Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (2 page)

“What makes a
monster and what makes a man?”

— Victor Hugo

~~~

I park my car in
long-term parking, make my way into the airport and check in my luggage.

Well-traveled,
I’m used to going through all the intrusive security measures they’ve enacted
for the passengers on both national and international flights. I take off my
shoes, my belt and empty my coins into the basket without even thinking of it.

Airport Security
personnel are trained to be observant. They take in my age, my obvious
combat-ready fitness and my facial scarring. Their deduction? They assume I’m a
vet.

While they find
it difficult to look me in the eye, they treat me with respect.

A child of about
four years old gazes up at me from where he’s holding his mother’s hand.
Instantly, he starts to howl in terror. Mortified, his mother picks him up, but
she can’t look at me either. Turning so her back is to me, she shifts so her
son can no longer see me in an attempt to soothe him.

I look like a
monster and scare young children everywhere. Adults are horrified too, but
they’re usually able to hide it better.

Over time, it’s
become less painful to see the shock in a stranger’s expression when they first
view the travesty that is now my face. I’m over it, really.

Horror, pity and
sympathy however, I still find really embarrassing. They’re so much more
difficult to deal with.

The doctors put
my facial fractures together pretty well, but my extensive burns couldn’t be
repaired. The skin on my left cheek is thick, rippled and pinkish. Although no
one would know it, I’m blind in my left eye and a thin line on my scalp will
always be bare. I wear my hair longer than Army regulation now, to cover those
scars at least.

When I smile, the
burned side of my face doesn’t move. This partial paralysis makes me appear
even worse. My smile is distorted and looks almost painful, appearing more like
a grimace.

I assure you—I
keep my smiles to a minimum, with no difficulty at all.

I was lucky to
have kept my ear and not to have lost my hearing. It's been over a year since
it happened, so I’ve pretty well come to terms with the scarred disaster that’s
my face.

The outside of my
body suits me. One-half looks fine; the other looks like Hell. Poetic justice,
as I see it. Somehow, it seems like a direct reflection of what’s inside.

Maybe that's why
my disfigurement hurts so deeply. I feel as if I'm open, exposed and laid out
for everyone to view and to judge.

I should be so
lucky. As my own judge and jury, I'm doomed.

I’m on the
air-bridge with my fellow passengers, plodding along the ramp, being loaded
onto the aircraft like docile cattle. Suddenly, a male passenger becomes
abusive to a petite, blonde stewardess.

The ill-mannered
bastard is arguing about seating, and he sounds like he’s had a few too many.
His accent’s a slurred version of either British or Australian.

I’ve been to the
U.K. and I’ve served with Australians. The people I met were terrific. It just
shows you, there are dickheads in every country.

On the other
hand, maybe the jerk is actually a stand-up guy… unless he’s been drinking.
It’s a common recipe. Just add alcohol and—
bang!
—instant asshole. I've
known my share of those.

Due to combat
training and experience, without any conscious decision on my part, I go into
fight mode. I become hyper aware of my surroundings as I take in the scene. My
body tenses. Adrenaline floods my veins and my pulse elevates.

I’m pumped and
ready for action.

It’s not my business,
I tell myself.
Security will deal with it.

The douche bag is
towering over the stewardess and in her personal space. He's in an aggressive
stance, pointing at her face as he slurs insults at her. No one should have to
put up with that kind of crap.

Especially not a
woman.

When the bastard
raises his voice and yells, “You stupid cow!” I lose it. Instantly and
automatically, I move into action.

In five long
strides, I push through the waiting passengers ahead of me and take control. My
chest to his back, my arm goes around his neck, cutting off his air. At the
same time, with my other hand, I take his wrist and twist his arm up behind his
shoulder blades.

The asshole rises
to his toes in a fruitless attempt to ease this painful pressure. I could break
his arm this way.

Right now, I want
to.

“You should
apologize to the lady,” I advise him, my voice a low and menacing growl. My
chokehold on his throat is so tight he can’t talk.

Frightened, he
nods awkwardly. I loosen my hold slightly, just for a moment.

“Sorry,” he
chokes out.

I look down at
the stewardess. Her eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step back when she
sees my face.

“What would you
like me to do with him, ma’am?”

She opens her
mouth but says nothing. Three more members of the flight crew gather to watch the
scene, but they don’t make suggestions either. They silently stand there,
obviously dumbfounded.

Without any
outside input, I determine the best course of action. “You think you can behave
yourself?” I ask the guy.

“Yes, sir,” he
gasps when I loosen my grip, so he can speak.

I let him go. The
idiot hasn’t got a mark on him. The entire episode takes less than a minute.
Holding his throat, he hands the stewardess his boarding pass. Eyes averted, head
held low and shoulders rounded, the drunk quietly boards the plane.

The stewardess
gives me a heart-stopping smile. Beautiful teeth, nice blue eyes—lovely. She
welcomes me warmly, despite my scars, checking my boarding pass and directing
me toward my seat.

I move down the
aisle, put my bag in the overhead compartment and remove my e-reader and a few
other items. I sit down in the window seat. Like always, I’ve planned it so that
my good side is what the person next to me will see.

I consider this
act a public service, yet it's partially selfish. It allows me the comfort of
not having to deal with the fallout of unpleasant reactions to my appearance.

Every single day
I’m grateful that at least half of my features are acceptable. How do people
survive if their entire face is mutilated? There's no way to hide amongst
crowds if your whole face is a mess. Maybe they just never leave their homes.

I figure suicide
must be common.

In their case,
walking around in public would take a whole new level of bravery. I don't think
I have that in me. Not at this point. Right now, I'm pretty much tapped out.

I fasten my
seatbelt, get out a pen and my journal. I may as well spend this time doing the
exercise my counselor has asked me to do.

I shut my eyes
and think about my day so far, sifting through my emotions and re-experiencing
them, as I go. Let’s see now: wake up, phone calls, scared kid, asshole and
petite stewardess.

I open my eyes
and write,
depressed, frustrated, guilt-ridden, empty, sad... lonely.
I’ve
always been independent, so the lonely thing is hard to face and difficult to
admit.

I feel like a
pussy in the face of what seems like too “girly” emotions for a man. André
would give me shit for thinking such thoughts.

“Why should women
be the only ones to experience the pleasure of such strong
feelings
?”
he’d probably say.

Pissed off,
guilty, hate…
Ah. My sister inspires such a mixed emotional response. My
list grows to include,
Embarrassed, disheartened, manipulated, awkward,
guilty, shame, resentment.

What a load of
bullshit. Am I sensing a theme here?

I think that's
what gets to me most. I'm overwhelmed by guilt and powerless to do anything
about it. I have no control and I don't know how to get rid of that useless
emotion.

What good does it
do? Nothing—not a damn thing.

But I can’t run from
myself.

The incident with
the drunken asshole was the highlight of my day. I write,
righteously angry,
powerful, protective, capable, in control.

Oh yeah.
These
are outstanding feelings. I hold on to them, recalling and reveling in every
delicious moment.

What else? Ah.
Justified. Satisfied.

I remember the
stewardess’ friendly smile and add,
Pleased with myself. Proud.
A
ppreciated. Happy.

Well. What do you
know?

For one long
moment, I felt the fluttering pleasure of real happiness.

In the combat
zone, you suppress emotions. Soldiers learn to live under pressure. They adjust
to the possibility and proximity of death that way.

The Army not only
allows
you to ignore your feelings, it freakin’
teaches
you how
and makes sure you do it. When somebody’s shooting at you, a sane person would
scream and run, but not us Joes. We bury it deep, deep down and cover it up
with trivial crap, like who’s playing in the Super Bowl or what’s for chow
tomorrow.

Emotions may be
hidden, but dammit, they’re still there, waiting.

When I returned
home, no one was shooting at me. All that shit—all of that fear, anger and
stress started bubbling up from that deep, dark hole in my psyche where I’d
thrown it. My emotions trickled in, pushing up through my mind like water
through cracks in the hull of a leaky rowboat.

As the alarming
flood rose, I began to sink under a barrage of unexamined
feelings.
I
began to drown in the rapidly rising tide. I simply couldn’t deal with the crap
I’d locked away.

Bullets and weapons,
I could handle. Invisible mind shit? No way. My thoughts and emotions were
brutal and relentless. I was powerless against them.

It freaked me
out.

Bravery is
incredibly subjective. I had courage enough to fight the enemy and face death,
but I couldn’t face
myself.

If I hadn’t lost
my sight in one eye, I’d still be in the army. I’d have run back to the
relative safety of combat, to that emotionless comfort zone where I could hide.

How screwed up
was that? When fighting in a war is the most comfortable place to be, you
pretty much
know
you seriously need help. It's tough to deny.

But who could I
go to? I didn’t want to pick some psychologist at random from the internet.

I asked around,
but not one of my Army friends admitted to seeing a counselor. When you’re
tough and consider yourself strong and independent, seeking another person’s
assistance feels like a crutch or a “pussies” way out. I don’t know about
service women, but as far as I can tell, service men bottle all their shit up
until they have a complete nervous breakdown.

By that time, I’d
felt pretty damn close.

I asked around
for weeks before an Army acquaintance admitted he’d seen someone and referred
me to André Chevalier.

André gave me the
support I needed to get through it. The cruel bastard gives me exercises to
teach me how to recognize and experience my ‘feelings’ until, as he says, “Such
comes naturally.”

Examining my
feelings? It’s excruciating.

I can hear André’s
French accent and his cheerful, somewhat mischievous tone of voice in my mind.
It makes me smile as I imagine him waving his hands in the air. When André gets
excited, he gestures like the enthusiastic conductor of a symphony orchestra.

“Anger, fear,
shame, guilt and pain; all are emotions and sensations, my friend! They are
neither right, nor are they wrong, good nor bad. They are simply the passions,
your response to life and to being alive! Do not deny them. Feel them, fully
experience them, surrender to them and learn to accept them. They are human and
natural—a part of who you are.”

I left the Army a
year ago, on my twenty-eighth birthday and I sought out André Chevalier about
five months later. He was highly recommended. André helps people effectively
deal with PTSD, stress and relationships.

Chevalier charges
an absolute fortune for his time. As the guy was only around my age, I had my
doubts about his abilities. If anything, I soon discovered my associate
understated André’s talents. I would’ve paid a hundred times as much—not
because I was seriously screwed up, although I was.

André’s just that
good.

The young
Frenchman was also considered unrivaled when it came to ‘sexual problems.’

Despite emotional
turmoil and persistent, vague nightmares where people are always trying to kill
me, it’s sexual issues that disturb me the most.

My stomach
tightens as I consider the graveyard full of skeletons I’ve hidden in my
closet. I have Arlington National Cemetery-sized secrets—that’s what I’ve been
dragging around with me.

André’s helped me
beyond what I expected. I consider him more of a trustworthy and loyal friend
than a therapist. However, after all these months of seeing my counselor, I’ve
yet to talk to him about my exasperating little ‘problem.’

Will I tell him
this time?

Frowning heavily,
I add ‘anxious,’ ‘nervous’ and ‘indecisive’ to my list.

“One day at a
time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn’t a clue. A day is a fuckin’
eternity.”

— Roddy
DoyleIf

~~~

I tuck my journal
in the pouch of the seat in front of me, cross my arms over my chest and shut
my eyes.

André. He’s
such a scheming bastard.

He knows when I’m
avoiding an issue. He also knows
I
know that he knows, when I’m avoiding
the issue. With tacit mutual agreement, he lets me get away with it.

But we both
understand in the end, I’ll tell him everything.

Everything
except how I got these scars.

The oddity about
my unconventional therapist is that André never reacts as one expects. I speak
of horrible things and before you know it, he says or does something that makes
us both laugh.

“
Mon Dieu.
Me? I can travel upon any road when in the right company,” he explains as we
bump over the awkward and difficult terrain of my past.

I have to agree.

I sure as hell
wouldn’t be able to go down this land-mined, cliff-riddled trail of
self-examination without him.

I’ll never forget
the first moment I met André Chevalier. Relaxed and sleepy, lulled by the
steady hum of the plane, my mind goes back to that time, all those months ago.

~~~

I have an appointment
to meet my counselor at the Palms Casino at 8 p.m. Travelling up the Ivory
Tower elevator to the fifty-fifth level, I get off at the Ghostbar.

When a woman
moves to enter the bar, I hold the door open and stand aside to let her pass
through before me. I’m a Southern gentleman, born and bred. Respect and
consideration toward women is instinctive and quite honestly, a pleasure.

“Ma’am,” I say
with a nod. If I were wearing a hat, I’d tip it.

She looks up at
me with a big smile—then the smile cracks. She can’t hide her horror, her
embarrassment and lastly her pity.

“Thank you,” she
murmurs, quickly averting her gaze and scurrying inside as quickly as possible.

The responses
people have to the disaster that is my face are still fresh and hurtful. People
try not to look at me and they avoid me. Maybe my thin skin just needs more
time to toughen.

I can’t help but
feel sorry for anyone who is born butt-ugly. I never considered their plight.
How do they continue to walk out into public every day of their lives? I’m just
not used to that kind of rejection.

I don’t know if
I’ll ever get used to it.

My badly scarred
features have certainly enlarged my experience.

For a moment, I
consider all of the crippled, damaged or ugly people who I’ve avoided in
glances and in person throughout my life and I regret my ignorance.

I know no one is
trying to be mean. Mostly people are simply caught off guard and embarrassed.
They can’t prevent their shocked expressions and don’t know how to react.

What does one say
to someone who has a face like mine? “Damn, that must have hurt?” or perhaps,
“Shit! You frightened the crap out of me?” How about, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to look at you as if you were a monster?”

I stare up at the
fourteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the color scheme of white,
black and fuchsia. Wow. This ain’t no redneck sports bar, that’s for damn sure.
I’m glad I dressed in quality clothes, a comfortable sophisticated dark suit
with a crisp, white, open-neck button down shirt.

I gaze across the
lowered lighting to the corner of the room and immediately spot the man I’m
here to see. I don’t know how I know it’s him—I just do.

Our eyes meet.

Confident and
self-assured, the gentleman in question recognizes me too, and stands up.
Something in his manner commands attention. Maybe it’s his bearing, which
almost seems regal. His good-natured smile is welcoming.

That’s a relief.

I'm surprised as
his friendly expression doesn’t change. He isn’t disturbed by my scars in the
least. No trace of shock, or revulsion—no pity. Hell, from his lack of
reaction, it's as if he doesn't notice them at all.

Why is that? I
didn’t tell him about my facial injuries.

Remaining still
as he approaches, I watch him openly inspect me as he closes the distance
between us. His alert gaze moves from my brown hair, to my slate blue eyes, and
trail down to my clothes right to boots. He boldly studies me with keen
interest and no judgment in his expression.

I wonder if he
sees the dark circles under my eyes or the lines in my face, evidence of
chronic anxiety, stress and strain.

I’ve always been
muscular, almost stocky and solid through my chest and shoulders, but I’ve lost
a lot of bulk and conditioning since my accident. At five foot eleven inches
tall, I weigh only one hundred and sixty-five pounds—fifteen pounds less than
normal. My clothes sit loosely on my frame.

He notices.

Does he also see
the quick, efficient killer the Army trained me to be?

With one look, I
can tell that André Chevalier is a man who sleeps well. He’s my age, about
six-foot, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. He looks good. Healthy. His dark
eyes and expression are candid.

The guy isn’t
what I expected.

He’s fitter.
Tougher. There’s nothing soft about him.

Chevalier’s got a
flat stomach, narrow hips and the broad shoulders of a fighter. His hair is
darker than mine is, cut short around his neck and ears and his complexion is
tan. He looks like an athlete, not a psychologist.

And he
specializes in sexual therapy.

Recommended or
not, I don’t trust easily. He could be some sort of deviant, after all.

His
well-manicured hand stretches out toward me.

I take it. His
palm is warm and dry. We both have a firm grip. This guy is strong, but I’m
stronger. There’s gym fit and combat fit. If it comes to a fight, combat fit
wins every time. But this man isn’t just gym fit. Maybe he plays some sort of
vigorous, aerobic sport, like soccer?

Either way, I can
take him.

This impulsive
thought surprises me and I wonder where it comes from. I had a lot of
suppressed rage throughout my teenage years. Tense, suspicious and not much of
a talker, my form of communication back then frequently came from my fists.

I seriously reconsidered
this aggressive attitude when, at sixteen years old, Eli Matthews unexpectedly
attacked me from behind with a baseball bat, putting me in the hospital with a
well-deserved case of concussion.

Matthews did me a
favor. Until then, I don’t think I was aware of what a scary asshole I was to
my more emotionally stable classmates.

The main thing is
that no man gets to the position I held in the Army without working out his
testosterone issues. A sniper prone to pissing contests is a really bad idea. Back
then, a baseball bat to the head was just what I needed. It knocked some sense
into me.

“Grant
Wilkinson,” he says cheerfully, in a melodic voice that is thick with a French
accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am André Chevalier. Please come with
me, where we sit privately and be comfortable.”

“OK,” I say.

The guy walks
with self-assurance. Is he a boxer? Perhaps he’s experienced in martial arts?
He absolutely oozes top dog, alpha male confidence.

I can still take
him, I reassure myself.

Damned if I know
why that’s important to me, but it is.

The counselor’s
clothes are pure style; he’s dressed in casual elegance—better than one of my
father’s buddies. Like a US Senator or the CEO of some big company. Silk suit
for sure. Those garments certainly weren’t bought off the rack.

I follow him to a
booth where we have an incredible view of the night sky and the Las Vegas strip
below. It’s intimate and it feels somewhat sensual, kind of like a date. Why
the hell did he meet me here?

André and I sit
down across from each other. I have the view. Usually I try to sit in a corner
so people don’t have to see my scars. The way the lounge is set up, the
counselor’s just going to have to deal.

“You have been
here before?” he asks.

“No.”

He grins. “
Trés
bien.
I thought you may like it.” He turns and gazes out at the
night-lights of Vegas
. “Quelle belle vue.
What a beautiful view. It is
pretty, no?”

“Sure.” The
outlook over the city is amazing.

I know “
trés bien”
is French for very good. It’s similar to the Spanish,
¡Muy bien!
Thanks to Maria, the mothering Mexican housekeeper I had as I grew up, I’m
fluent in Spanish. When I have a suntan, I easily pass as Mexican.

This hot shot
place isn’t busy at the moment. I suspect it’s too early in the evening for
partygoers, but will heat up later.

A pert redhead
with a great rack and a top that reveals a significant amount of cleavage,
brings us menus. “Can I get you gentleman anything?” she inquires.

“For me,
mademoiselle,
I will have whisky, I think,” André says. “For you my friend?”

“Whisky sounds
about right for me, too.”

When he orders a
bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch, I raise my eyebrows.

“It is a
celebration,” he explains.

This is a weird
way to meet my therapist—not that I’ve met any therapists before now. Why I’m
not in some ritzy office is anybody’s guess.

“
Mon ami
,”
André says. “You have left the Armed Forces, yes?”

“Yes,” I say and
I steel myself for what comes next.

“Thank you for
your service” is usually the subsequent comment. It’s nice sentiment with good
intentions, I guess. When they thank me, I always answer, “You’re welcome.” But
that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation.

I mean, where can
I go from there?

When a soldier
first returns to the States, they feel isolated and out of place. They don’t
know how to talk to people or even what to talk about. They feel uncomfortable
around noncombatants and I was no exception.

It would be good
if the civilian population made up for the deficit. ‘Thank you for your
service,’ goes nowhere toward a real exchange of dialogue. From my experience,
people don’t know how to talk to a newly returned soldier. But who can blame
them? What
can
they talk about?

Sometimes people
get up the nerve and ask if I killed anyone. Unfortunately, that’s also a
conversation stopper.

“So tell me, if
you please,” André says, his face bright with interest. “In the Army, what is
the cuisine like when one is in such a place? American servicemen and women eat
well, no?”

I lean back into
the lounge and laugh with surprise.

That’s the first
time anyone’s asked me that. With relief, I begin to answer. His next question
is about sports and activities during downtime, another easy one. Damned if he
doesn’t keep going.

There are no
awkward silences in our conversation.

Usually, I go through
life with my mouth shut. I’m a loner, mainly because I’m more comfortable
alone. Since I’m from a rich and influential family, many people think I’m
proud or stuck up.

That’s not it at
all. I’m an introvert who gets edgy and uptight around others. I found a
certain amount of welcome acceptance in the army, and I have friends, but I
don’t ever get
really
close to anyone.

I’ve never been
chatty.

André seems to
know exactly what to say to help me relax and open up. I find I’m surprisingly
comfortable around him. He gets me started, and soon I’m the only one talking.

It’s extremely
out of character for me, but with Andre, I find that I talk,
a lot.

The waitress
brings a bottle of the best Scotch, pouring us each a glass with one cube of
ice. She leaves a bucket of ice on the table.

I had dinner
earlier, but didn’t eat much. Ever since my injury, my ability to eat has been
a little touch and go—probably because I’m always wound up. It’s nerves, I
guess. Part of the shit that’s been troubling me.

Drinking however,
I can do.

Unfortunately, I
just can’t
stop
doing it.