Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Once I start, I find it difficult to stop, the pen moving frantically across the page the same way my paintbrush often does when I’m lost in the madness of creativity. I write until I’ve filled the page and then sit back, breathless, wondering if I should do it…
They said not to.
But I can’t resist the urge.
I’ve not made any friends since I left high school. I live on my own in a crummy one bedroom apartment. I don’t have a mom or dad anymore.
I’m tired of being alone.
It’s not like he’ll contact me anyway.
Screw it.
I’ll do it.
I leave my address at the bottom, and then quickly put the letter in the envelope before Sara can see what I’ve done.
Chapter Two
Zack
I let out a growl as I finish the last set, pushing the bar from my chest up to the brackets.
But fuck it. I might as well do a few more.
Sweat pours down my shirtless body as I pump the bar, over and over and over, my chest roaring at me to stop, my body screaming at me to take a rest. But it’s hard to rest when I’ve got demons sprinting around my mind, always taunting, always promising to drag me down into the deep where I’ll never be able to climb out.
I snarl as I’m finally done, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees.
Morning sunlight filters through my floor to ceiling windows, lighting up my open-plan apartment, making the sleek metal surfaces of the kitchen glimmer on the other side of the cavernous room.
I like the open-plan look, everything laid out. It reminds me of the barracks I stayed in on my first tour, back when I was fresh-faced and naive and I didn’t realize that every single one of my friends could die in front of me.
Be killed like fucking dogs.
I grit my teeth and stand, stalking across the room to pour myself a large glass of water.
My workouts normally calm me down, which is why I start every day with a grueling one even if I’m going to be coaching at the gyms later in the day. I don’t care if my body aches so much it feels like it’s going to crumble.
Anything is better than remembering.
But this morning the letter sitting on my kitchen counter is distracting me. Part of me wants to snatch it open and read it, get it over with, but another part wants to toss it right in the trash.
I didn’t even remember signing up for that veteran’s charity thing until the letter arrived yesterday afternoon. Then it hit me. A lady came by the gym to see me personally, and there were a bunch of the kids watching. I’m always telling them to remember their manners, so I couldn’t exactly tell her to go fuck herself like I wanted.
I don’t want to remember my tours, my service, any of it.
My gyms… turning a profit, helping my students, staying focused. That’s all that matters to me now.
But there’s something about the letter, making my stomach tight, making my whole body grow hot.
I wonder if it’s the memories crackling through me, the gunfire and the hellfire and the smoke and the pain and the pride and the service, a job well done.
Yeah, a job fucking well done.
Until it wasn’t. Until it all came crashing down.
“Fuck it,” I snarl, grabbing the letter and tearing it open.
I might as well get it over with.
I can tell right away a woman wrote this. There’s something feminine about the handwriting, and I quickly glance at the end just to be sure.
Yep.
Zoey Baker.
And hang on…
Yeah, she’s left her address, a rundown apartment building on the other side of the city. Why the hell did she do that?
Maybe she asks for money in the letter.
Sighing, I flip over the page and read from the beginning.
Dear Soldier,
Zack, I’m not really sure how to start this letter. I’ve never been very good with words. But I suppose what I’d like to say is… it’s okay. If you feel any pain, any regret, anything like that at all… it’s okay. You don’t have to hate yourself. You don’t have to torture yourself. Because, well, I guess because everyone has that instinct, right? Or maybe I’m projecting. But I mean it. If you DO feel that way, if you feel like there’s something wrong with you, I want you to know there isn’t. I want you to know you’re a fantastic person.
I try to laugh her words off as my eyes flit over them. She doesn’t know me. She has no damn clue if it’s okay, if it’s not okay, or anything in between.
She definitely is projecting.
Because I don’t torture myself, do I? I don’t live in regret and pain and hatred.
I laugh again, gruffer, lower.
Fuck, she’s hit me right in my sore spot, as though she knows me, as though she knows the exact words to use to stir something inside of me.