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barefoot_bardTitle: Mirrors
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 10 March 2010
Summary: A 1st Cav soldier struggles to adjust to a life he never wanted. Texas 2008.
Author's Note: This is a dark piece that has been lurking around my brain for some time. It is a collective recollection of the soldiers who suffered burns in combat, many of whom I encountered as patients during my tour at BAMC. If anyone deserves to be called heroes, they do.
There are mirrors everywhere. Bathrooms, stores, cars, bedrooms, a hundred other places. They're impossible to escape. They exist to let people see themselves, for any number of reasons. They're considered quintessentially useful. But I hate them. I really fucking hate them. Mirrors show me the visage that I want no one to see. The face that I don't want to see myself. There used to be two mirrors in my barracks room. One broke some short time after I got here. The other is thankfully hidden behind a towel. If I could get rid of that one too, I would.
My name is Staff Sergeant Anthony Murray and I was wounded in Mosul. It had been my day to stand in as truck commander for our Bradley. I should have known it would be a bad goddamn day because of that. Every time we rolled out with me as TC, shit always happened. Every time before our vehicle had managed to get out all right. I guess our time was up. The first RPG was short, but the second one blew off the left track. The third one came in through the main troop hatch as the guys were bailing out. It got fucking hot in there, real fast. Too fast. Needless to say there was some trouble getting out the turret unharmed.
That was the day that shit happened. That was the day everything changed. That day is months in the past now, but every time I close my eyes and lose focus even for a second, the whole day plays again with that same sickening clarity. I try not to close my eyes when I can avoid it, even to sleep. They say that it's natural to feel that way. They also say I'm lucky to have made it out of the Bradley alive. I don't know as I believe that shit. Lucky would have been to buy it when the third RPG came in. How it didn't get me, I'll never know.
I have been in and out of the ISR almost weekly since getting flown in here. This is the country's premiere burn center, or so everyone says, but I find it hard to call it anything other than a hellhole. It's impossible to count how many times I've gone into that place for grafts and debridements. Torture is a much better word for what that's like. I'd rather have gotten both legs blown off than live through this, to be honest. They always offer to let me see the progress, too. I always tell them to fuck off - what makes them think I want to see that crap? Mirrors, man. They're the goddamn enemy.
There are a few perks to living here, though. The WTU is run like any other line unit, which helps a lot. It helps too that they're not always up in your shit unless you're a fuck-up. That's probably the best thing about this place. If you're doing what you're supposed to, nobody messes with you. I keep away from most of the other guys in the barracks though. Even the ones who got burnt up like I did. Seeing them is sorta like seeing myself and that's just not on. Most of them are pretty upbeat about it all though. That's something I just can't wrap my head around. How can you be upbeat about the fact that you don't have a normal goddamn face anymore?
The WTU is really shit on one point, though. They are all about encouraging us to get out of the barracks and do stuff on main post. Go to the PX, go to the commissary, go bowling. Shit like that. I've only been to the main PX once since getting here and that was a mistake if ever I've made one. Most folks on Fort Sam have gotten used to seeing guys from the WTU around post, but that doesn't make it suck for me any less. I don't want people to see me, y'know, the same as I don't want to see myself. Mirrors. They're sunglasses, they're glass PX doors, they're that quick flash of pity on the face of some officer's wife as she hustles past you. People see you and people know.
But of course you can't live like a recluse for ever. I tried. Shit but I tried. A couple specialists cornered me one afternoon though, just as I was coming back from a run around the track. I'm an old Cav guy, right down to my bones. The Cav runs until it dies. No matter what. They knew I was wiped and they knew it was the best time to overpower me. We're going to the fuckin' PX, Sarn't, get in the van. Well shit. No point in resisting - it's bad form to knock down a guy who's just gotten a new prosthetic, after all. They got me into the van, sweating, smelly, and pissed off, and that was it. How a couple Spec-Fours got the balls to take on a staff sergeant... or even how they thought this was a good plan at all, I don't know. Haven't got the slightest fucking idea. But they're stupid.
The PX. Ten minutes' ride from BAMC and crawling with people even on a weekday afternoon. The two specialists hauled me out of the van after we rolled up. They were going to drag me all through the goddamn place, weren't they? The greasy fuckers. I hate being out in public. I hate that people can see my face, my arms. It's not natural, dammit. This is not natural. I am not natural. But those two grinning little shits have me by both arms and are pulling me along. What the hell am I, some sort of sideshow freak they're touring around? No. This ain't happening. I'm not going along with this. I push them both away and tell them what they can do with their grand plan. This is bullshit, I'm not playing along with it, and now I'm going home. Before I can endure another long sympathetic stare.
That's when the kid appeared. Some ten year-old with pizza sauce smeared across his nose. Probably the only human creature in the place who dared to come directly up to me - nobody else had the balls, but that's adults for you. And this kid? I don't even think he really noticed the half a face, or the missing ear, or the twisting line of grafts up my arms. No, not this kid. He was staring at my T-shirt instead. Of all things. My old, sweaty, Metallica T-shirt. And this cool as shit kid points at the shirt and says, "That's an awesome shirt."
Well shit. What do you even say to that? Other than to agree, anyway. This is one neat kid. I mean, how many ten year-olds are into Metallica? Somebody's raised him right in that respect. Hell. Somebody's raised him right all around, if he's not afraid of some big burn-scarred guy. I gave the kid ten bucks and told him to go find Ride the Lightning over in the music racks. I tell you, I've never seen a kid look so much like he'd won the moon. Mirrors. There was no fear, no pity, no horrified curiosity that kid. Just a pure little rock'n'roll fan.
I didn't stick around the PX for long. Just long enough to score a couple movies and some snacks. Why waste a trip, even one that's been forced on you? But I couldn't stop thinking about that kid, all the way back to the barracks. That's a special kind of innocence, man. Kids are awesome like that, really. Those two shit-sack specialists took off after the van pulled up outside the dayroom. Probably the smartest thing to do. I went upstairs to my room with the single-minded goal of popping one of my new movies in. After a shower, of course. It was in the bathroom that I had the thought. Or more like the question. Before, I'd only caught fleeting glimpses of myself, since I never wanted to stop and look. Now, after today? I have to admit, I was curious. Perhaps morbidly so. All the same...
The towel came off the mirror and I saw. And for the first time since coming here, I looked and was not disgusted. I couldn't tell you why, either. Not with any certainty. Staring back at me in the mirror was a guy with the distinctive smooth patch of burn scar across the left side of his face. The twisted, pinched graft scars down his neck and on his arms. The discoloured skin across his temple and scalp. The dimple where his left ear used to be. This was clear and real and me. I held up my hands, which had escaped ruining somehow, and marvelled at the fact that some visible part of me remained unsullied. Then I skimmed my fingers over my face, over the patchy scars, and wondered - for the first time - why I hadn't died in my Bradley.
It came to me then that I was staring straight at the answer. Mirrors. Not just the bathroom mirror, uncovered for the first time in months, but faces like Metallica Kid. No eyes for the sideshow freak at all. Only interest in something he recognises as being cool. A human mirror. It wasn't the mirrors themselves to hate and avoid, was it? It was my perception that I should avoid the outside world simply because I was different. Damaged. Unnatural. But I wasn't, was I? Not where it mattered, anyway. Maybe that was how those other guys dealt. They took the shit hand they'd gotten and turned it into their own sort of glory. How the fuck they got through every day was something I still don't get, but maybe I was working on it.
I left the towel off the mirror when I got into the shower. That two by four piece of glass doesn't change that I am still pretty much a walking burn scar. Nothing can change that. But maybe I can figure out how to deal with that. Or at least figure out how the hell to tell the difference between good mirrors and bad. There is nothing to fear from mirrors. The glass, at least, can't hurt you. How I let myself go so long being afraid of them... stupid. Childish. That's all it was. I thought about Metallica Kid again and did something then that I haven't done in weeks.
I laughed.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 10 March 2010
Summary: A 1st Cav soldier struggles to adjust to a life he never wanted. Texas 2008.
Author's Note: This is a dark piece that has been lurking around my brain for some time. It is a collective recollection of the soldiers who suffered burns in combat, many of whom I encountered as patients during my tour at BAMC. If anyone deserves to be called heroes, they do.
There are mirrors everywhere. Bathrooms, stores, cars, bedrooms, a hundred other places. They're impossible to escape. They exist to let people see themselves, for any number of reasons. They're considered quintessentially useful. But I hate them. I really fucking hate them. Mirrors show me the visage that I want no one to see. The face that I don't want to see myself. There used to be two mirrors in my barracks room. One broke some short time after I got here. The other is thankfully hidden behind a towel. If I could get rid of that one too, I would.
My name is Staff Sergeant Anthony Murray and I was wounded in Mosul. It had been my day to stand in as truck commander for our Bradley. I should have known it would be a bad goddamn day because of that. Every time we rolled out with me as TC, shit always happened. Every time before our vehicle had managed to get out all right. I guess our time was up. The first RPG was short, but the second one blew off the left track. The third one came in through the main troop hatch as the guys were bailing out. It got fucking hot in there, real fast. Too fast. Needless to say there was some trouble getting out the turret unharmed.
That was the day that shit happened. That was the day everything changed. That day is months in the past now, but every time I close my eyes and lose focus even for a second, the whole day plays again with that same sickening clarity. I try not to close my eyes when I can avoid it, even to sleep. They say that it's natural to feel that way. They also say I'm lucky to have made it out of the Bradley alive. I don't know as I believe that shit. Lucky would have been to buy it when the third RPG came in. How it didn't get me, I'll never know.
I have been in and out of the ISR almost weekly since getting flown in here. This is the country's premiere burn center, or so everyone says, but I find it hard to call it anything other than a hellhole. It's impossible to count how many times I've gone into that place for grafts and debridements. Torture is a much better word for what that's like. I'd rather have gotten both legs blown off than live through this, to be honest. They always offer to let me see the progress, too. I always tell them to fuck off - what makes them think I want to see that crap? Mirrors, man. They're the goddamn enemy.
There are a few perks to living here, though. The WTU is run like any other line unit, which helps a lot. It helps too that they're not always up in your shit unless you're a fuck-up. That's probably the best thing about this place. If you're doing what you're supposed to, nobody messes with you. I keep away from most of the other guys in the barracks though. Even the ones who got burnt up like I did. Seeing them is sorta like seeing myself and that's just not on. Most of them are pretty upbeat about it all though. That's something I just can't wrap my head around. How can you be upbeat about the fact that you don't have a normal goddamn face anymore?
The WTU is really shit on one point, though. They are all about encouraging us to get out of the barracks and do stuff on main post. Go to the PX, go to the commissary, go bowling. Shit like that. I've only been to the main PX once since getting here and that was a mistake if ever I've made one. Most folks on Fort Sam have gotten used to seeing guys from the WTU around post, but that doesn't make it suck for me any less. I don't want people to see me, y'know, the same as I don't want to see myself. Mirrors. They're sunglasses, they're glass PX doors, they're that quick flash of pity on the face of some officer's wife as she hustles past you. People see you and people know.
But of course you can't live like a recluse for ever. I tried. Shit but I tried. A couple specialists cornered me one afternoon though, just as I was coming back from a run around the track. I'm an old Cav guy, right down to my bones. The Cav runs until it dies. No matter what. They knew I was wiped and they knew it was the best time to overpower me. We're going to the fuckin' PX, Sarn't, get in the van. Well shit. No point in resisting - it's bad form to knock down a guy who's just gotten a new prosthetic, after all. They got me into the van, sweating, smelly, and pissed off, and that was it. How a couple Spec-Fours got the balls to take on a staff sergeant... or even how they thought this was a good plan at all, I don't know. Haven't got the slightest fucking idea. But they're stupid.
The PX. Ten minutes' ride from BAMC and crawling with people even on a weekday afternoon. The two specialists hauled me out of the van after we rolled up. They were going to drag me all through the goddamn place, weren't they? The greasy fuckers. I hate being out in public. I hate that people can see my face, my arms. It's not natural, dammit. This is not natural. I am not natural. But those two grinning little shits have me by both arms and are pulling me along. What the hell am I, some sort of sideshow freak they're touring around? No. This ain't happening. I'm not going along with this. I push them both away and tell them what they can do with their grand plan. This is bullshit, I'm not playing along with it, and now I'm going home. Before I can endure another long sympathetic stare.
That's when the kid appeared. Some ten year-old with pizza sauce smeared across his nose. Probably the only human creature in the place who dared to come directly up to me - nobody else had the balls, but that's adults for you. And this kid? I don't even think he really noticed the half a face, or the missing ear, or the twisting line of grafts up my arms. No, not this kid. He was staring at my T-shirt instead. Of all things. My old, sweaty, Metallica T-shirt. And this cool as shit kid points at the shirt and says, "That's an awesome shirt."
Well shit. What do you even say to that? Other than to agree, anyway. This is one neat kid. I mean, how many ten year-olds are into Metallica? Somebody's raised him right in that respect. Hell. Somebody's raised him right all around, if he's not afraid of some big burn-scarred guy. I gave the kid ten bucks and told him to go find Ride the Lightning over in the music racks. I tell you, I've never seen a kid look so much like he'd won the moon. Mirrors. There was no fear, no pity, no horrified curiosity that kid. Just a pure little rock'n'roll fan.
I didn't stick around the PX for long. Just long enough to score a couple movies and some snacks. Why waste a trip, even one that's been forced on you? But I couldn't stop thinking about that kid, all the way back to the barracks. That's a special kind of innocence, man. Kids are awesome like that, really. Those two shit-sack specialists took off after the van pulled up outside the dayroom. Probably the smartest thing to do. I went upstairs to my room with the single-minded goal of popping one of my new movies in. After a shower, of course. It was in the bathroom that I had the thought. Or more like the question. Before, I'd only caught fleeting glimpses of myself, since I never wanted to stop and look. Now, after today? I have to admit, I was curious. Perhaps morbidly so. All the same...
The towel came off the mirror and I saw. And for the first time since coming here, I looked and was not disgusted. I couldn't tell you why, either. Not with any certainty. Staring back at me in the mirror was a guy with the distinctive smooth patch of burn scar across the left side of his face. The twisted, pinched graft scars down his neck and on his arms. The discoloured skin across his temple and scalp. The dimple where his left ear used to be. This was clear and real and me. I held up my hands, which had escaped ruining somehow, and marvelled at the fact that some visible part of me remained unsullied. Then I skimmed my fingers over my face, over the patchy scars, and wondered - for the first time - why I hadn't died in my Bradley.
It came to me then that I was staring straight at the answer. Mirrors. Not just the bathroom mirror, uncovered for the first time in months, but faces like Metallica Kid. No eyes for the sideshow freak at all. Only interest in something he recognises as being cool. A human mirror. It wasn't the mirrors themselves to hate and avoid, was it? It was my perception that I should avoid the outside world simply because I was different. Damaged. Unnatural. But I wasn't, was I? Not where it mattered, anyway. Maybe that was how those other guys dealt. They took the shit hand they'd gotten and turned it into their own sort of glory. How the fuck they got through every day was something I still don't get, but maybe I was working on it.
I left the towel off the mirror when I got into the shower. That two by four piece of glass doesn't change that I am still pretty much a walking burn scar. Nothing can change that. But maybe I can figure out how to deal with that. Or at least figure out how the hell to tell the difference between good mirrors and bad. There is nothing to fear from mirrors. The glass, at least, can't hurt you. How I let myself go so long being afraid of them... stupid. Childish. That's all it was. I thought about Metallica Kid again and did something then that I haven't done in weeks.
I laughed.