––––––––
"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 post-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, warm, and 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.