was for her.

Guilt floods my thoughts, a tidal wave of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

If only I had reacted faster, if only I had been the one to shield her, I could have shouldered that burden for her.

But the past is immutable, and the burden of survival is heavy.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me back to the present, a reminder that I’m not alone in this sterile hell.

Nurses come and go, their faces a blur as they check my vitals and offer hollow reassurances.

I appreciate their concern, but their questions feel invasive, as if they’re peeling back layers of my grief before I’m ready to share.

I want to scream at them, to tell them that they’ll never understand, that no amount of therapy can heal the wounds I carry.

Nothing will ever make this right. Tears stream down my face, knowing there is nothing I can do, knowing that if I had the choice, I would choose my sister over him.

He is just one of many brothers I have lost since joining the military; it never gets easier. I can’t let this take me down. I have fought in hundreds of missions, but the mental one will always be the hardest.

I have to try and fight to live, fight for the life I still have, fight and live for those who can’t.