New York 2024
Of course there was no OnlyFans. Just himself and his own shit.
He limped back to the couch and sank down. Sometimes, he could still smell the stench of death and destruction, feel the scorching sun on his back and hear the cries of fallen comrades. The doctors had worked miracles, but they couldn’t undo the scars. They couldn’t bring Alejandro back. The stains were gone but the stigma was still there, deep and angry like the rest of him.
He reached for the bottle of JD on the table. It burned his ulcer, but he forced it down anyway. A week had passed since his last bowel movement. Now the bubbling sound of intestines coming to life reached his ears. The laxatives were kicking in. He made it to the bathroom just before disaster struck.
–Fucking hell…well, at least it’s out.
He wiped his butt and flushed. The toilet made a loud, groaning sound as if it was about to explode. He found a piece of soap –about the size of a thumbnail– and washed his hands while looking in the mirror. The person staring back was no longer the pretty young boy who had joined the army right after high school. At thirty-six he was scruffy and worn, and the eyes that once sparkled with life, were dull and bloodshot.
He cringed and pulled up the boxers. He didn’t like to think of himself as a junkie. He was just self-medicating, that’s all. Yessir. He could stop anytime. And he had a ritual: he always sang The Star-Spangled Banner, preparing the fix.
”And the rocket’s red glare…”
He plunged the needle into the crook of his arm. Sunny, Alpha team, Bravo, Beta, death around every corner - all of it would fade from his mind.
He woke up on the toilet seat and dragged himself back to the ugly purple couch. The room had some reminders of his achievements - a graduation photo and diploma, a torn US Marines flag, a collection of vinyl records, a Stetson hat, and an old rodeo poster. A dying plant sat in the window, mirroring the current state of his life.
–Well, he mumbled. –Another day in fucking paradise.
He reached for a joint. An IED had taken his hearing in the left ear; the right ear only had fifty percent left. The rest was buzzing and hissing like a thousand flies trapped inside his head. Sometimes, especially at night, it would get so bad that he’d cry in frustration and pull on his hair. The hair that had been his pride, dark, shiny, wavy, smelling like newly washed linen. Now it was uncombed, dirty, and greying.
He stared at the ceiling as the smoke drifted upwards.
Sunny's fingers on his back.
A kiss on his lips.
Dammit Sunny. How could you leave me?
He screamed.
–FUUUCK!
A thump immediately came from the other side of the wall. The Sanchez family.
–Hey! Keep it down!
–Or WHAT?
–Or...I'll call the landlord!
–Yeah, you do that, and I’ll blow that mug clean off!
–Retard!
A bit drastic, but it always worked. All neighbors were scared of him, except for Mrs. Johnson, of course.
He lit the joint again. Damn, this stuff was really good. Really good. It was during times like this that he got nostalgic.
He reached under the sofa and pulled a box out, brushing off the dust. Inside was the photo of him and Sunny at boot camp, the wedding picture with Sarah, the ancient notebook with a crown sewn on the leather cover, a snapshot of him, Ma, and Emily - with Richard cut out like an old scab. There was a Purple Heart for sustaining shrapnel wounds in his leg, a Silver Star for bravery, and a Bronze Star for guiding his comrades on what was a suicide mission. And some panties in different sizes, trophies from one-night stands.
He started coughing. It was getting worse. Two packs of Marlboro Reds a day for the past eighteen years were taking their toll.
–Damn lungs, traitors.
With a final drag, he stubbed the joint out in the ashtray and reached for the notebook. His diary from Iraq.
4/24 Dear Diary, My training is getting better, today I shot a 200 yard target 15 outta 20 times. Least I got that goin for me. the instructors say I’m a natural an calls me Black Death!
Today we started hand-to-hand combat training. I got my ass kicked by some big ol Joe from Kentucky. He said he’s goin to make a kill-ass soldier outta me or a stain on the mat, either way, he’s gonna graduate. Next time I’ll show him who’s boss.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Signed Mark
4/28 Joe in the hospital, think I broke his arm, he deserved it. The instructors say Im one of the best they ever seen. Lt. Smith pulled me aside today after class. He said they’ve got plans for me, something about special forces? Sounds like hokum to me, but I ain’t complaining if it means more action and bigger paychecks. PS Lt. smith said to work on my cursing, so I’m damn trying, see? Signed M
Well, dang, Joe never came back; his arm was permanently damaged, Lt. Smith had told him later. He hadn’t meant to hurt him—he just didn’t know his own strength.
5/1 Dear diary. Today i got a new roommate, Alejandro something but he wants me to call him Sunny! He’s built like a brick shithouse and talks more than a parrot on cocaine. How am I gonna focus on my training with this chatterbox for company? Signed, Mark Black Death Blackstone
–Last man standing, huh. Well, I was right.
He lit another cigarette, coughing violently as he inhaled the smoke.
Yeah, there were good times—days they’d laugh, drink, and forget the shitstorm around them. But then Sunny started acting off. Real off. He shut down, stopped talking. The guy who once had a joke for everything was fading away.
The tears—oh, the tears. But he never let them show.
6/15 Sunny’s been distant. I feel like shit. If what happened between us made him feel bad, why ain’t he talking bout it? He blames his girlfriend and momma. I know it. She ain’t gonna approve me being with her son, but screw her! She don’t run my life or ours. I’m gonna to talk to him tonight. I won’t live in this limbo any longer. I know it’s over. He’s with his Lana gal now. She’s due any day. He’s gonna be a dad an all I am is the best pal who watches from afar and pretends that’s enough, but it ain’t fair. It’s not! I love him. I gotta let go. We both do, for his kid and her. I can’t be the reason they end up alone. Well, I will be right back in AZ, Fixing cars and living alone if someone ever need me.
Fixing cars, hah. Back stateside, he could barely straighten his fingers, though he didn’t know it yet.
Flipping to the next page, a smile slowly spread across his face.
7/5 Sunny’s back!!! He is my only solace in this shit desert. HE came back to be with ME!! I ain’t proud of it but I can’t help how I feel about him. I don’t know what I’d do without him. the only one who understands me the only one who believes in me dreams of getting outta here and buying that ranch in Montana. I ‘m over the moon, Sunny propose!!!! with a ring, right there in the tent, on our cot! I was stunn!
7/22 Don’t know what to do. I love him but DADT still stands. How the hell we suposed to live that when everything we doin is illegal? I’ll settle for the ranch and a taco truck, as long as I have him, but that’s a pipe dream ain’t it. I said yes anyway. But I’m thinkin of his kid and his ma and his dad. He’s all I ever wanted, but at what cost? We held each other till dawn, not caring who found us. I just hope we make it outta here alive.
- Mark
He stopped reading and took a long, final drag on his cigarette, bracing himself for what was to come. The last entry was shaky, the letters weak and crooked.
8/2 My hands are bandaged I can hardly write. Sunny’s gone. KIA. I held him while he took his last breath. The Chaplain told me he din’t suffer, how would he know? He wasn’t there. He didn’t see the eyes go blank. His dog tags are all I got left now. I made it but A m still in hospital. Doc says I can leave when they unwrap my hands. I don’t know how I gotta figure this shit out. I’ll hitch a ride back to AZ, find work again at old man Tito’s garage. That is if he’ll have me with these hands. I’m 18 years old, and I feel a hundred.
Te amo mi Sol. Pepe
He’d re-read that entry a thousand times since that godforsaken day, and each read left him a sobbing mess.
–Dammit.
He dried his eyes, and reached for the wedding photo. It showed a beautiful Sarah wearing a sparkling white dress, smiling at her soon-to-be husband. The groom, a strikingly handsome man, if he said so himself, was sulking at the camera. The priest had to repeat the vows three times before he realized what he was meant to say. He turned the picture over and read the inscription in his own handwriting:
The beginning of the end.
No, she didn’t deserve him. Not at all. With a last glance at the picture from the boot camp, he tucked everything back into the box and shoved it back amongst the dust. He coughed, tasting blood in his mouth.
There was screaming and shouting from 6B; the Lopez couple was at it again. He slammed his fist against the wall.
–Hey, shut the fuck up!
The fighting stopped abruptly, replaced by the slamming of a door.
–Goddamn dagos, he mumbled to himself.
He switched on the TV, an old set with a rabbit ear antenna, flipping through the channels until he landed on a rerun of Jeopardy!
–What’s the capital of Arizona? he muttered, flashing a finger at the screen. Great, now he was starting to act like his old man after a bottle of vodka. He switched channels and landed on an old C&W retro ‘60s special. Patsy Cline was singing "Crazy," and moist welled up in his eyes.
–God dammit, even Patsy’s against me, he grumbled, glancing at the snake ring. He’d considered selling this solid gold relic from his father. ”Boy, never pawn this, hold onto it, son. It’ll see you through the hard times.”
Yeah right. Part of him wanted to chuck it out the window, to watch it smash on the pavement below. Instead, he slipped it back onto his little finger.
–What’s the capital of fucking up my life? He muttered, turning over on the couch.
He was just about to fall asleep when a knock rattled the door. Tom Jenkins again? He yanked the gun from under the pillow and crept down the narrow hallway, every muscle coiled. With the weapon raised, he flung the door open.
–Identify yourself asshole!
Silence. There was no one there. He looked left, then right—then down, and saw little Mrs. Johnson trembling, holding a Pyrex dish.
–M..Mark! Are you going to shoot me?
He tucked the gun away and grinned.
-Mrs J! Sorry, I reckoned it was… uh, the taxman.
–Oh, no, no. I just made too much of this lasagna and thought perhaps you wanted some? You’ll have to warm it up though.
The aroma of tomatoes, oregano, and marinara sauce wafted up to his nostrils, making his stomach growl–he hadn’t eaten anything but his own sour breath in days. He took the Pyrex and bowed.
–Thanks, Mrs. J. Uh, sorry, I haven’t put my jeans on yet.
–Oh, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before!
She shoved a foil parcel into his hands and looked at him with watery eyes.
–Garlic bread. Now, I met this nice Mr. Jenkins. He was very worried about you, honey.
–Mr. Jenkins? Well, I’ll be darned. I’m just fine and dandy. Going to the gym, eating right, keeping busy…you know.
She peeked at his arms covered in tattoos, track marks, and bruises, and sighed.
–Sure you are, honey. Just make sure you eat all of it so you don’t disappear.
She waved one last time and shuffled down the hall in her slippers.
Inside, he stumbled over the gun and nearly sent Mrs. Johnson’s lasagna flying straight into the wall.
–Son of a bitch…!
He caught the dish at the last second and clutched it to his chest like it contained the meaning of life.
Then a voice broke through the buzzing in his ears.
Gonna wage war on the lasagna too, gringo? Así no, cabrón. Jajaja.
That bastard Sunny always had impeccable timing.
