Out of Sorts

Gillian,

I have had a lot of time to think since my last letter to you. NCO training is coming to a close and I am happy to say, that while I’m not at the head of the class, I will graduate with the respect of my teachers. That’s more than others in my class will able to say. 

It’s rather amazing how anger has become my biggest motivation in the past few weeks. I have gone from hiding in the back of the room, to finally gaining the courage I need to excel at my studies. My drill instructor now passes me by as I stretch from the early morning 5 mile runs, and heads over to less fortunate souls. I guess I’ve finally turned the corner and I can’t help but smirk when Sgt. Abrams starts whispering weakness at the poor sap behind me, instead of filling my ear with the sweetness of failure. 

There are times I catch myself in front of my bathroom mirror though, just staring at the tired reflection before me. While I would consider myself stronger, I do have my moments. It’s those times where I am reminded of the night I joined the SMC.

I don’t know if Dad told you, but it would have been hard not to find the straight razor and bottle of pills on my comforter the night I left. I downed a whole bottle of whiskey as well, trying to forget about what I had done to all of you. Holding the cold metal in my hands, I was about to swallow all of mom’s valium and make the first cut when in the reflection of my old bedroom mirror, the HD sang about the joining the corps. Everyone knew about the mortality rates, and if anything it was an easier way out than slitting my wrists or overdosing on sleeping pills.

Perhaps I was just too chicken shit to follow through the old fashioned way. You know me, I always wanted to go out with a bang. So I tossed some things in a bag, wrote a note to everyone to forget me and called a cab.  All I could think about as we drove away, was dad’s SMC rant about sending boys and girls into the meat grinder and believing it was where I belonged.

Oddly enough, the recruiting center was open late into the evening. I found out later after sleeping off my hangover in a strange but comfortable bed, that the SMC did most of their ‘volunteer’ business in the early hours of morning. Even as I signed on the dotted line, another drunk barged in the doors yelling something about saving the world. I cringed only wondering if I had looked as pathetic.

I was handed my orders and told to board a train to Dublin. As I sat at the station with nothing but a small bag of useless keepsakes, Dad found me. I had apparently pushed replay on the SMC announcement on the TV, and when he woke the next morning to find me gone, he rushed to the recruitment office to find me enlisted and leaving.

I couldn’t even look at him, Gillian. He didn’t yell. He didn’t plead with me to stay. He just stood there as the train approached. At the time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was glad to see me go, but as I remember it now, I saw him start to cry. Had I been so naïve to think he didn’t care? He was burying me at that train station, and I didn’t even have the guts to say goodbye.

I don’t know that I will ever have the opportunity to tell him in person that I am sorry. As the war continues and we push further out into the solar system  to fight the Rak’lan, the chance of me ever returning to Ireland is slim.

Please tell him, and Mum, that I love them.

Shannon

1. The O’Leary Letters – Podcast...

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.