I Remember

Sweat drips into my eyes and my hands shake as I dart from shelter to shelter.

I flatten myself against a crude rock covering and catch my breath. Bombs explode around me, and the sound of the dying fills my ears.

“Charlie!” Someone yells.

I whip my head around to see my best friend and war buddy waving frantically from a trench.

I acknowledge him, then peek around to make sure it was clear, and dive into the trench. 

“What's up?” I whisper, laying flat on my stomach.

“Th-they're d-dead.” He stutters “All of them, all of them!”

I grab his wrist and force him to look at me. “Come on, Victor. Who's dead?”

He hesitates. “Ryan, Luther, all of them, Charlie, all of them.”

I curse under my breath. “You sure?”

He nods and hides his face in his hands. “I saw them. I saw them burning. I couldn't save them in time.”

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Maybe because I feel the pain he's experiencing. Both the emotional, and physical pain.  I know how it feels to fail, to not be able to save someone you loved.

“Charlie-” Victor starts, but before he could finish his sentence, I was weightless, flying through the dark and smoky skies.

I land on the ground with a loud grunt. Pain. That's the only thing I understand right now. Incredible, unbearable pain. My vision is blurry, and my head is throbbing while my brain tries to sort out what happened. A bright spectrum of light blasts the vision of my right eye, then is gone, leaving me stricken with confusion. My whole left side is numb, and something warm and sticky is running from my right eye. My limbs are aching and screaming in agony, and all the breath has left my lungs.  Slowly regaining, my breaths come in ragged coughs and I fumble for my pistol. Hugging it to my chest, I force myself into a sitting position.

“V-victor?” I stammer. I wipe the liquid running from my eye and receive a handful of blood. I gulp, but rub it on my pant leg.

“Charlie!” Victor screams.

My head whips around in the direction of  his voice. I frantically search for him, and despite my injuries, I start to crawl towards his voice.

I finally find him many feet away from me, but he's not in good shape. His left arm is gone, and half of his face is covered in blood, his blonde hair soaked red.

My breathing quickens, but I crawl next to him. “ Victor.” I whisper, madly thinking of a calming conversation. “Do-do you remember home? The green meadows, and the blooming dandelions?”

He coughs severely, then says. “ I remember how-”

“What is it?” I ask.

He swallows hard. “How, the owner of every gas station remembered us, and knew exactly what we were going to get.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Pina-colada Slushie. How could I forget?”

We lay in silence together, remembering the good times at home. I think of my family, the promise I made to them. And I remember Clover. Her black wavy hair and sturdy frame, her tan skin, and her contagious laugh.

I smile just thinking about her. “Victor, do you remember Clover?”

He manages a weak laugh. “Yeah. Clover. You used to hate that girl.”

I close my eyes, trying to hear her laugh, the laugh that brought me so many smiles.

It's Victors voice that brings me back. “Charlie, I see Heather.”

I gulp back a sob at her name. Heather, was Victors fiancée. They got engaged months before me and Victor went to war.

I don't know what to say, how to comfort him, so I start simple. “Yeah, Victor, you're one lucky man.”

A shudder goes through his body. “You mean I was, right?”

I hesitate before saying, “No. Because no matter what happens, Heather will still love you and remember you. Because no matter what, she'll still be with you.”

He nods. “And I’ll always remember her.”

I don't know how long we lay there, but I feel myself slowly slipping away.

My eyesight is blurry, but I can make out a figure above me, feeling my forehead, and running his hand along my injured side.

“Guys!” Someone yells. “Over here!”

The figure leans over me. “Hey, we got you.” He whispers to me.

I murmur some gibberish, and I feel my body being lifted into the air, and I slowly black out.





The next things I see I can't really explain. Everything is blurry, and my throat feels blocked like a wad of cotton is stuffed down my mouth. A lot of people come and go, and many stick needles in my arm, look at the the syringe, then worriedly murmur and leave.



When I wake up fully, I'm in a pure white room, so at first I think I'm dead. But when I notice that I'm strapped to a table, and everything hurts, I'm pretty positive that I'm still alive.

Moments later, a nurse walks in, balancing a tray on her hand.

“Good to see you awake.” She says, setting the tray on a desk beside me.

“W-where am I?” I stammer.

“The recovery room. You've been out for a week.”

I frown and glance around the room again, then down at my restraints. “Why am I tied up?”

The nurses bright smile falters. “Oh, some minor difficulties.”

“Like what?” I ask.

The nurse begins to say something, but is cut off by a small, Japanese doctor walking in behind her.

“Oh, you only broke a few valuable possessions, took down some of my men. Not much.” 

“But-” I start.

He holds up his hand. “Shh, Soldier. What happened is classified information, and you can't go sticking your nose into everything.” He glances at my bonds. “Melinda, untie him.” He says, and walks out the room.

As Melinda, the nurse, is untying me, I ask, “Is there a soldier here with the name of Victor Parker?”

Her hands stop in mid-air just for a split second, but continue just as quickly. “Why do you need to know?”

“Because I need to know!” The nurses head snaps up towards me, and she straightens. “You do not need to know anything, Mr. Hunter.” She turns on her heel, and starts to stalk out the doors.

“Wait, ma'am.”

The nurse turns around. “What is it?”

I hesitate. “What's happening? Something isn't normal.”

For a second, a look of terror crosses her face, but she quickly pastes a smile on. “What do you mean?”

I shift on the cot. “I feel, different.”

She manages a weak laugh. “Well of course you do. You nearly got killed.”

I shake my head. “No, no it's different. I feel, jumpy. Almost, like-”

She cuts me off. “I'm sure your fine, Mr. Hunter. Now if you'll excuse me.” She smiles once more at me, then, almost running, exits.

I frown. What a rude nurse. I roll my shoulder and flex my right hand. I hear indistinct murmuring outside, and the Japanese doctor rushes in. “Now tell me soldier, how are you feeling?” He says, feeling my forehead.

“Shaky.” I say. “And jumpy. My muscles feel weird, like they keep having spasms. It's-weird.”

The doctor takes a step back. “Did you say spasms?” He asks.

I nod. “Yes sir.”

“I'll be right back soldier. Stay where you are.”

Nodding again, I lean against the bed head and wait. Finally, a young man walks in, holding a syringe.

“Hello Mr. Hunter.” He says.

“What's that?” I say, gesturing to the needle.

“Just pain medication.” He reassures. He holds it up to the light, then asks me to relax my muscles. Lightly injecting the serum into my arm, he murmurs something, then leaves. Before I can say or think anything, I slip back into darkness.





I stay in the hospital for about a two weeks, and a lot of people do “tests” on me. I constantly ask them why they have to take my blood twice a day, and they just make lame excuses, tripping over themselves trying to get out of the room. Apparently after the first three days in the hospital, I started going crazy. I guess in my sleep I'd go banshee, staggering around the room, saliva flying from my mouth like a rabid beast. Of course, I don't recall doing any of this. When the Sunday of the second week finally arrives, the hospital drives me to the airport.

I board the plane in a complete daze. The day before I left, the Chinese doctor had broken the news to me. Victor Parker, also known as my best friend, had died before they could operate. Flying through the air, I think of the Doctors words.

Soldier Parker had lost too much blood, and the explosions had done damage to his brain. We didn't have time to operate. We are deeply sorry for you loss.

When the plane starts to descend, I lean back in my chair and try to ignore the pain. My body is badly burned, a “second degree burn” the doctor called it. He insists I use a wheel-chair until I'm fully recovered. My eye is slightly damaged, but they assure me my vision will be normal in a few months.

The burns extend over my whole left side, including my face. My right arm is also burned, but the  medics left my right arm open, saying it was only a minor burn, and needed to be open. But my left side is covered in heavy bandages. 

Looking around the plane, I study the strangers around me. The man next to me is reading a magazine and when he notices me staring at me, he smiles falsely and scoots ever-so slightly away from me. The couple across from me are cuddled up next to each other, whispering in each others ears. 

I pull my the arm of my uniform jacket over my open burns and stare ahead. I'm relieved when we land, but as I'm unbuckling and starting to stand up, a  flight attendant comes up  to me. “Excuse me, sir, let me help you.”

I nod and force a smile. “Thanks ma'am.”

She helps me out of the plane, and all the other passengers stood back for us, some smiling, some casting looks of pity. Some people won't even look me in the eye.

When we get off the plane, the flight attendant helps me into a wheel-chair and sets my suitcase beside me. “Can I be any other assistance to you, Sir?”

I shake my head. “No, ma'am. Thanks though.”

She smiles and puts her hand on my leg. “Thank you for serving our country.”

I only nod. I pull my suitcase onto my lap and start to wheel myself down the walkway. I don't get to far. My arms are starting to go numb, and about halfway down the corridor, my suitcase slips out of my lap and clatters on the floor.

Embarrassed, I start to lean over and pick it up, but before I can, a man walks up and grabs it for me. “Here.” He says gently. “Let me help.” He wheels me to the escalator, and in an awkward silence we ride down. Finally, the door slides open, and the stranger rolls me out. Looking around, he clears his throat. “Well, uh. . . Got a family? Friends? Any one giving you a ride home?”

I nod. “M-my girl-friend should be here soon.”

The man smiles. “I hope you have a nice day. And thank you, for serving.” He says, glancing at my uniform.

I stretch my hand out. “Thank you, Sir.”

The guy walks away, and I'm left awkwardly sitting in my wheel-chair. Five minutes later, I roll myself to the luggage pick-up, keeping a weary eye for my bags and Clover, my girl-friend. About a minute later, one of my bags passes in front of me. Locking the wheels on my wheel-chair, I reach out and latch my hand on my bag. Grunting with effort, I try to pull it on my lap.

“Come on, dumb bag.” I mutter under my breath.

“Can I help ya' sugar?” Someone says in a fake southern twang. A strong hand grabs my bag and effortlessly yanks it up.

Turning around, I'm greeted by an angel. Okay, so it isn't really an angel, but pretty dang close.

“Clover Steele.” I say with a laugh.

“Charles Hunter.” Clover says giddily.

She helps out of my wheelchair, and then throws her arms around my neck. “You stupid Texan.” She murmurs into my shoulder.

“Thanks.” I say.

She pulls away and puts her hands on my shoulder. “Something's different about you.” She murmurs, half to herself.

“Oh really?” I say with a laugh. “Is it that I'm two years older? Or that I'm covered in bandages?”

“Whatever.” Clover says.

We finish getting my bags, and Clover helps me into her white truck.

“Oh Texas.” I say as we're driving through the roads. “I missed ya'.” 

Clover laughs. “Sure ya did. I'll have to catch you up on all the gossip, huh?”

“Can't wait to hear it.”

Snorting, she stops at a stop-light and stretches. “Okay, do you wanna drop your stuff off and change then I can take you out somewhere? Or do you want to just stay home tonight?”

I muse for awhile, then decide. “Let's go out.”

“Cool.”

Clover chats away as she drives to my house, and I happily listen. When we get to my house, Clover jumps out, then helps me out.

“Oh, good Lord.” I say with a smile, staring at my small house. “Dang.”

Grunting, Clover grabs my bags from the car. “Yeah, I know. Your garden died.”

“You didn't water it?”

She winces. “I was going to. Just. . . never got around to it. Sorry about that.”

“Wow. Just, wow.”

“Suck it up, Chewbacca.” She says, walking into my house.

“Chewbacca?” I murmur.

She doesn't reply, leaving me all alone to my thoughts. Frowning, I sit in the middle of the driveway, staring at a small pebble on the ground and spacing out.

I sit there for awhile, letting my brain go bonkers until Clover walks out. 

Tussling my hair, she lightly kisses my forehead. “Here, I can help you to your room.”

“Thanks.” I mumble.

“Not a problem, beloved of mine.”

She helps me to my room, and when I've changed and cleaned myself up, she helps back down into the car, loading the wheel-chair in the back.

We go to a delicious restaurant, where we split a gargantuan plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

“So, Charlie.” Clover says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “W-when do you have to go back?”

“Um, that would be, three months, I think?” I struggle. 

She nods slowly. “Right. And, do I get to know anything, or is it all top secret?”

I sigh. “Yeah, well there is one thing I should tell you.”

Clover nods. “Talk away.”

I take a deep breath. “Um, well Victor. . . He-um. He-”

Reaching out across the table, Clover squeezes my hand. “What is it?” She asks softly.

I stare straight into her eyes, trying hard not to cry. “Victor didn't make it, Clover.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, my girlfriend's face goes starch white, her eyes grow as wide as saucers, and her mouth drops open like a trap door. 

“He got blown up. A-and, he l-lost to much blood.” I stammer.

Clover covers her face with one hand. “Charlie, I'm so sorry.”

“It's-” My sentence is cut off. I can't take in anymore. I start bawling like a kid, choking on sobs and drowning in my tears.

Someone pats my hand. “It's okay, Charlie. I'm here, I love you.” Clover consoles. “I love you.”







When we pull into our driveway again, Clover helps me onto the couch and eases herself next to me.

“I'm so full” She complains.

“Yeah. It feels delightful.”

Smiling, Clover laces her hand through mine and lays her head on my good shoulder. “Good to have ya' back.”

“Good to be back.”

Taking a deep breath, Clover lets go of my hand. “So, do you want me to stay for the night?”

I shake my head. “No, you can go ahead and go home.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm probably gonna call Dad and Amy and unpack.”

“Okay.”

After ordering me to use my wheelchair, take my medications, and get to bed at a reasonable time, she heads off to home.

Sighing, I stare at the wall for awhile, then force myself to my feet. I ease myself into my wheelchair and wheel over to the phone. I dial my fathers number and wait as it dials, running through my mind what to say.

“Hello?”

I sit up straight. “Dad?”

Silence is on the other end for awhile, then an excited voice. “Charles?” My says.

“Hey!”

“Well I'll be,” My dad says with a short laugh. “Yer' back!”

I smile at his southern accent. “For awhile. Gotta go back in three months.”

“Somethin' happened? Ya' got hurt?”

“Um, yeah. Uh, a bomb. But, I'm fine.”

“Charles, how bad is it?” My dad asks.

“It's-nothing Dad. They just wanted to be sure.” 

An awkward silence follows, just the sounds of our breathing.

“Ya wanna talk to Amy?” My dad asks.

I smile. “Yeah, I would. Is she there?”

“Yup, one minute.”

A minute later, Amy's voice comes on line. “Hello?”

“Amy.”

“Charlie?!” My sister exclaims, her voice full of shock.

“At your service.”

Amy lets out a laugh, a laugh full of pleasure and joy, like rushing water. “Oh dear Lord,” she sighs, “what's going on brother?”

“Well, you know. Army life. Taking a little break from it.”

Amy doesn't answer at first. “What happened?” She asks quietly.

“Um,” I rub the back of my neck. “I-i, kinda got blown up. But i'm all in one piece, mostly.”

“Blown up?!?” Amy says incredulously.

“Yeah, you know, by a bomb. It happens a lot in the army.”

“but-”

I cut her off, a little rudely. “Enough about me, though. What's been happening in good ol' Washington? Meet a guy yet? Find a good job?”

We talk for awhile, before I call it a night and crash on the sofa, too lazy to go up to my room.