“Rose, her name is Rose Gray. Why can’t you call her by her proper name?”

“Brad I am tired. The two of you spend every waking moment together. You haven’t taken me to dinner in a year. We have not made love in months. The other night I got dolled up in a sexy negligée and you didn’t even notice. You came home and went straight to bed. You didn’t even take your socks off.”

“Quit being a drama queen, Tara. I was tired, I worked all day.”

Tara stood fast. “What’s it going to be? Me or your new love?”

“I am not giving up on Rosie,” Brad insisted.

Tara wheeled and strode off in disgust. As she climbed into her car she exclaimed. “You will be hearing from my lawyer.”

Brad pulled a stool up behind where Rosie stood. He stroked her backside. “Don’t worry honey, nothing will come between us. From now on it is just you and me old girl.”

True to her word Tara filed for a divorce on the grounds of alienation of affection. Two months later they appeared in court.

The judge asked, “Are all parties present? Where is this Rose Gray mentioned in the testimony?”

Tara barked back. “No, Rosie is still back home, where he left her. He sleeps with her every night.”

Brad added. “She can’t come out right now.”

The confused magistrate asked. “Why isn’t she here at this hearing, and why can’t she come out? What is her problem?”

Brad replied, “Her engine needs to be rebuilt.”

“What?” Asked the judge.

“Rose is my 1965 Rose Red Corvette convertible.”

The judge slammed down his gavel. “Divorce granted.”

Tara was awarded the couple's entire estate. Minus Rose Gray, of course.

"Shit, this weather is getting worse, I can barely see in front of me".

As usual, Satan was talking to himself.

He only had a few friends, and of those he did have, none would be stupid enough to accompany him on a late night drive in this weather.

The Dark One was returning from a business trip up north, where he had been closing a deal to acquire more souls. The meeting had gone well. He had purchased a dozen pure souls, and his client had thrown in a few wretched ones to seal the bargain. Yes, all had gone well until he had to make the return journey in this appalling weather.

"Oh do me a favour! What's wrong now?" Satan grimaced as his car spluttered and coughed, before slowly coming to a halt.

"That's all I fucking need. Now where's my bloody breakdown cover?"
Satan reached into his glove compartment and pulled out his crumpled certificate with the emergency number printed in big black type across the top. Flipping open his mobile phone, he gave another curse as he realised he had no signal. Trying anyway and getting the requisite "connection unavailable”, he let out a "Why Me?" at the top of his voice.

Looking through the rain splattered windows he could just make out the illuminated word "HOTEL" in red neon.

Satan pulled his jacket over his head before stepping out of the car into the raging storm. He proceeded to manoeuvre the car as best he could into the kerb until both his energy and interest sapped.

"Fuck it. Who cares?" were his parting words as he strode through the deep puddles on route to the hotel.

Making his way through the double doors into the reception area of the hotel he was a little put out to find that the desk was unmanned. Hitting the bell three times in quick succession he glared about him while waiting for someone to appear.

Minutes passed before he struck the bell again, this time with a ferociousness that would have sent a saint down to hell. The bell merely tinkled a faint and muffled "ding", before collapsing into molten metal.

Satan stared at the fist that had done the smiting and realised it was all aflame. "Oh fuck, this is getting to me; at this rate I will burn the place to ashes before I get a bed for the night".

He placated himself with a "Calm down old fellow, take it easy".

The door behind the desk opened and a grizzled old man appeared. With a smile that would have melted the heart of anyone but the prospective guest, the old man spoke cheerfully, "Good evening sir, what can I do for you on this dreadful night?"

"A room for one, with en-suite if you have it," Satan replied.

"Certainly sir, I have one room vacant on the sixth floor. Number sixty-six, would that suffice?"

Satan reached for the key with the 666 embossed prominently upon it and smiled. "Couldn't be better, home sweet home"

He told the clerk his car had broken down and that he would need it repaired and ready for the morning. He passed on the car keys, the breakdown certificate with the phone number and registration details, and asked the clerk if he could get it all arranged.

Satan added that there would be a decent tip if everything was 'tickety-boo' by the time he had finished breakfast the following day.

The smiling clerk told Satan that all would be ‘tickety-boo’ by morning, and assured him that everything would be taken care of. 

Going up in the elevator to the sixth floor the devil was slowly shaking off his bad mood. Still dripping wet of course, and if he had any spirits, they would also be pretty damp. Nevertheless, what the hell, he’d soon dry off.

Putting the key in the door, turning it, and then stepping into the room, Satan shrugged off his sodden clothes, hung them on the radiator and stepped into a steaming shower. "What the hell?" he repeated to himself. "Life ain't so bad".

Satan returned from the shower wrapped in the fluffy white gown, supplied free of charge by the hotel, and now he felt almost human. At least as human as any self respecting devil could feel.

After making himself a coffee from the facilities unit, he climbed into bed, dimmed the lights, and let himself drift into his favourite tormented sleep. Within moments he was blissfully dreaming of howling souls and burning red coals.

He awoke drowsily and knew at once that a drug had been administered to his normally all-powerful body. Finding his strength diminished and his powers non-existent, he could barely struggle with the bonds now holding him.

Satan quickly realised his arms and legs were stretched out to the four corners of the bed, all tied firmly to the bedposts. Surrounded by chanting figures, all but one masked, he immediately recognised the lone unmasked tormentor as that of the smiling front-desk clerk.

Satan's voice came out mumbled as there was a red kerchief rammed deeply into his mouth; but, even through the restriction, it was clear the words "fuck" and "hell" had been uttered."

As he writhed weakly on the bed pulling at his bonds the voice of the clerk came through the rhythmic chanting of the masked assailants.

"Hark oh Beelzebub, we pray to you Dark Lord; please accept this sacrifice as our pledge of unceasing devotion. Please accept the blood of this lowly human who we sacrifice in thy name and in this room dedicated to you, our eternal lord and master"

With these words the still smiling, the now near hysterical clerk plunged a dagger deep into Satan's black heart.

"The Demons of War are Persistent”

 A Personal Story of Prolonged PTSD

 —A.W. Schade, USMC 1965/69 

Fifty years have passed since my deployment as a combat Marine to Vietnam. However, only several years since I acknowledged my inability to continue suppressing the demons alone. Like many veterans, the “Demons” have haunted me through nightmares, altered personas, and hidden fears. 

Even as many veterans manage the demons’ onslaught successfully, millions survive in destitution, needless solitude, and social disconnection. Scores consider themselves cowards, should they concede to the demons’ hold. Countless live in denial and loneliness, protecting their warrior’s pride. The most vulnerable— tormented by guilt and feeling forever alone — too often choose to “end” their lives.

*************************************************

As friends and family gather to celebrate another joyful holiday, I am often disheartened, reminded by vivid memories of lost friendships and battlefield carnage that erratically seeps from a vulnerable partition of my mind. The cerebral hiding place I concocted, decades before, as a mechanism to survive in society. I unwittingly clutch at profound loneliness as I avoid searching for memories of my youthful years. If I dare to gaze into my past, I must transcend a cloak of darkness weaved to restrain the demons from so many years before.

My pledge to God, Country, and the Marine Corps were more than forty years ago. As a young, unproven warrior, I consented to the ancient rules of war. At eighteen, like many others, I was immersed in the ageless stench of death and carnage, in the mountains and jungles of Vietnam. However, my journey began much earlier, on a sixty-mile bus ride with other nervous teenagers, to New York City’s legendary Induction Center at 39 White Hall Street.

We went through lines of examinations and stood around for hours, recognizing one another’s bare asses before we could learn each other’s names. We did not realize so many of us would remain together in squads and fire teams, building deep-seated bonds of friendships along our journey. Our initial ‘shock’ indoctrination began immediately at Parris Island; intimidating Drill Instructors scrambled our disoriented butts off the bus, organized us into a semblance of a formation, and herded us to the barracks for a night of hell!

Anxiety, second-guessing our decision to join, and apprehension was our welcoming. Following what we thought would be sleep (but was actually a nap), we awoke in awe to explosive clamor, as the DIs banged on tin garbage can lids next to our bunks, yelling ‘get up you maggots.’ Even the largest recruits trembled.

We remained maggots for the next few weeks and began intense physical and mental training, slowly recognizing the importance of “the team” instead of “the individual.” In less than sixteen weeks we were proud United States Marines. It was a short celebration though, as we loaded our gear and headed, in order, to Camp Lejeune, Camp Pendleton, Okinawa and then the Philippines, where we continued to enhance our stealth and killing skills, before executing these talents on the already blood-soaked fields of Vietnam.

We argued and fought amongst ourselves as brothers often do. Still, we never lost sight of the bonds we shared: We were United States Marines with an indisputable commitment to “always cover each other’s back.” Crammed into the bowels of Navy Carrier Ships, we slept in hammocks with no more than three inches from your brother’s butt above you. The sailors laughed as these self-proclaimed “bad-ass Marines” transformed into the wimpy “Helmet Brigade.” We vomited into our skull buckets for days on our way to Okinawa, where we would engage in counter-guerrilla warfare training. 

Aware that we were going to Vietnam, we partied hard in every port. The first of our battles were slugfests in distant bar-room brawls.

Conversely, our minds were opened to the poverty and living conditions of these famous islands in the Pacific. Their reputations preceded them, but stories about war with Japan—John Wayne movies—were not what we found. Instead, we found overpopulated, dirty cities; we were barraged constantly by poor children seeking any morsel of food. In the fields, families lived in thatched huts with no electricity or sanitary conditions. 

While training I experienced the horror of being chased by a two-ton water buffalo (with only blanks in my rifle). Moments before, this same beast was led around by a ring through its nose by a ten-year-old boy. Worse than the chasing was hearing the laughter of brother Marines watching me run at full speed, trying to find something to climb. In a tree, I felt as though I was losing the “macho” in Marine, and we were still thousands of miles from Vietnam.

In confidence, we spoke as brothers about our fears, hardships growing-up, family, girlfriends, times of humiliation, prejudice, and what we planned to do in our lifetime once our tour of duty in Vietnam was over. We knew each other’s thoughts and spoke as though we would all return home alive, never considering the thought of death or defeat. We had not learned that lesson, yet. 

Moreover, we dreamed of going home as respected American warriors who defended democracy in a remote foreign land, standing proud, feeling a sense of accomplishment, and experiencing life, as none of our friends at home would understand. Our country had called and we answered.

We transferred to a converted WWII aircraft carrier that carried helicopters and Marines instead of jet planes. We were to traverse the coast of Vietnam and deploy by helicopter into combat zones from the Demilitarized Zone, the imaginary line separating North and South Vietnam, to the provinces and cities of Chu Lai and Da Nang. Then further south, to the outer fringes of Vietnam’s largest city, which was, at that time, Saigon.

Within sight of land, we heard the roar of artillery, mortars and the familiar crackling of a small-arms fire. These were sounds we were accustomed to because of months of preparing ourselves for battle. However, for the first time, we understood the sounds were not from playing war games. Someone was likely dead. Anxiety, adrenaline highs, and fear of the unknown swirled within my mind.

Was I prepared? Could I kill another man? Would another man kill me? From that point forward, death was part of my life. We would eventually load into helicopters, descending into confrontations ambivalent, yet assured we were young, invincible warriors. We were convinced the South Vietnamese people needed us; many of them did. Thus, our mission was simple: save the innocent and banish the enemy to Hell!

The first time we touched down on Vietnam soil, we mechanically spread out in combat formation. Immediately, everything I was taught to watch out for rushed through my mind: “Was the enemy around us?” “Was I standing near an enemy grenade trap, or stepping toward a punji pit filled with sharpened bamboo spikes?” Seeing our company walking through the low brush gave me comfort, until an unexpected explosion deafened our senses. We immediately hit the ground and went into combat mode, establishing our zones of fire. There was nothing to think about except engaging the enemy. We were ready for battle.

We waited, but heard no gunfire or rockets exploding, only a few Marines speaking several hundred feet away. One yelled, “I can’t F’N” believe it!” We learned our first meeting with death was due to one of our brother’s grenade pins not being secured; we assumed it was pulled out by the underbrush. Regardless, he was dead. Staring at his lifeless body, I felt the loss of youthful innocence gush away.

One engagement began with us being plunged into chaos from helicopters hovering a few feet off the ground. We anxiously leapt—some fell—into the midst of an already heated battle. The enemy sprung a deadly assault upon us. I became engrossed in the shock, fear, and adrenaline rush of battle. It was surreal! It was also not the time to ponder the killing of another human being, recall the rationale behind the ethics of war, or become absorbed in the horror of men slaughtering each other. Thoughts of war’s demons certainly were not on my mind.

When the killing ceased and the enemy withdrew, I remained motionless, exhausted from the fighting. With only a moment to think about what had just occurred, the shock, hate, and anger were buried under the gratitude of being alive. I had to find out which brothers did or did not survive, and as I turned to view the combat zone, I witnessed the reality of war: dreams, friendships, and future plans vanished. We knelt beside our brothers, some dead, many wounded, and others screaming in pain. A few lay there dying silently. 

As I moved about the carnage, I noticed a lifeless body, face down, and twisted abnormally in jungle debris. I pulled him gently from the tangled lair, unaware of the warrior I had found. Masked in blood and shattered bones, I was overwhelmed with disgust and a primal obsession for revenge as I realized the warrior was my mentor, hero, and friend.

My voice fragmented, I spoke at him as if he were alive: “Gunny, you can’t be dead! Son-of-a-bitch, you fought in WWII and Korea, how can you die in this God for-shaken country! Get up Marine!” Tears seeped down my face; I whispered that he would not be forgotten. I placed him gently in a body bag, slowly pulling the zipper closed over his face, engulfing him in darkness.

Navy Corpsmen—our extraordinary brothers—worked frantically to salvage traumatized bodies. We did our best to ease the pain of the wounded as they prayed to God Almighty. “With all my heart I love you, man,” I told each friend I encountered. However, some never heard the words I said, unless they were listening from Heaven. I was unaware of the survivor’s guilt brewing deep inside me.

In two or three weeks our mission was completed; we flew by helicopter from the jungle to the safety of the ship. None of us rested. Instead, we remembered faces and stared at the empty bunks of the friends who were not there. I prayed for the sun to rise slowly, in order to delay the forthcoming ceremony for the dead.

Early the next morning, we stood in a military formation on the aircraft carrier’s deck. I temporarily suppressed my emotions as I stared upon the dead. Rows of military caskets, identical in design, with an American flag meticulously draped over the top, made it impossible to distinguish which crates encased my closest friends. As taps played, tears descended. For the first time I understood, that in war, you never have a chance to say goodbye. I pledged silently to each of my friends that they would never be forgotten: A solemn promise I regretfully only kept through years of nightmares or hallucinations.

Combat is vicious; rest is brief; destroying the enemy was our mission. We fought our skillful foes in many battles, until they or we were dead, wounded, or overwhelmed. Engaging enemy troops was horrific in both jungles and villages. We had to either accept or build psychological boundaries around the terror.

Nonexistent were the lines of demarcation; we constantly struggled to identify which Vietnamese was a friend and which was a foe. The tormenting acknowledgment that a woman or child might be an enemy combatant had to be confronted; it was often an overwhelming decision to make. I was not aware of the change in my demeanor. In time, I merely assumed I had adjusted emotionally to contend with the atrocities and finality of war. I acquired stamina, could endure the stench of death, eliminate enemy combatants with little or no remorse, suppress memories of fallen companions, and avoid forming new, deep-rooted friendships. I struggled to accept the feasibility of a loving Lord. I never detected the nameless demons embedding themselves inside of me.

At the end of my tour, I packed minimal gear and left the jungle battlefields of Vietnam for America, never turning to bid farewell or ever wanting to smell the pungent stench of death and fear again. Within seventy-two hours, I was on the street I left fourteen months prior, a street untouched by war, poverty, genocide, hunger, or fear. 

I was home. I was alone. Aged well beyond my chronological years of nineteen, I was psychologically and emotionally confused. I was expected to transform from a slayer back into a (so-called) civilized man.

Except for family members and several high-school friends, returning home from Vietnam was demeaning for most of us. There were no bands or cheers of appreciation or feelings of accomplishment. Instead, we were shunned and ridiculed for fighting in a war that our government assured us was crucial and for an honorable cause. I soon found that family, friends, and co-workers could never truly understand the events that transformed me in those fourteen months.

I changed from a teenage boy to a battle-hardened man. I was not able to engage in trivial conversations or take part in the adolescent games many of my friends still played. For them, life did not change and “struggle” was a job or the “unbearable” pressure of college they had to endure. It did not take me long to realize that they would never understand; there is no comparison between homework and carrying a dead companion in a black zipped bag.

The media played their biased games by criticizing the military, never illuminating the thousands of Vietnamese saved from mass execution, rape, torture, or other atrocities of a brutal northern regime. They never showed the stories of American “heroes” who gave their lives, bodies, and minds to save innocent people caught in the clutches of a “controversial” war. For years, my transition back to society was uncertain. I struggled against unknown demons and perplexing social fears. I abandoned searching for surviving comrades or ever engaging in conversations of Vietnam.

Worse, I fought alone to manage the recurring nightmares, which I tried to block away in a chamber of my mind labeled; “Do not open, horrors, chaos and lost friends from Vietnam.” However, suppressing dark memories is almost impossible. Random sounds, smells, or even words unleash nightmares, depression, anxiety and the seepages of bitterness I alluded to before. I still fight to keep these emotions locked away inside me. 

Today, my youth has long since passed and middle age is drifting progressively behind me. Still, unwelcome metaphors and echoes of lost souls seep through the decomposing barriers fabricated in my mind. Vivid memories of old friends, death, guilt, and anger sporadically persevere. There may be no end, resolution, or limitations to the demons’ voices. They began as whispers and intensified—over decades—in my mind.

“Help me, buddy!” I still hear them scream, as nightmares jolt me from my slumber. I wake and shout, “I’m here! I’m here my friend,” and envision their ghostly, blood-soaked bodies. I often wonder if more Marines would be alive if I had fought more fiercely. “I had to kill!” I remind myself; as visions of shattered friends, and foes hauntingly reappear at inappropriate times.

Guilt consumes my consciousness as I recall the mayhem of war, and what we had to do to survive. As well I question: Why did I survive and not them? Most horrible, however, is the conflicting torment I feel when I acknowledge that I am thankful it was others instead of me.

Regardless of which war a person fought, I am sure many of their memories are similar to mine, as many of mine are to theirs. I never recognized the persistence of the demons, nor realized how quickly they matured deep within my soul. Disguised and deep-rooted, the demons cause anxiety, loneliness, depression, alcohol abuse, nightmares, and suicidal thoughts; traits that haunt many warriors for a lifetime. For thirty-five years, I would not admit these demons were inside me, and believed seeking medical assistance for what was going on in my mind, was a weakness in a man.

It was not until the first Gulf War began in 1990, that I sensed the demons were again bursting from within. No matter how hard I tried to avoid them, I could not escape the vivid images and news coverage of every aspect of the war. Eventually, the bodies and faces in the media were not strangers anymore; they were the faces of my brothers from a much older and forgotten war. Encouraged by peers and several family members, I finally sought assistance from VA doctors, who immediately diagnosed me with PTSD and began an ongoing treatment program.

During my third or fourth group therapy session at the VA, the psychiatrist leading the meeting persuaded me to speak about myself, starting with my overall thoughts of my tour in Vietnam, but then focusing on what I accomplished instead of what I lost. After a long hesitation, I told them the greatest accomplishment in Vietnam was the hundreds of people our teams personally saved from rape, torture, or savage death.

We did not give a damn about the politicians and college students arguing back home, or running off to Canada to avoid the draft. We were enlisted Marines, on the front lines, protecting innocent people caught up in a horrific war.

My most positive moment, I continued, was when I lifted a three-year-old girl from the rubble that separated her from her parents, who were slaughtered by the Viet Cong for giving us rice the day before. Though traumatized and trembling in fear, she reached up to me, and I cradled her gently in my arms and made her smile for only a moment. I handed her to one of our extraordinary corpsmen and continued to seek out the enemy who committed these atrocious murders. It was then I understood why I was in Vietnam.

However, as with everything I masked in my subconscious, I obscured that moment of compassion for decades until this small therapy group encouraged me to glance back and look for positive events buried within the worst of my war memories.

Regarding my post-war years, the doctor asked me to focus on my career, an area where he knew I had some success. I explained that when I left the Marines after four years, I was youthful and confident in myself. I had no clue what depression and anxiety were, and I thought the nightmares were personal and temporary. I was determined to look forward and in no way back to the war. Unfortunately, today I realize that while constantly looking forward helped me avoid chaotic memories of war, it also cloaked the memories of my formative younger years and positive events throughout my life.

I never relished talking about myself and thought it would be a good time to stop. However, the group asked me to continue. As peers, they knew I needed to feel a purpose, and not think my life was a second-rate existence. I was reluctant; as I looked around the room and knew many of the Vets succumbed to PTSD early in life and did not fare as well as I did. I felt I was about to sound like a wimp, or worse, a self-centered ass.

Awkwardly, I began to tell them - with many gaps - about my career after Vietnam. My first recollection was one they all understood. I went through eleven or twelve jobs feeling totally out of place. Watching sales managers gather their teams, and with fanatical enthusiasm tell us how great we were, and together we would attain the highest sales revenue, whipping all other regions. To me, compared to combat in the jungles of Vietnam, this was a game. 

Feeling extremely frustrated within the environment of civilian life, I was ready to head back to the military. However, before reenlistment happened, I got married to my current wife of 40 plus years, who will be the first to tell you living with a type-A personality with PTSD is often a living hell, especially since she had no idea what I was battling. But, neither did I. Like millions of warriors before me, I never spoke to anyone about the war, or the nightmares that abruptly woke me, soaked in sweat and tears.

I decided not to reenlist and pursued a career in business. After numerous jobs, I finally landed a position with a bank repossessing cars - a small-scale adrenalin rush, at times. Within five years, I worked my way up to branch manager.

Bored, of my repetitive tasks in banking, I accepted an offer from a very large computer company to join as a collection administrator. Though it seemed as if it was starting over, I was promoted into management within a year. Focusing on new business challenges aided me in keeping the demons at bay. Subsequent promotions followed.

Within roughly eight years, I was selected to attend Syracuse University to attain a degree in Management - paid by the company at full salary. I continued to accept challenging positions in finance, marketing, business development, sales, and world travel. 

At first, traveling to other countries was great, but after the second or third twenty-one-hour flight to Bangkok or Singapore, it got old quick. I began to realize boredom and repetition were major catalysts for my emotional setbacks; having too much time to think was a recipe for falling hard into the bowels of PTSD.

As years passed, anger, frustrations, mood swings, and depression were common events affecting me, my family and career. I stopped moving forward and spent more time battling the memories of the past. It was at that time I understood the demons never leave; they simply wait for a sliver of weakness to overwhelm you.

Consequently, these conditions, as well as heightened road-rage, quick to anger, and sometimes not able to carry on an articulate conversation, I unenthusiastically retired early from my very well-paying job. This, of course, decreased my income significantly, and opened new crevices in my rapidly deteriorating armor. The demons seized a stronghold; they are persistent.

I have still not won the battle against the demons, but, with the help of therapy, outside physical activities, medications and writing; I look ahead again. The demons continue to haunt me with nightmares, depression, memory loss, anxiety and the need for solitude.

Although I am not able to sit down with a vet and talk about war, I have taken on a cause through writing stories, to reach out to young and senior veterans to help break the stigma of PTSD, by seeking reinforcement. It took me, with present-day support from younger vets at the Journal of Military Experience [http://militaryexperience.org], over the course of six years to finalize this story. I mention this so others can move forward in his or her life; by knowing what I and others know now.

I wish someone cited the following recommendations to me earlier in my life; although being young and macho I probably would not have listened. However, here are a few suggestions from one old warrior, to those of all ages:

Breakthrough the stigma of PTSD and get medical assistance - PTSD is real!

Unless you are in a high-risk job, you will probably not experience the adrenaline rush and finality of your decisions as you did in combat. For me, I lived by playing business games - never finding the ultimate adrenaline rush again. It is a void within me, I think about often.

The longer you wait for treatment, the harder it will be to handle the demons. They do not go away and can lay dormant in your soul for decades.

Understand that it is never too late in your life to begin looking forward and achieving new objectives.

If you do not want to speak about PTSD with your family or friends, then hand them a brochure from the VA that explains what to look for, and why you need their support. You do not have to go into detail about the tragedies of war, but without your loved ones’ understanding of your internal battle, your thoughts can lead to divorce, loss of family, relationships, or suicide – a terrible waste of a hero. Silence and solitude is not the answer! If you have PTSD you may not be able to beat it alone.

If you are concerned about your military or civilian job, seek help from peer resources. They have experienced what you have been through and will help keep you living in the present, instead of the past.

Or contact a person in a peer support group anonymously. They will not know you but will talk for as long as you wish.

You cannot explain the horrors of war to someone that has not experienced it, except maybe a PTSD psychologist.

Get up off your ass and take a serious look into yourself! Accept the fact that if you have continuous nightmares, flashbacks, depression, bursts of anger, anxiety, or thoughts of suicide, you have PTSD. If so, talk to someone who can help.

There is also financial assistance through the VA, which may help you avoid living a life of destitution.

Finally, let your ego and macho image go. There are many individuals and groups today wanting to help you. If you do not seek help, you may find yourself alone and bitter for a lifetime. The demons are not going away, but with help, you can learn to fight them and win one battle at a time. Please contact the resources below!

Semper Fi!

[AW Schade; a Marine, Vietnam 1966/67, retired corporate executive and author of the award-winning book, Looking for God within the Kingdom of Religious Confusion. A captivating, comparative, and enlightening tale that seeks to comprehend the doctrines and discord between and within Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Secularism. What the seeker discovers, transforms his life forever!  www.awschade.com]

"I could hear Elvis singing as tears fell on the last page of the book. One of the best short stories I've ever read." -- Amazon reviewer

Archie Johnson thought he was prepared to meet his death in the electric chair. 
The sentence had been read; he had had his last meal and the prison chaplain had asked God to have mercy on his immortal soul. Then, just as they were strapping him in, he suddenly realized there were a few things he wanted to do before he left this earth.
This story has been called a "dead man's dream."

A story by Domenic Marinelli

__________

It was 1989; I was seven. My parents and I had left the comforts of New York for a trip back to my father’s birthplace of Parella, Italy. It was a small town of about two hundred people.

What I remember most about the trip was the freedom I had. I could wander the town walking from one end to another all alone, exploring and going on private adventures.

It was on one particular day that my walk took me to a less populated area where the alleys were narrow and the buildings seemed all but abandoned. I walked slowly, trying to take it all in, when suddenly I could see a small open fire in the distance. It was at the mouth of a small alley. The fire drew me closer, and the air smelled oddly of a scent I associated with Christmas Eve. It wasn’t until I was standing a few feet away from the fire that I noticed the small pan of chestnuts sitting above the bright orange flames.

A noise startled me from deep within the darkness of the alley. An old man was standing there, staring at me through grey eyes that were both menacing and kind. We stared at each other that way for the longest time, until he motioned me forward.

***

It was dusk, and my father saw me returning from the distance; I could see him waving me home from the front door of the house he’d grown up in. “How was today’s adventure, Ademo?” he asked me when I got closer.

“Fine, Dad,” I said as I squeezed by him.

He tousled my hair before I was out of his reach and into the hall bathroom.

I stared into the mirror, as I do now all these years later, wondering about the hidden corners of the world and the human spirit, where darkness covers all, and the soul suffers most.

(Copyright 2017 - Domenic Marinelli)

Domenic Marinelli is the author of Weathered Tracks, Save … Act – A Collection of Ten Stories, Miles In The Dark, Beneath The White Darkness, 13 Years of Lamentation, Resonant Words (articles) and Strays In The Cold. He is also a freelance writer who has contributed various pieces to many publications including The Sportster, The Gamer and Steel Notes Magazine.

Doesn’t look like Phoenix with all the cloud cover. It looks more like Atlanta this time of year. Must be climate change.

The weather in Phoenix was not what he expected on a spring day. The overcast was a blanket of gloom obscuring the blue skies and sunshine above the cloud layer. And sure, it was early morning, but it was also uncharacteristically cool in the valley. The permanent residents felt teased by the extended relief from the burning heat in their throats and lungs, and the melanoma attacks on their skin that was to come. They welcomed the relief of the cool weather. The late-arriving snowbirds had a different take on the weather in Phoenix. They longed to bask in the heat so they could thaw from the winter weather at home. They were disappointed. The temperature was cold enough to prevent them from belly flopping into the hotel pools. The forecast said the overcast would be rolling out of the valley by late afternoon, and by the next day, the thermometer would see a slight rise in the mercury.

He took the first flight out of Atlanta, 6:00 a.m. He thought because of the early a departure it would be quiet on the plane and he could catch a badly needed power nap during the four-hour flight, but he was wrong. He hated to be wrong about anything. It was a family trait. The other passengers, he guessed, had stopped at Starbucks to get jacked on the caffeine. And it seemed to him every rambunctious child on the plane, having had a pound of sugar for breakfast, found a seat around him on the full plane. The parents of the unleashed, ill-behaved cherubs wanted to get to grandma’s house early for Mother’s Day. Upon their arrival, the grandparents would hover over the kids while mom and dad tried to find a place to decompress.

Why did God have to put children on the earth? Couldn’t He, or She, or whatever found a better way––like instant twenty- one? It’s too early for the little demons to be awake. There should be a law against kids being on airplanes to punish me so early in the morning. I wouldn’t think of dragging Kyle along this early. Breathe in, hold, and breathe out, only three and a half hours to go.

He made every attempt to close his eyes and rest his head against the seatback hoping one of the parents of the wildlings, would take pity on him and show mercy. They didn’t, believing everyone loved children, theirs above all. He finally reached into his carry-on that was jammed under the seat in front of him, a gymnastic feat for sure, so he could retrieve his iPhone and earbuds to drown out the head-splitting sounds around him.

Only three hours and fifteen minutes to go.

The music flowing through the headphones worked fairly well for noise cancellation, but the kicking of the back of his seat was out of rhythm with the music. Finally, after three more hours on the plane, relief came when the captain made a public address announcement they would be descending, landing, and at the gate in twenty minutes.

As the aircraft came to a stop at the gate, the door of the Boeing 737-700 opened and he made every attempt to get past, around, or over the rest of the primates to make a break for it. He didn’t make any friends doing so. If one needed an example of what Cro-Magnon man was like, it only took watching a deplaning. While other passengers were fumbling with their carry-on bags in the overhead storage, he grabbed his and managed to get the best on several of them until he burst through the door and into the Jetway Bridge. He got angry glares from mommas trying to open their Winnebago strollers in front of the plane’s exit door.

Finally, in the terminal, he only had to get into the passing lane around slow walking travelers. He hastened his pace as if he were late to an impatient judge’s courtroom. He walked down the downward escalator, turned left, and walked out through the doors of Terminal Four at Sky Harbor Airport to where cars waited for arriving passengers. He stopped to breathe in the fresh morning air but got exhaust and jet fuel instead. He reached the curb and scanned left and right.

A black, late model Mercedes, after a quick beep of the horn, pulled up to him standing on the curb. The driver parked and exited the car. She walked back toward the raised trunk. She met him there and watched as he tossed his carry on into the trunk. He was taller than her and a handsome man. She was a beautiful woman. He closed the trunk then opened his arms to embrace her. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He gave his sister a long hug. He knew she needed one. It had been a year since their last embrace. It was Mother’s Day and they were at mom’s funeral. Both had tears in their eyes then, the kind once flowing wouldn’t stop for days.

FaceTime was the best way to stay in contact with one another since airfares weren’t as discounted as advertised. He didn’t want to leave home, the place where he grew up, but the paycheck decided for him. His Ivy League law degree was worth more in Atlanta than in Phoenix. And, Peter was there.

She couldn’t bring herself to pull up stakes and resettle in an unfamiliar place with her husband and two kids. Arizona had every conceivable scenery––mountains, deserts, rain and petrified forests, Kartchner Caverns, meth-colored lakes, and cliff- dwellings long vacated by the Native Americans for casinos on the reservations. To find all those climates and breathtaking views would require traveling around the earth. No, Phoenix would always be her home. She had deep roots there, extended family, and mom and dad. She decided to live in their house after both parents had passed. Unlike her brother, she hated change. They hurried for the warmth inside the car. Both car doors slammed shut simultaneously.

“I thought Peter and Kyle would come out with you,” she said.

“They were, then a capital murder case popped up late last night. You know how Peter gets when an inmate on Death Row stares at the clock as it ticks down to zero hours and the ‘three-drug cocktail’ is about to be delivered. Ten years of appeals from the man’s court-appointed attorneys failed to produce a re-trial or leniency. The guy’s guilty. Peter was called in because of his expertise and reputation of turning death penalty cases into life imprisonments. He sends his love by the way.”

“How’s Kyle? I was sure he’d come to see his aunt,” she said.

“Kyle is in non-stop motion from the time his eyes open in the morning until he crashes at bedtime. He’s so intuitive about things. He asks questions way beyond his age. He’s curious and analyzes everything in detail. He hates any change in his environment, like you. We adopted him and love him so much, but I swear he’s your kid. He’s doing great in kindergarten.

We had an interesting thing pop up a few days ago. After school, he asked me what a ‘Homo’ was? Some father, picking up his kid up, said to him, ‘There’s the little homo!’ The other parents say things about Peter and me, and he doesn’t understand. We need to prepare him for grade school, where the older kids will bully him. We’re trying to put that off as long as possible. He’ll be all right in the end. School doesn’t last forever, but the love in our family does.”

“I’d like to see those parents on my operating table sometime.”

She looked over her left shoulder to see if she could drive away from the curb while he spoke. The warning feature in her side mirror wasn’t flashing, but she hadn’t convinced herself to trust it yet. Sometimes trust took a long time to earn. When she saw there was no traffic, she launched out of the parking space and drove to the house. The kids wouldn’t be home from school for hours. Robert wouldn’t be home from the Tempe ASU campus until six as long as the traffic on I-10 weren’t backed up because of another accident. They had time to themselves, so brother and sister could do as they planned.

“Now I’m disappointed Kyle didn’t come.”

She crossed over five lanes to get into the far left lane. Her turn was next. She exited on 44th St. and it was a straight shot to the house in Scottsdale from there. Mom and dad had been in the house a long time. They bought the house in the fifties, before air- conditioning was common in Phoenix. They had it installed as soon as the first summer ended. It was a long, ranch-style house with a stunning garden and back patio area where the family would spend most evenings together, whenever mom wasn’t flying a trip for the airline.

“So the last time we spoke you said you were looking for a larger suite of offices for the firm.”

“We’ve definitely outgrown where we are. We’ll have to relocate before the end of the year if we get one more client. We already handle half of the criminal cases in Fulton County. How about you, Dr. Cochran? When will you leave the hospital and start your own practice? Get your doctor feet wet, or as mom would say, ‘Fly solo,’ I believe.”

“It scares me, taking that chance. The hospital is a steady paycheck. It’s hard to save these days with the economy the way it is, and the kids get more expensive every year,” she said.

“Mom wouldn’t let you get away with that conservative thinking. She wanted a rebel for a daughter, a risk-taker like her.”

“Yes, she did. Robert loves teaching at ASU. He loves the astrophysics department, the students, and the whole campus atmosphere. Robert would have gone to school the rest of his life if he could. He loves to learn and do research. His department is involved in research for NASA. We could move to Tempe so he wouldn’t have so far to commute, but the kids like their school. They’re involved with all sorts of things at school. Kelly is on the soccer team and, at her age, friends are important to her. Brian is on the baseball team. He and his friends spend the day playing video games after homework and baseball practice.”

“Mom would say you have to take chances. You can’t protect yourself from the future. I think you’re hiding behind your fear of change. Before long, it’ll be too late and all you would have collected will be dreams that stayed dreams, and not great stories to tell the grandkids like mom used to say,” he said.

She stopped for a red light and stared straight ahead. His head swung left and right to see the neighborhoods and strip malls. The light changed.

“Yeah, well, mom was bigger than life, and I could never compete with Jane Cochran no matter what I did. She trained other female pilots to fly military aircraft during World War II––her beloved WACs. After the war, she was the first woman to break the sound barrier. I don’t remember how many flying records she broke. I took all of those plaques down months ago. As a civilian, she broke down even more barriers. She opened the door to the airlines for women. Mom had logged more flight time going into the airlines than any man applying. I went to med school, and I always believed I broke her heart because I did,” she said.

“What’s wrong with your accomplishments in medicine? You’re a nationally recognized oncologist, Chairperson of the department. You broke quite a few barriers of your own, big sister. They don’t pale in mom’s shadow. Mom was mom. She started flying DC-3s, trained up to the Electra turbo-props and flew the first jet-powered Boeing. She flew everything between that and the A380. I don’t think she missed landing her airplane anywhere in the world. But you’ve saved lives in your career! They were so proud of you graduating a doctor of medicine, making discoveries, and becoming head of the department. They were proud when I graduated from law school, but they weren’t proud of my being a criminal attorney and keeping felons out of prison. I not only live in their shadow, I live in yours,” he said.

She looked at him with a disbelieving face. She couldn’t believe he felt that way.

“I think you followed into greatness by being daddy’s girl. He was always easier going, never trying to conquer some speed record. He cherished his little girl and what she had done with her life. You know he did, mom too. All that tinkering with him on cars taught you to tinker with biology and make discoveries. The only time I saw dad with disappointment in his eyes, was when I came out, but he never said a word about it. He just loved me no matter what,” he said.

She made a few turns on city streets that brought them to the house, which was impossible to see with the surrounding foliage and trees. He could see to the west the massive hospital where his sister worked. He had pushed her about her own practice but understood why she could never break away. He was more surprised he did. They sat in the car.

“Did it bother you that dad was disappointed?” she said

“Of course, how could I not be? But while other parents threw their sons out into the street, and never spoke to them again, I always had a home filled with love. I was lucky. And I was lucky, I guess, that I was more like mom. She taught me to protect myself, to never let anyone trash me for who I am. She taught me to stand on my own two feet and not let anyone get into my head because she used to say, ‘that’s where the battles are lost.’ Her strength and wisdom got me through law school and followed me throughout difficult times in life.”

She parked in the driveway and they got out of the car. The philosophical discussion ended. They wanted the keep the visit a happy reunion with the ones they loved.

Your completeness is right here in front of you within your grasp, but you’ll never truly be mindful of this until you realize it’s not a story that’s needed, it’s what’s already here.

Without inner silence, it’s very unlikely one will have the mindfulness needed to not create your stories. Even this writing is a story of how not to create stories, but the mindfulness of writing it helps to minimize the attachment to it and thus once it’s written it’s complete. Non attachment is always the key. A story can always be added to, but once something arises ask yourself, is this the end of the story or not? That will depend on how one relates their “I” identity to the story. The more “I” needs the story for its identity, the more “I” attaches to it and the more a story is needed. This is the merry-go-round of the Conditioned Mind. No attachment, no needed story, no needed story, no discontentment of what isn’t, so all you are left with is what is, not the story of it, but the actual reality of what is happening now.

Story after story after story. The story of how I feel, or the story of what I think, or my life’s story, there is an endless creation of stories, that is until one becomes mindful enough that the story teller and the story are seen as one in the same. Being with what is instead of a created story will be the most difficult thing one when ever do in their life, but it will also be the most fulfilling lesson you will ever learn. Just be in the silence of what is, attach nothing and nothing will be needed. Imagine that, needing nothing to be happy, joyous, and free and understanding that you’re complete just as you are. It’s right there within your grasp, it’s right in front of you, but you’ll never truly be mindful of this until you realize it’s not a story that’s needed, it’s what’s already here.