Page 2

April 3, 2025

In. Out.

Deep breaths. Focus on the present.

In.

Count each breath. Listen to the noise around you.

Out.

A clock is ticking, like the beating of a heart. The lights hum and flicker. Will they go out? Will they explode? Is the door locked? No. Ground yourself. Focus on breaths, not the noise. A gun fires—No. Focus. Again. Not a gun. A door. Doors slamming like gunfire. A pen clicks, like the pin of a grenade. Don’t react. Don’t follow their eyes when they stare. Don’t think about how the carpet under your feet feels like sand or how screaming children sound like the remains of your squad after stepping into a minefield.

In.

Don’t break. That was the one rule. You survived. You’re home. You’re alive. Why?

Out.

Why are you here? Don’t break. Don’t think. Breathe. In for four, out for four. Count the lines on the floor. Don’t think. They died. It was an accident.

In.

The floor is shaped like diamonds. Diamonds like the shrapnel pulled from the bodies they recovered. They were pulled out in pieces. The HVT escaped. He escaped. Your squadmates didn’t.

Out.

Don’t break. It wasn’t your fault. You were ambushed. They were waiting for you. The table is sticky, like blood. I can’t get it out of my clothes. I can’t stop tasting it. Their eyes never closed. They screamed for help. Don’t break.

In.

There was nothing you could do. You survived. It was an accident. Don’t break.

Out.

Did their families cry? Do their spouses know why they died? Did they see the body? No. Focus. Don’t break. It was an accident. Breathe.

In.

Five seconds. Everything went up in smoke. The HVT got away. Screaming. So much screaming. Blood. Screaming. Death.

Out.

It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. The area was supposed to be clear. Don’t think. You survived. You tried to save them. It was an accident. You didn’t know.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t an accident.