“We watched them die after we killed them. There was no need to dig more graves because we used the same for the Serbs as they used for the ethnic Albanians they killed in the streets like dogs. They were the new axis of evil, and they got what they deserved. We brought the fight to them for what they did, and it felt good. There wasn’t a large coalition of international soldiers like the world thought. It was a NATO operation but within was US Marine Corps Delta missions. We didn’t ask permission, we didn’t ask forgiveness. We killed and marched on."
Mason confessed his sins but gave nothing specific. He couldn’t tell Orinda of how he watched on as Stockton used his blade to pierce the body and release the blood and spirit of a seven-year-old girl in front of her father. Her father, who was Serbian Special Forces, put his state-issued pistol inside of his mouth and blew his brains away. The last sight of his natural life was to see the death of his innocent baby.
He couldn’t tell her how during one mission, they slit the throat of a gypsy after raping her. A total of four Marines had their way with her until she lay in a pool of her own blood. Most of the bleeding came from her mouth and nose after being pummeled, and the rest came from when they scooped out her vagina as if it would rid the evidences of an age old biblical theft. The only massacre worse committed by US soldiers was Wounded Knee, but the US government would never tell the whole truth when revealing the extent of its own evil.
He would never tell her he consciously knew it was wrong because the retched smell of death was in the air as he translated words that would eventually have another soldier’s blood on his hands; another soldier’s warm blood on his hands. She could never know about the blood that he caused to spill. He would generalize the dead as if they never lived individual lives. How could she sympathize with him knowing what he had seen and knowing what he had done? She could never know.
"When you say ‘we killed,’ do you mean you as well? Because if you didn’t kill, you shouldn’t take the blame for that. You were not the leader, Mason. You couldn’t control what everyone else did,” Orinda said as she finished her dinner. She wanted to change the topic from death and massacre and talk about the flavor and texture of the halibut. Anything would be better than watching him sit across from her struggling to breathe as he told her about the dark side of what the world didn’t know. The fireplace dim light gave him an orange glow, but the cloak of remorse made him warm.
"Sure, I couldn’t control what they did, but I could control what I didn’t do and what I did later on. I have felt regret and grief ever since. I’m reminded of that event every day."
"What do you mean you’re reminded every day? How are you?" Orinda asked.
Mason placed his plate on the coffee table and stood. He began to unbutton his shirt. No one had seen the scars war left on his body, and no one except the VA knew about the scars war left on his mind. The military knew about his pre-Corps disability, but they were surprisingly quiet about his post-Corps disease. Orinda looked on intrigued but also concerned. With all the talk of death and his association to it, she couldn’t help but to feel uncomfortable. As he removed his tee shirt to reveal his chiseled espresso torso, her fear morphed into arousal.
"What are you doing, Mason?" she asked.
"I want you to see my reminder. I see it every day and I hate it. I hate it, but there is nothing I can do about it. I guess it’s my reminder that when I could have done something, I didn’t, and now that I want to do something, I can’t."
His skin looked as if he were flogged and burned. There were scars of wounds that were stitched, there were brands, and there were bullet wounds. She covered her mouth to mute her voice as if it were too loud as she looked on in amazement. "Oh, my Mason. How did this happen? What happened to you?"
"This is the result of Marine on Marine court. They were afraid I would talk, and this was to shut me up. They said I deserved worse, but they couldn’t kill me. So they reminded me how close I could come. The bullet wound was left by Stockton himself, the day that I tried to intervene and prevent the killing of a Cheta. I remember the pain first and then the blackout. I remember waking up to stories of the bullet being removed by the detail’s corpsman after I also overdosed on morphine." Mason continued as he removed her hands from his wounds and then began to button his shirt before collecting their dinner plates to take to the kitchen. The honesty that came from describing his wounds began to open up others that were branded closed to seal the leaking blood. Orinda returned her hand over her mouth as her shadow danced on the wall provided by the fireplace fire in overdrive.
"What happened to you was horrible, Mason. It seems there is a lot that I don’t know about you. There is a lot most don’t know. How could anyone be so cruel? You could have been killed! And to think of how you screamed in agony when you saw that bastard lying dead. He got what he deserved."
Once the words vacated her mouth, like a boomerang she wished she could capture them back. A thunderous sound came from the kitchen as the empty plates he held crashed to the floor and exploded into a thousand pieces of porcelain. Mason exploded soon after. All day his emotions were anxiety and depression, but anger and rage came as if they were waiting their turn the entire time.
"How dare you say that one man deserved his fate when he was killed by the hands of another man and not God? There is never a time when a man deserves to die at the hands of another man. Ever! That’s what so fucked up with the world now. Life is so unappreciated by anyone whether it’s the life of the living or the life taken away."
"I understand what you mean, Mason. Remember my father took his own life. I wanted to let you know you didn’t deserve what happened to you. I guess Stockton didn’t deserve what happened to him either, but most people aren’t like you who would feel sympathy for someone who has done them wrong. That’s what makes you special. Most believe in an eye for an eye; that’s all that I meant. Why are you so upset with me? All I want is to understand your pain and let you know that it’s okay."
Mason could not hear her words. He was deaf, blind and dumb to them. It had been a while since his last blackout of rage, the rage that tormented him while alone but now for the first time in the presence of another. The broken plates were not a result of his conscious mind. The rage he felt created someone else. The problem of who and when that person came was another of Mason’s many secrets.
Orinda walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulders. His body jumped to the touch. She said nothing as she knelt down to help collect the pieces of the plates. She attempted to get a glimpse of his eyes. She had seen the rage of war in her father’s eyes many times before, and the look in his eyes would tell her if there was more to come or if the storm had passed, so she waited while his head was down. The wait was longer than a few minutes, but when he finally lifted his head, the storm of rage had passed.
"I’m sorry about that, Orinda. I’m embarrassed," Mason said.
"Mason, it has been a long day and for what you dealt with today it is more than enough of a reason to have a breakdown. I remember one time I was with my father and we were watching the news. It was after Iraq invaded Kuwait years ago; CNN showed clips of the rubble left of the city afterward. My father yelled anti-Iraqi sentiments at the television and then threw the remote. There were times when the smallest something would trigger his rage, and he would pace back and forth until something calmed him down. I don’t know what effect your combat had on you, but I know from experience that it definitely has one."
The embarrassment Mason felt was more than he could explain. The fact that he explained to her only half of what he knew about his situation didn’t allow him to explain to her every residual effect. He did not tell her about the voices that he heard in the morning. He could only tell her that he had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. He couldn’t tell her he never would have been able to join the Marine Corps without a waiver. The US military made its own rules and broke them as well. His ASVAB score confirmed his brilliance, but they knew he should have never been put in a position for combat interaction. They knew about his past and they knew about the potential to worsen his condition but to have a multilingual Marine was rare and needed and, even so, a deadly asset. He couldn’t tell her just yet because in order to tell her, he would have to give her details of his whole story. For now, all he could do was apologize for his erratic behavior.
"Mason, will you allow me to clean up the kitchen while you rest? If not, I understand, but I would like to help you unwind," Orinda said while rubbing his back. She caught another glimpse of the letter from the Office of Veteran Affairs Mason tucked underneath the other mail. Something about the envelope unsettled her. The seal of a bald eagle with two versions of the American flag clenched in its talons with five stars above was typical, but what caught her eye was the handwritten address. The handwriting looked familiar, but she could not recall where from. She needed to get a closer look but knew Mason would not share with her freely. The offer to clean the kitchen would allow her this opportunity.
After a long day mixed with anxiety and manic blackouts of rage, Mason was weary. He decided to take Orinda up on the offer. He sat in his chair and laid his head on the back with his eyes closed and his feet elevated on the ottoman. Before he left the kitchen’s mess, he poured another drink to calm himself. Orinda began to clean the counter by putting the herbs away. If they were dry, she placed them in the cupboard, and if they were fresh, she placed them in the refrigerator.
The smell of the halibut being sautéed with onions in grape seed oil was great, but the smell from the leftover, uncooked juices on the cutting board and the packaging was gag-worthy. She always hated the smell of uncooked seafood, but this was her only way to get another look at the piece of mail that was hidden in the shuffle.
"This is really uncomfortable to have someone else cleaning my kitchen, but I really do appreciate it. While you’re in there, you should make yourself another drink. The Slivovica is on the top shelf," Mason said, still with his eyes closed as he was hypnotized by the jazz that he put on to soothe himself and by the crackle of fire.
"I’m okay since my last drink. We still have to be functional when we meet with Mr. Chandler tomorrow," Orinda said as she continued to put things away. She needed another reason to look around without seeming like she was prying and invading Mason’s privacy, plus she had had enough. She knew that if he caught her snooping around, he would scold her like a she-child or worse. He would lose trust in her and promptly kick her out in the cold.
"Mason, I need some type of cleaning solution to clean the counters. Preferably something with a disinfectant. I would also like to put everything away like your mail," she said as she picked up the buddle of envelopes, junk mail and sale flyers and silently shuffled through attempting to get another look at the envelope.
"There is cleaner under the sink, and there are disposable gloves under there for you as well. Don’t worry about the mail. I still have to go through it. Just leave it where it is," he answered, never once looking over in her direction.
Orinda only partially listened. She found the letter she was looking at but could only pause for a second to analyze the handwriting. The fear of being caught was overwhelming because she now knew that Mason was a ticking time bomb with a constant burning fuse.
The second after seeing Mason’s name and address scribbled on the envelope, she noticed that in the upper right-hand corner there was no postage or a post mark. How does a letter travel the United States postal system without either? She didn’t have to ask anyone because she already knew. The letter must have been personally delivered and meant not to be traced back to its origin, but where had she seen the handwriting before? This bothered her so much to the point she risked being thrown out into the winter night.
"I said you can leave the mail. I have to go through it," Mason said standing to her starboard peripheral. Startled, Orinda shuffled through the mail quickly attempting to hide the fact she was going through his personal belongings. She didn’t know what to say to save face so she said the first thing that came to mind.
"I’m sorry, Mason, but I figured that you wouldn’t mind if I alphabetized everything and placed the envelopes in order according to size," she said hoping he would buy her cheap lie. It seemed that he did because he didn’t flip the fuck out.
"I really appreciate you doing all of this for me tonight, Orinda. W-hen-w-when Mr. Chandler to-told me that we were gonna work together, I had no idea that you-you-you would be here tonight. I-I-I really never expected us to be here after this morning. The day has been so topsy turvy but at least it’s ending well," he said.
Orinda was relieved and flattered at once. She knew she had the assets to make his night end better and this was her chance.
"Thank you for opening your home to me tonight, Mason. You know how to make a woman feel welcome. You need a woman like me here more often," she said moving in closer to him. She put his mail back on the counter and then her hands on his chest. She arched her back to concave inward and took her hair out of the bun she put it in earlier in the day. The smell of vanilla and hibiscus he smelled first thing in the morning was there again.
The plan was to seduce him and take his mind away from the mail and the death of his counterpart. She would use her sexuality to give her another chance after he was spent from using all of his masculine energy to indulge in the sweet nectar of lust and fall into a deep sleep only time would wake his body from.
"Y-y-you are wel-c-c-come like I said before Orinda, b-b-but you don’t have to thank me like this," Mason said. His anxiety had returned and so had his stutter. Though his body was inebriated by the firewater’s venom, his nerves would not allow him to be cool under this type of pressure and his disability was as natural as his erection.
"I want to thank you, but I also want you. Is that too much for you to take?" Orinda asked moving in as close as she could. They were so close they had to share air in alternate breaths. She cupped the entirety of his manhood in as much of her hands as she could, but there was still a substantial amount left. That turned her on to search for the holy grail of his length. The moisture of herself came because she was now thinking; was he too much for her to take?
What started as a method of distraction to get more time to analyze the letter’s handwriting after Mason was comatose by sex…became a new quest for her to fuck him and feel all of him. She hadn’t had an orgasm not orchestrated by her own hands in such a long time and to be penetrated by such length could give her what she’d been looking for in more ways than one.
Sex had always been her weakness and strength. When she was younger after hearing her father wake in the middle of the night screaming about the gooks in the bush, she could hear her mother calm him. Shortly after the rhythmic squeaking of the bed and her mother’s cries of passion would be the sounds that put her to sleep. When in high school, she wanted a share of the football captain’s popularity, so she used her early developed breasts to gain his attention. And once in college, she offered herself to her professor because he was going to fail her due to academic performance. She passed the class when she did, and her professor’s name was still in her email contacts. She currently didn’t have a boyfriend or husband, and she needed her void filled with girth and length.
"Orin-Orinda, please stop. You-u-u don’t have to do this to t-t-t-hank me. It’s g-g-getting late and we have w-w-work in the morning, and I want to respect you at that time."
"So you mean to tell me if we two adults enjoyed each other, you wouldn’t respect me afterwards?" she asked. Her body felt warm and her speech sounded a little slurred. She was as insulted as she was turned on but would only show one of her emotions. This was the weakness part of the sex in her. She had felt rejection before even when offering her fruit. Others called her easy, a whore or even worse, her professor’s ex-wife called her “The Home Breaker Co-ed.” When a man rejected her, she felt embarrassed and slighted.
"Ningún hombre puede rechazar este coño Latina." (No man can turn down this Latina pussy.) She stepped back with resentment until she noticed her touch of Mason’s crotch began to awaken a monster regardless of how he tried to resist her advances.
"I d-d-didn’t mean anything by m-m-m-my words b-b-but I don’t want it to be dif-different with us afterward. Besides, I really like you.”
After honest confession of his feeling for her, she pulled back for good. She remembered his jitters and awkwardness from earlier. It wasn’t until they were driving and he had a drink, did he loosen up but currently his system had more liquor than then, but he had more anxiety than ever before. She would not be cruel. She cupped the back of his neck to make his six-foot-plus inch frame meet her five foot six and kissed his lips. It was meant as an apology and also it was to test the waters of his final stance. Mason returned her kiss with a little passion and then pulled back. She would not push the issue any further.