After Shock

This story is by Christine A. Malkemes and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The rising sun barely peeked through the curtain as he kissed her — a brush of warm lips across her cheek as if she were a China doll that would break at any minute.

When he left the room, she kept her face away, eyes closed. It’s better if he thought she is still asleep. Pretending always made things better in the past, but now she only uses it as a defense mechanism against the pain of inner anquish.

She had been awake for quite some time now. She listened as her husband showered, imagining how the water slid down his familiar body. It would have been nice to join him there for a proper kiss, but this was only wishful thinking.

Damn this war!

The last thing she ever wanted him to see was a weak wife. He had been so proud of her when she had joined the Army. He told her that day, “I have it all: a beautiful, smart, and strong wife — she’s all mine! How could life get any better than this?”

The New York Times had produced a two-page spread on her mission, and her husband had quickly sent copies to just about everyone. The article called her “lioness”. In Iraq, she patted down the village women and children in search of any hidden weapons or bombs.

It was dangerous, but she didn’t give it much thought. War always moves at a different pace from the real world. Everything moves so fast; nothing matters but the mission. At night, exhaustion always took its toll, and she didn’t have time to think.

Today all she had was time to think. Too much time.

Right now, though she tuned in the sounds coming from the kitchen. With her minds eye, she could see her husband drinking coffee, brushing his dark hair back and peering at the sports page, while pretending to hear Sammy, who looks just like her daddy, mumble something about the kitty.

Sammy slurps milk from the pale green Disney bowl. She refuses to eat anything else but Rice Krispies because they “talk to her.” Mommy told her that the snap, crackle and pop says, “Mommy loves you, baby. Mommy loves you.”

Suddenly she came full awake, as she heard Sammy’s little feet pounding down the hallway toward her door. She wasn’t prepared for this right now.

Wait! Don’t wake up mommy.

Oh, Daddy, please!

No. No. No. Baby girl, wait.

But Sammy couldn’t wait.

Mommy’s sanctuary door opened quickly, and Sammy climbed onto the bed, wetting Mommy’s cheek with a milky kiss. Swallowing her emotions, she pretended to still be asleep.

“Daddy, aren’t they going to fix Mommy?”

These words were almost too much for her. “Breathe! Just breathe. One — two-three. In and out. Girl, you can do this. Just breathe!”

The keys jingled in his hand as he shooed her out of the room and shut the door behind them. The car revved as they drove away.

Thank God they’re gone.

Her screams of agony and frustration filled the silence they’d left behind.

” God! Why? O God help me. It isn’t supposed to be like this. Wives are beautiful, and mothers aren’t supposed to have nightmares!”

She barely maneuvered herself from the bed, landing hard on the floor. The best she could do was crawl over to the closet as her sobs grew louder. She wanted to throw away her uniforms, the helmet, the Kevlar vest, and those darn combat boots. But the best she could do was throw them across the bedroom floor.

The truth was that she had almost made it out of the war without a scratch. Nearly, that is, until… Now, it’s too painful to think about.

They had been nearly five miles from the forward observation post before all hell broke loose. Smitty was driving their Humvee in front of the caravan. Meanwhile, she was in her usual spot, riding “shotgun”. The explosion threw them from it, and the intense fire had turned her uniform into flames.

She was confused, tasting blood and smelling burning flesh. Her body was riddled with glass and shrapnel. The platoon had set up a defensive perimeter around her, and someone yelled, “Medic!” Before she’d lost consciousness, she cried, Help me, please! Am I dying? Where’s Smitty?”

She woke up surrounded by doctors and nurses. They never removed all the shrapnel, and her burns required more skin grafts than she could count. Walking was challenging, and the pain seemed endless.

Smitty? Well, he didn’t make it. All that remains of him is a cross in a sea of white crosses.

Today, right now, all she could do was cry. Her cries were getting louder. She didn’t care if the neighbors could hear her. The carpet was wet with her tears, and she couldn’t stop shaking.

Maybe it would have been better if she had died.

Just then, the door opened. “Oh no. He’s back!”

He silently crossed the room, and she saw in his brown eyes that he was hurting, too. He took her up in his arms and carried her back to bed.

Wordlessly, he gently removed her nightgown. Lying down beside her, they slowly breathed in unison as he whispers in her ear, “Trust me, baby, we’ll make it. We’ll get this. We still have each other, and nothing can change that. Trust me, you’re not alone.”

She stiffened at his intimacy; all she had left to give him was her weakness. Tenderly, he caressed each scar like his touch could heal, and his hands lingered on the patches of burned skin as if they were as rich and beautiful as a patchwork quilt. Slowly, ever so, she yielded to his touch.

She surrendered to the truth — love never fails, and second chances are real.