Echoes (2 page)

I didn't say that out loud, did I?

"No. I'm inside your head, big man. Remember that. Never come back here again, and don't even think about hassling her at work."

The shock in his eyes made me want to laugh. At first he thought that I had just been lucky to knock him down, but now he was genuinely afraid of me. Maybe he’d remember this moment the next time he tried to tune up someone else.

I dropped his wallet in front of his face and stood up. "Brad, I don't like to repeat myself. Now please apologize to the lady."

Looking back at Samantha, I saw that she hadn't moved at all since I kicked the door in. She just stood there with an odd expression on her face. I guess it isn't every day when someone kicks in your door and beats up your guest.

It had been a few weeks since I'd seen her, and I was instantly reminded of her attractiveness. She was very tall for a woman, probably approaching six feet, and had an athletic build. Her long brown and wavy hair fell across her bare shoulders. How someone could be so mean to something so pretty, I would never understand. I wanted to stare at her for another second or fifty, but the look in those frightened eyes got me pissed off all over again.

"Last chance. Apologize or you're going to start drinking out of the toilet," I said as I turned to the man mountain again.

On very shaky legs he started to get up, though he wasn't able to stand fully erect yet. He looked from her to me, then dropped his eyes to the floor. The look of defeat on his face made me feel like I had just won the lottery.

"I'm sorry for scaring you…" He trailed off as he looked at me.

"For being mean to you, and for being a turd."

"For bein' mean to you, and for bein' a turd," he mumbled.

"You can leave now, Brad. Drive home safely."

He didn't make eye contact as he turned, still hunched over, and shuffled out of the apartment. Following behind him, I watched him go down the first flight of stairs and out of sight. I walked back into Samantha’s apartment as she started to relax. Putting my hand around one of her arms, I led her over to a stool sitting in front of the island in her kitchen.

Looking around for the first time, it was obvious that she took much more pride in her home than I did. Except for the broken glass on the floor, the place was immaculate. She actually had furniture, something I didn't have much of, and everything was clean and organized.

"Thank you, Ash…for everything. I can't believe he turned mean so fast. The look in his eyes was so scary! Who knows what he would have done if you didn't hear us…"

I knew what he had planned, but decided to keep that to myself. No point in scaring her even more.

She covered her eyes with her hand. "He seemed so sweet at work. When he asked me out, I didn't know he was such a jerk. I'm so stupid about boys! Why can't I find a nice guy, just once? This is so embarrassing."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. It would be great, though, if the next time you need some help it didn't include having to fight the biggest man I've ever seen in my life," I said with a smile.

Walking over to her door, I inspected the damage from kicking it in. The splintered wood and bent metal didn't give a good prognosis. It wouldn't even close the whole way, let alone latch.

"Sorry about your door, Samantha. I'll try and get someone in here to fix it for you tonight."

"Call me Sammy; I like it better. And don't worry about the door. I owe you so much for saving me like that – a door is no biggie. Although I would feel safer if I could go over to your place while we called the landlord?"

Maybe the night was looking up after all.

"The super was pissed, but he said he'll be here in a little while to see if he can fix your door," I said as I hung up the phone.

Samantha sat at a folding card table, which was sitting in my kitchen, trying not to laugh. To say that my apartment is a bachelor pad would be an understatement. I have the requisite TV and recliner, but beyond that my furniture and decorations are nonexistent. Because of my inability to be around people for the last couple of years, I hadn't put much effort into preparing for guests.

"Yeah, my place sucks. Sorry."

"No, it's not you. Guys are supposed to live like slobs. I'm laughing because it's kind of funny to think about big, tough Brad Fickett getting beat up like that. Where did you learn that stuff?"

"I've been taking boxing and jiu-jitsu lessons for a few years now."

"They teach you how to kick guys in the balls in boxing class?" she said with a laugh.

"I like to call that an Ash Benson Special Delivery. I reserve that move for men who could squash me like a bug if they got a hold of me. He'll thank me someday though, since he'll be able to sing an octave higher now."

She turned down my generous offer of frozen pizza, Pop Tarts, or beer, which is all the food I had, and stuck with a glass of water.

We sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. My social skills were garbage from being alone for so long.

"It's a shame that this is what it took to get you to invite me over," she said, breaking the quiet.

Was she flirting with me?

"My life has been…difficult for awhile now. If it seemed like I was avoiding you, it's nothing personal," I said. I sat down across from her, trying not to seem uncomfortable.

"Is that because of the I.E.D. that got you in Iraq?"

That took me by surprise. She nailed it though. About nine months after getting commissioned as a
second lieutenant,
I deployed to Iraq where, six months later, my Humvee was hit by an improvised explosive device. The blast crippled the vehicle, killed two of my soldiers, and caused significant blunt force trauma to my head.

The look on my face must have tipped her off to my surprise.

"I used some Google-fu on you when I moved in. You weren't on Facebook, so I had to cyber stalk you the old fashioned way."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed. But you're right. That's what started my troubles. Socializing has been an issue for me."

That's simplifying what I like to call a living hell. Eventually I was honorably discharged due to the lingering effects from the brain injury, and from what my physicians believed was a severe case of p
ost-traumatic stress disorder
. The official reports cited a rapid withdrawal from social situations, increased agitation, difficulty communicating with multiple people, chronic fatigue, and other anxiety symptoms.

They were right. I suffered from all of those, but it wasn't because of PTSD. That's when I started hearing the voices. They became more frequent and got significantly louder as time went on. By the time I left Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital, I couldn't handle being in the same room as anyone else. The drinking started shortly after that. It was the only thing that could make the voices manageable. So I got blotto every day, on the cheapest beer I could find.

The disability checks the Army sent me weren't much, so I'd been living in squalor for years. Since I spent most of my cash on booze, food took a backseat. I lost a ton of weight due to my time in the hospital and from subsisting on alcohol. Nearly fifty pounds had melted off me the first two years. My memory of the third year is pretty spotty, although there wasn't much to remember; all I did was drink and watch movies all day.

"I've been feeling much better the past few months though. If you're lucky I might let you hang out in my awesome pad more often," I said as I swept my hand toward the bareness that I loosely call home. I tried to keep a straight face as I said that, but failed miserably.

"How could I possibly turn down so much fun? Especially when it comes from my hero," she said. She laid her hand on top of mine.

The contact sent electric shocks running up my arm. It had been so long since I'd felt a compassionate touch that my body wanted to convulse. Her hand was soft and warm, perfect.

"It's so terrible what you guys have to deal with over there. No one should have to be alone after experiencing something that awful."

Typically I would agree with her, but isolation kept my brain from feeling like it was going to explode. After being discharged I didn't try to get a job or go back to school. Instead I stayed as secluded from people as possible. Secluded and drunk. I had my food delivered and kept correspondence with friends restricted to emails and text messaging. Most people assumed I was another veteran trying to work his way through some tough times. They were half right.

Everyone had written me off as a lost cause after the third year. Hell, I'd given up on myself. Until I came home one day, a fresh case of Natty Light in my hands, and ran into my new neighbor. Sammy had just moved in a few months before, and I'd successfully avoided almost all contact with her.

When I saw her coming out of her apartment, I thought about heading back down the stairs. Lack of exercise had made my body weak, however, and carrying the beer up the steps wore me out. So I looked at the floor and attempted to scoot past, trying my best not to make eye contact. When she stepped in front of me, I tried to walk around her, but she sidestepped, blocking my path again.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She put both of her hands on my cheeks and lifted my face up. We locked eyes for what seemed like an hour but probably didn't last more than a few seconds.

"You deserve better," she said. Then she walked around me and disappeared down the stairwell.

That night I started searching the internet for better ways of controlling my mind, besides drowning it in beer.

Three hard knocks at the door jarred us out of the moment.

"The landlord must have sprouted wings to get here this fast," I said. Pushing away from the table, I walked to the door.

It wasn't the super waiting in the hallway. Three men stood there, all wearing suits in various stages of disarray. It looked like they had slept in them. When someone in a suit comes looking for you, it's never a good thing. When three of them show up you probably need a lawyer.

The man in front wore a black suit and was clearly the head honcho. He wasn't particularly tall, maybe 5'10", and had a strong, wiry build. His face could have been chiseled out of granite. A long, thin scar ran down his left cheek that looked like it could have been caused by a knife. His graying cropped hair implied he had been, or still was, some kind of military. I'd seen guys like him while stationed in Iraq. You could always tell who the major players were: they wore suits in the middle of a warzone. He was one of those.

Two very serious looking hombres flanked him on either side. Judging by their beards and thousand yard stares they were definitely Special Forces. The white guy on Scarface's left stood taller than the others, close to my height, with dirty blonde hair. He looked through me more than at me. The other one was significantly shorter and of Asian descent. His eyes scanned the apartment behind me.

These guys weren't here for pizza and Pop Tarts.

"I don't really need anymore magazine subscriptions," I said.

I live on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Those four flights of stairs are a good way to measure if someone is in decent shape or not. Even a gym rat starts to perspire a little by the top. They must have floated up here because they weren't even breathing hard.

"Asher Benson, my name is Smith," Scarface said.

"Smith? How original."

"Mr. Benson, we need you to come with us immediately," Smith said. His voice and expression were flat as a pancake.