The Last Chapter

Four days later, I hadn't returned any of Kila's calls. I was embarrassed, and not sure what to say to her. I wondered how different things would be, and how she would look at me. What would she think of me now that I had been so intimately connected to her? Avoiding her calls only worked for so long though, because as I sat at the local vet center shooting footage for my documentary, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"I thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth!" I turned to see Kila, hands on her hips, and I started to blush.

"I'm sorry, I got really busy."

"Really busy avoiding me, is more like it." She shook her head at me. "Don't be embarrassed, for God's sake!"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. I didn't really have any idea what else to say. What do you say under those circumstances? Thank you seemed not only awkward, but inappropriate too.

"Just forget it happened, if you need to. Listen, I got a hold of this great documentary, and Eddie and I were going to watch it tonight. Want to come?" I perked up quickly at the mention of his name, and she noticed "yeah, I thought that might get you interested."

"I'd love to, what time should I come over?" I asked.

"We're going to grab some take out right after we leave the office, and we'll be at his place around six." she answered. "Maybe I can even find a way to leave early!"

"Oh, Shut up!" I said and threw my shoe at her.

She laughed, "I'm not screwing him anymore Sam." I read the message she was sending loud and clear. If I wanted him, he was free. "See you later," she said winking.

When I arrived at Edward's brownstone at six, I quickly realized that something was terribly wrong. Edward opened the door, looking disheveled, and worn. For a moment, I thought that Kila had lied, and I had interrupted them at the wrong time, but I heard Kila sobbing inside. He turned away, leaving the door open, and I stepped inside, noticing the suitcases by the door. Feeling a sense of impending doom, I walked slowly into his living room, and saw Kila, crumpled up in a ball on the sofa, Edward beside her, a half empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him.

Slowly, tentatively, I moved toward them, and sat on the edge of a chair, absently noting the spartan furnishings and the rigidly implemented order of his home. Unable to talk between the gasping sobs, Kila sought my hand, and I took it, my earlier embarrassment forgotten in the wake of what I perceived to be a deep, wrenching horror.

Edward laid out the story for me, in a detached, emotionless way, and I came to see so much more about them in a moment. A man they had worked with in Iraq, a friend, had killed himself. Unable to deal with the burden of his memories, the constant pain of what he had witnessed, he had put a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Seeking peace after years of living with the torment of his mind, he could take no more.

It was at that moment that I realized why Kila was willing to anything for Edward. Constantly afraid she would lose him to the same fate, she was willing to give of her body and soul to keep him here. Having interviewed so many veterans myself, I began to comprehend the enormity of her fear. I knew the signs and symptoms, but had never really made a connection to him. I now recognized the constant motion, the disconnected, affect-less speech, the inability to make an emotional connection to others, for what they were. Edward was struggling, and maybe even drowning in his memories of a war and a world that no one who hadn't seen it would ever understand.

The three of us sat in a silence broken only by Kila's tapering sobs, and the ice clinking in Edward's glass which he kept refilling. Self medicating, I thought. Another visceral reminder of the situation.

I can't say how much time passed, but the day light was fading as a horn blew outside.

"Your cab is here." He said to Kila, as he got up and walked purposefully, if a bit unsteadily to the door. He picked up two of the bags by the door, and walked out with them.

She wiped her face, and blew her nose. "I'm catching a plane to France for the funeral. We couldn't get on the same flight." She turned to me, and grasped me by the arms, clutching at me. "Watch him, please. I don't know what he is thinking."

"I will," I assured her.

"Kila, come on, you have to go." Edward called from the doorway. She released my arms and nodded, walking to the door. I followed a few paces behind, and watched him take her gently by the arm and lead her to the waiting taxi. As she threw her arms around him, I could see the terror and pain in her face. "Please!" She called to me. I simply nodded in reply, and watched him tuck her into the backseat, closing the door after her. He stood watching as the cab drove away, and raised his hand in a shortened, abrupt wave, and turned toward the house, hands in his pockets, head hanging. He walked past me into the house, and headed straight back to the couch, and his half empty glass. I wasn't sure he even knew I was still there, but I closed the door, and followed.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked me. Though he was adept at hiding it, his speech was slurred and I had to wonder how much of the bottle he had drunk that afternoon.

"Sure, thanks." I didn't know what to say to him, but he got up, and got me a glass and some ice, and poured me a full glass. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, so I kept my mouth shut, thinking that for him, it must be normal to drink that much. I sat down on the couch next to him, and we sipped our whiskey in silence, both lost in our own thoughts.

Sometime later, he threw back the contents of his glass, and slammed it down on the table, turning to me. "She wonders when it's going to be me." he said.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, not sure what he was referring to.

"She wonders when she is going to get the call that I've blown my fucking brains out." He clarified.

"oh." I replied weakly, wondering what the appropriate response to that statement would be. "Should she worry?" I asked.

"Sometimes." he said. He stared into nothing for a long moment. "He was my friend. We lived through a lot together." He reached out, and touched the string on my sweatshirt, toying with it absently. "What is the mortality rate on guys like us? You must know."

"I don't know," I replied, not certain I wanted to tell him, not sure I wanted him to know.

"Sure you do. It was in your book." He said with a taunting, knowing edge to his voice. I didn't answer. I didn't know where he was going, and I didn't want to lead his mind in the wrong direction. "I wake up at night, drenched in sweat, and shaking. That's when I sleep at all." He looked at me then, and I knew two things in an instant: he considered escaping a lot more often than Kila even dreamed, and I was going to do whatever it took to take that empty look out of his eyes.

"It was you that day wasn't it?" he asked, smiling wryly.

"What? What day?" I stammered, confused by the turn of topic.

"The other afternoon, with Kila." he said. I blushed, horrified to my toes. He grinned at me, "I thought so, but she said no. Did you like it?" His voice was hard; angry; and I began to be a little nervous.

I considered quickly, and decided that I no longer cared what I had promised Kila, nor what I had thought only moments ago. The edge in his voice, the slurring, and the rage I could see simmering under the surface of his eyes, told me to run, and I tried. I rose from the couch, picking up my purse, stammering "I have to go."

He reached out, and grabbed my wrist, and pulled me back down. His grip was strong, and he was twisting my hand painfully. "Edward, you're hurting me," I told him, sensing disaster before me.

He held on for a moment longer, then released me as quickly as he had grabbed me, putting his head in his hands. I was frozen in place, not certain what was happening. The moment of fear was gone, but I was still afraid; only now, it was for him, not for myself.

"Edward," I said, hesitantly, and reached my hand to his shoulder. He jerked away as if my touch had burned him.

"You should go, Sam" he said gruffly, but uncertainly. I didn't think he wanted me to, and watching him now, I didn't think it was a great idea. "I'm sorry, you should go before I do something you'll regret."

"I'm not afraid of you, Edward," I said, proud of myself for not revealing the fear I was actually feeling.

"Maybe you should be." He retorted, but with much less anger, and much more regret than the words implied. "He was with me the day they detonated a car bomb in the souk a block from our building. The things we saw that day... You don't ever lose those images. They are there no matter what you do to try to get rid of them." He shook his head as though he was trying to do just that, force them from his mind. "You know, you learn, very quickly to never trust anyone, but I trusted him."

He rose quickly, startling me, and walked to the window. He stood there, framed by the light from the streetlights in the newly emerging lights of a city settling in for night. "It's strange," he said with a bitter laugh, "I know I should be feeling something, but I just don't. I don't feel anything."

I walked to him, a little unsteady on my feet, and stood next to him, gazing out into the deepening evening. The street was alive and bustling, but time seemed to have stopped on our side of the window. He turned his head, and looked at me, and I met his gaze, feeling useless to help him. His eyes bored into mine, and I caught a glimpse of the tortured soul that resided within him. I watched as his face hardened into a apathetic mask of emotionless nonchalance, and then, almost as quickly, changed into a look I was more familiar with. I knew in an instant, viscerally, that he was going to kiss me; I also knew, just as quickly, that I was going to let him do that and more if he wanted.

He raised his hand toward my face, and paused midway, "You should really go, Sam. I'm drunk, and I don't really trust myself right now."

I looked at the hand that hovered a foot from my body, and said "but I trust you." He closed his eyes for a moment, groaning. His hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed and reached for me, closing around the back of my neck. He lowered his head to mine, waiting for a fraction of a second, allowing me the opportunity to change my mind; I didn't, and his mouth closed over mine in crushing, desperate need. His tongue sought mine urgently, and though I could feel him bruising my lips, I yielded, falling limply into his arms. There was a frantic anxiety with which he handled me, as if I were not real, and might disappear.

I leaned into him, my arms encircling his neck, as I pulled him close. I could smell him; whiskey and something much more pungent and stimulating to my senses: the smell of fear and lust mingling into something unavoidable and powerful. He pulled my sweatshirt over my head, and ran his hands up my sides, over my breasts. My nipples hardened at the demanding touch of his hands through my bra. I began to unbutton his shirt with fumbling, clumsy fingers, as his hands roughly caressed every inch of my upper body. He let go of me long enough to drop his shirt to the floor, and then pulled me against him. I could feel his hardness against my abdomen, and felt my own answering arousal building way down deep in my abdomen.

"Not like this," he said gruffly, and taking my hand, pulled me behind him, up the stairs, down the hall, and into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed, pulling me on top of him. I felt my desire rising in response to his feverish, rough motions. I felt his hands on my stomach, and felt him unbuttoning the buttons on my jeans. His mouth ravaged mine as he pushed his hips upward against the junction of my legs.

Suddenly, he flung me onto my back, manhandling me in a stirring, appealing, needing way, and pulled at my jeans. I reached down to help him pull them off, and then, suddenly, I lay before him, bare to my thong and bra. His chest heaving, and his eyes were scorching me. I realized that my chest was heaving too, as he lowered one side of my bra to expose a tight, hard nipple. His mouth closed over it, and I moaned, shuddering at the unexpected pleasure his hot, mouth brought to my breast. His hand was squeezing my other breast, a little too hard; I gasped at the pain, and the complete ambivalence I felt. It hurt, but I loved it.

His right hand tangled in my hair, and pulled so that my head tipped back, as he began to plunder my mouth again. Like lightening, his touch electrified me almost to the point of burning me. With one hand in my hair, he lowered the other to the private v of my legs, and he touched me. I was swollen and throbbing; moaning with my need of his touch. His fingers began to expertly manipulate the small nub of exquisite pleasure that lay between us, and I reached for the bulge in his pants. I stroked his erection through his pants with my hand as he worked me over, his fingers exploring my opening, now dripping with the proof of my desire. Reaching my other hand down, I managed to unbutton and unzip the khakis he wore, and he rolled to the side to help me get them off. I watched as his swollen member emerged from hiding, and my desire flared into a blazing inferno. I pushed him back, and put my hand around his thick, long shaft. His eyes, half-lidded in lust, seemed to beg me for something; not knowing what it was consciously, my body responded, and I lowered my mouth to take him in. I began to suck, tickling the underside of his sensitive head with my tongue, and he groaned my name insistently grasping the back of my head and beginning to guide me toward his pleasure.

I could feel my own pleasure insisting on making itself known with a warm spurt between my legs. Nibbling gently on the tender, nerve filled spot beneath his tip, I tasted the proof of his desire, and the preface to his orgasm. "Oh, Christ," he whispered, pulling me up toward his face, and away from the object of my hunger. Laying fully pressed against him, I felt his erection pushing against my hard clit through my panties, and his tongue delving into my mouth. Rolling over with me, he reached down and pushed my thong out of the way, and threw my leg over his shoulder. Looking into my eyes, he roughly said, "God I'm sorry, Sam," as he drove himself fully into me.

I screamed at the sudden intrusion, his member was too big, and I could feel myself tearing in two. He began to move within me, and the pain, so strong a moment before, began to shift, began to alter as my responded to his desperate need, accommodating the fullness of him; opening to him. He drove into me hard and violently, and I looked through his eyes into his very core. Inside of him, I saw his pain, his destitution, the abject agony he was living with, and I know I let him look into my soul as well.

My gap was full with him, and slick; his vehement plowing of my field pulling my pleasure from me. "Come with me Sam," he commanded of me hoarsely, "I need you." His face contorted in the struggle to wait for me, and he squeezed my arms in his valiant effort. My body spiraled out of my control, and I felt the shuddering spasms of my orgasm wash over me, swallowing me; as his own orgasm jerked through him. Hot and potent, I felt him shooting into me, the feeling of his pleasure and relief a tangible, wet sensation against my womb.

As he collapsed against my still shuddering frame, I marveled at how easily I had come for him. My mind floated; drifted away in the utter bliss that follows orgasm. His head, buried in my tangled hair, and his comfortable weight atop me were warm reminders of my corporeality. I slowly pulled my mind back and realized, with gut-wrenching shock, that he was shaking. I turned my head to look at his face, and saw, to my horror, that he was crying. In fact, as I focused my thoughts on the here and now, I recognized that, what I had initially perceived to be the aftershocks of his powerful orgasm, was actually the shuddering of his body with the force of his sobs.

I didn't respond with words, I merely held him as tightly as I could against the riptide of pain that threatened to wrench him away from me and drown him. We lay, wrapped in each other's arms, afraid that the world would take us, for a long time, and after what felt like eternity, he slept. My own racing mind began to quiet, as I too drifted off with the soft, flaccid feeling of him still inside of me.

Sometime later, foggy with sleep, I came awake as he rolled off of me. He leaned forward on the bed, and gently began to pull off my panties. He said not a word, but slowly, purposefully, began to make up for the suddenness with which he had first taken me. His unshaven cheeks, softly scratched my stomach as he moved his head down my body, taking the ring in my belly button between his teeth and pulling easily on it. His expert fingers began to explore my body, and I felt my body beginning to prepare for him again. This time, I was ready when he entered me, and embraced his length and girth with a squeeze of the private muscles within me. He was slow and gentle with me, taking his time, allowing me to enjoy the feeling of him, yet still demanding my surrender. He was conquering me with his eloquent, tender passion, and I submitted; willingly to the pleasures he promised with his body. His hands spoke words of tenderness as I was enfolded within his spell. Methodically, he drew from me a sweet, delicate orgasm, and then a second, before allowing himself his own release.

We slept the exhausted, dreamless sleep of the emotionally drained, and as the sun came up, he turned me away from him and wrapped his arms around me.

Edward, left that morning to catch his flight, with a different look in his eyes. He was easier in himself, and less guarded. We didn't say much to each other; it didn't seem like their was anything to say, our bodies had spoken all the necessary words to each other the previous night. But as I walked him to his waiting cab to send him to the airport, he kissed me, and held me tight against him, and whispered pleadingly, "be here when I get back."

He was gone for three days, and I began to doubt the tenacity of his request to me. As I sat alone in my apartment, I considered everything that had transpired, and how our knowledge of each other had exploded in the span of less than twelve hours. I knew him intimately, and worried about how he would respond to the vulnerability it spawned in him. Suddenly, I became convinced that I would never see him again, that he would avoid me, and refuse to ever let me in again. Terrified, I began to pace, and when the buzzer rang, announcing someone's unwanted presence at my door, I jumped. I eventually answered the insistent buzzing to find a delivery man waiting impatiently for me. He handed me a clipboard to sign, and thrust a vase into my hands, rushing off to his next delivery. The flowers were delicate, and fragrant. Not overwhelming in size or quantity, and I quizzically pulled the card out and ripped it open as I walked back up the stairs.

"I'll be home tomorrow, E," it read. And I felt tears of relief slip down my cheeks.

A year later, we are still together, and our passion is still a burning visceral thing binding us together. Though he has his days of silence, his hours of rage, and his weeks of emptiness, we persevere. And while I worry about him with a desperation bordering on obsession, I watch him struggle through each day and allow him to take what comfort he can find in my body, as I take my pleasure in his. Our love stands as the life vest in the vast deep ocean of memory and trauma that he experiences with so many others that saw and suffered and survived the evil and hate of war.