I handed Stryker my heart, the piece of me I’ve kept guarded for so long. I think that’s what makes it so sweet. After giving up on finding someone to entrust the only fragile piece of me, the most unexpected person came along and asked to claim it.
To claim me.
My heart.
Now his.
I didn’t believe today could get any better; that he could give me anymore of himself, then he did when gave me his name. He fell asleep in my bed, in my arms and before I did, allowing me the opportunity to watch him unguardedly.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here on my side, my head propped on my hand as I stare at him, but I could remain this way until the sun rises. Knowing few, if any at all, have had the privilege of a stolen moment like this—I ingrain every piece of him to my memory and fill all the voids inside my heart with his features. The same as he has done night after night since the first time he stayed with me.
Suddenly the features I’ve memorized begin to change as his eyebrows draw together and his lips pucker. I study his expression, watch as his entire face contorts with pain as he groans, all the while still sleeping.
“Stryker?” I say softly, unsure if I should wake him or not.
His head jerks from side to side but his eyes remain closed. My eyes travel the length of him as his body goes as stiff as a board and his hands ball into fists at his sides.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts, before releasing an anguished scream.
“Stryker,” I yell as I close my hand around his bicep and try to wake him. “Baby, wake up.”
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut as his body shakes and his jaw locks. I glance down at his body, searching for a way to sooth him when I see the blood staining the white sheets by his leg. I scramble to my knees and peel back the sheet with trembling hands. Instantly, I spot the open wound that wasn’t there before and I lift my hand to his face.
“Stryker!”
His eyes snap open as his hand wraps around my wrist and those soulful, brown eyes of his flicker with vengeance. Before I can tell him he’s okay, before I can tell him about his leg, he throws me off of him. My reflexes defy me and I fall backward onto the floor.
“Ouch,” I cry as the back of my head collides with the night stand. Shocked, I try to regain my composure, remembering he’s not in his right mind; that he’s been tortured defending our country and hasn’t healed.
This isn’t him.
He was having a nightmare.
He’s still working through it.
He’s bleeding.
I need to help him.
Ignoring the pain in the back of my head I scramble to my knees.
“Stryker, it’s me…it's Gina…your pretty girl, remember?” I plead with him, crawling to the side of the bed as he swings his legs over the edge and glares at me. I turn my head, unable to witness the torment in his eyes and turn my attention to his leg, wondering if he even realizes that he’s bleeding; that he has a hole in leg.
“Fuck you, you terrorist cunt,” he sneers.
His hands wrap around my neck and with a strength I’ve never seen before, he lifts me by my neck and slams me against the wall.
“Stryker,” I choke.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he hollers. “You made me do it. You! You’re the reason I fucking killed that boy.”
“Please,” I rasp, reaching for his hands.
He stares at me blankly, blinking slowly as I struggle to breathe. Then as quickly as his hands latched onto my neck, they fall and I fall to the floor gasping for breath.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, backing away.
Bringing my hands to my bruised neck I lift my head and watch as he retreats. Staring at me in shock, he swipes his hands over his face.
“No, no, no…what did I do?”
“I’m okay,” I croak, forcing myself to my knees as his hit the edge of my bed and he drops back onto the mattress.
“Stryker,” I rasp, taking a deep breath before I continue. “Look at me, I’m fine…”
I’m not fine.
I’m scared shitless.
My throat is on fire and my lungs feel like they’re as bruised as my neck.
But he’s worse. His mind is a million miles away in a dessert surrounded by terrorists and war. He’s still bleeding and I have no idea why.
He peels his hands away from his face and looks back at me, staring at my face for a moment before his gaze drops to my neck.
“Stop,” I order. “I’m okay…please believe me when I say I’m okay.”
“What have I done?”
Dread churns inside me and I realize I’ve lost him. He’s not my Stryker, he’s a prisoner of war and I don’t know how to rescue him.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell him as I hesitantly reach for his leg, unsure how receptive he will be to my touch. His eyes remain fixated on my neck and he doesn’t answer. A moment later he glances down at his leg and winces.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me what to do,” I whisper. He didn’t push my hand away from his knee so I bring my hand to his face and slowly turn his eyes to me.
“Show me how to help you,” I plead with him.
His lips part but no words escape them and instead he shakes his head, gently removing my hand from his face. He glances down at my other hand and turns back to me.
“Please don’t touch me,” he all but whispers.
Obeying his wishes, I drop my hand from his knee and continue to stare at him expectantly, waiting for the next words he speaks.
“I can’t do this,” he says, looking away from me.
“Stryker, please look at me,” I whisper.
“I can’t look at you.”
“Fine, don’t look at me yet, but you’re bleeding…”
He doesn’t look at his leg but places his hand over his knee where mine was just moments ago.
“Shrapnel,” he mutters, before he forces himself to stand.
“Stryker, sit down,” I order. “We need to clean you up and see how bad the wound is.”
Finally, his eyes turn back to me and he shakes his head.
“We aren’t doing anything. I’ll handle it.”
“No,” I defy. “Let me help you.”
“Don’t you understand? I don’t want your fucking help. I don’t deserve your fucking help.”
“Stop it!” I reach for him but he flinches and limps a few steps out of my reach.
“I told you not to touch me,” he growls.
“Fine, I won’t touch you.” I tell him, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry.”
He continues to look at me and I begin to think he’s coming back to me but then he turns around and grabs his clothes from the chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask nervously.
Of course he doesn’t answer me as he slides his arms through his sleeves and tugs his shirt over his head. He sucks in a breath and leans against the wall, taking the pressure off his leg momentarily.
“Sit down before you hurt yourself,” I command, crossing the distance between us. He pushes himself off the wall and pins me with a glare.
“Would you stop?” he growls. “Look at you, look at what you’re turning into.”
“What I’m turning into?”
“What you’re turning into,” he repeats, shoving his good leg into his cargos, before screaming out in pain as he lifts his injured leg and forces it into the pants.
“You’re going to make it worse. It has to be cleaned out and what if there is still more inside trying to work its way out of your body?”
“For the love of God, shut up. I can’t listen to you anymore. Do yourself a favor, a real big favor and go into the bathroom, go on and go…GO!”
“Stop yelling at me,” I snap.
“Well it’s about fucking time you showed up,” he sneers. “Thought the next words out of your mouth were going to be it’s my fault. Then you’d nail the whole battered woman thing.”
“I’m not a battered woman,” I shriek. “I’m not a victim! You weren’t yourself.”
He laughs as he bends down to put his boots on.
“My mother used to say that line too, pretty girl. Right after my father downed a bottle of whiskey and beat the fuck out of her.”
“Was your father a drunk or was he a veteran who was scarred from the horror he lived fighting for our freedom?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he growls, turning his back to me.
“Sure it does. Your father chose to be abusive. What just happened was not by choice.”
Abruptly he turns around and stalks toward me to the best of his ability. I narrow my eyes as I stand my ground and wait for the ignorance to pour from his mouth, but instead he catches me off guard by rearing back his hand. I flinch and step out of the way before his hand can collide with my cheek, but the blow never comes and when I turn to him he nods in satisfaction.
“Point proven,” he whispers.
“That’s not fair,” I cry out.
“What isn’t fair is tomorrow when you look in the mirror you’re going to see the bruises on your neck, bruises that should never be there but you won’t care. You’ll make excuses for me and that’s not fair. It’s not fair to the strong girl I selfishly weakened by making her mine.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t even look at you,” he whispers. “I can’t fucking look at you knowing I put my hands on you, Gina.”
“It wasn’t your fault!”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he screams right back at me. “Don’t be that woman.”
“Stryker,” I plead, tears falling from my eyes as I frantically try to stop him from what he’s about to do.
“I’m not that guy, Gina. Honest to God, I’m not the guy who puts his hands on a woman. Once is enough for me. I won’t be the man that hurts you,” he rasps.
“You’re hurting me right now.”
“Words, they’re just words,” he mutters. “You’ll forget them but you won’t forget that I almost choked you. I could’ve killed you.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I sneer.
“No, pretty girl, I’m being real,” he whispers. “I promised you I’d protect you, I just never figured I’d be protecting you from myself.”
“Please stop this,” I cry. “Please, let’s just cool it okay? Think about what you’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing and I should’ve done it before I let it get this far,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Stryker don’t leave. You just need to talk to somebody. They have these…” My voice trails off as I run my fingers through my hair trying to find my words, “…they have dogs for men and women who suffer from PTSD. We’ll go tomorrow and get one, maybe it will help.”
He steps forward and his eyes soften as he lifts his hand. I breathe a sigh of relief and close my eyes, anticipating his touch but it never comes. He shoves his hands into his pocket and takes two painful steps backward.
“I’ll make sure your brother knows he needs to make arrangements for your safety.”
I want to scream.
I want to shake him.
I want to fucking smack him for making me this vulnerable girl.
More than anything I want to heal him.
I want to take the nightmare he’s living and bury it.
I want to be his hero.
But he doesn’t ask me what I want.
He walks out the door, leaving a trail of blood and the pieces of my broken heart in his wake.