Bottom Feeder

Bottom Feeder

Maria G. Cope

Copyright © 2013 by Maria G.
Cope

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311072658

All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed,
stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval
system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a
reviewer who may quote brief passages for review
purposes.

This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or
occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story
lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. 

Cover Photograph and Design
by

Lady Bird Photography

526 1st Avenue North

Great Falls, MT 59405

United States

To my heroes and villains.

Without you,

I would not be

the person I am today.

Foreword

Reaver 6-1, Special Operations
Command

Author’s Note: When I asked if he
would write a Foreword for this book, I wasn’t expecting this type
of response. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t something
that reads like a journal, like a sneak peek into his unfiltered
mind. He wrote something more than I could have ever asked
for. Thank you, Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command. The floor
is all yours.

It's Thanksgiving Day. Yesterday, I
arrived to Fort Bragg, NC, an 18 year-old kid 3,000 miles away from
home. Needless to say I won't be partaking in any annual
turkey with my kinfolk.  It's okay, though. This guy
everyone calls Sergeant Major has invited myself and another guy to
his house for the celebration.  

I'm a little quiet. I have a lot on my
mind. Before I left the building I will be working in, my boss
alerted me not to unpack my gear because I would be leaving to
support the invasion of Iraq in three days. The next few days
were spent eating leftovers and calling friends and
family.

Hey, what else can I do?

Six months later and I'm back home. You
really learn a lot about yourself and others when placed in that
situation. Coming from Compton, California I wasn't too
worried about a war zone; I mean, I kinda lived in one.

But this was different.

This was like being the Away Team, trying to
hold on for four quarters and still keep enough in the tank to get
back to the bus after the game. But I was one of the lucky
ones to make it back in one piece. Some made it
back. Others, not so much. Good people, too. I'm
going to miss them a lot.

But I can't dwell on that just yet. I
gotta get my mind right, because I just found out I have 16 days
off, then I start training for a rapid push again. Apparently,
I impressed someone last time around. Check me out: Two combat
missions and I can't legally have a drink yet. I'm a bad
ass.

Wow. That was a rough one. A
constant wave of rockets and bombs come my way. Stranded on
top of a building for 3 or 4 days fighting sleep and the enemy at
the same time. Trying to explain to a woman who doesn't
understand English or Spanish that her daughter's death was the
result of her husband's road side bombs.

Yeah, we had our release
valves. We caught up on the many bad days of Jack Bauer
on
 24
,
educated ourselves to the mystical workings of women
with 
Sex in the
City
. We even had the time to figure out
why so many guys in the USA hate 
The
Sound of Music
. Personally, I think it's
because they will never get a woman that hot who can sing. Not all
of us are Jay-Z.

Finding things to take your mind off the bad
stuff is easy when you are around guys who suffer the suck with
you. We typically didn't address our struggles with each
other. It was an unwritten rule that you weren't allowed to
bitch and moan to another guy who went through the same thing as
you, and he's not bitching and moaning.  

So we just drove on.

We go out, spend some bullets, win some hearts
and minds (that's what they call it now). We come back, shower
and eat, turn on a movie, get bombed, run outside, come back and go
to sleep. It becomes routine; you knew what to expect, so it became
easy to deal with.

I am now the proud owner of more Combat
Service Stripes than Time in Service Stripes. Three Combat
Stripes. Eighteen months of combat service and I receive my
First Time in Service Stripe at three years.

But enough of that.  

I'm home now. Still not
allowed to drink, but I can finally flaunt this war badge to the
ladies in non-military towns. Awesome! They are going to love
me . . . love me as much as they want. 
Yes!

Tomorrow, I leave for the airport. That is, if
tomorrow ever gets here.

I can't seem to fall asleep. My mind is
racing. I'm thinking that something is wrong. Something
isn't secure. Something is vulnerable. I don't know what it
is. I thought it was jet lag at first, but it's been almost 2
weeks.

Nah, this is something
different. Something weird.

I feel really relaxed now, though. Only
if I could go to sleep. . .

What was that?

Okay, I know I heard that. Let me check
it out. Okay, it was nothing. Check the windows, check
the doors, check every room, every corner. Nothing. Good.
Safe and secure. Let me lay back down.

What was that . . .

My mom and dad are happy to see me. They
missed my 19th birthday, so along with all my favorite foods,
they have a cheesecake with candles; I prefer cheesecake to regular
cake.

I see my uncles, aunts, cousins and
siblings. I also see a few people I don't know. My First
Sergeant said, “A coming home party from war has a way of bringing
new family members out." I guess he was right; I didn't think
I had Mexicans in my family. Let me watch them for a little while,
make sure they don't try anything.

Yeah, I know. But you never
know.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yeah,
that's the official name for it. You find this prominent in
individuals returning home from a combat zone. More recently,
from the War on Terror.

The docs told me I have it.

Thankfully we were under doctor-patient
privilege when I told him about my constant drinking and partying,
my newfound knack for anger and my short temper. He asked me about
my hyper vigilance—I’m always on alert and prepared for the
worst. I told him it's a precaution to make sure things are in
order.  

He asked, "How many times?" Six or seven
throughout the night.  

He asked, "How do you sleep?" I'm now
accustomed to about 4 hours of sleep each night.

"What brought this on?"  

 
I can't answer
that.

Maybe it was watching my buddy take one while
he slept. Maybe it was getting news over the wire about my
boss getting halved by shrapnel. Oh, did I mention all that
happened after the President declared, “Mission
accomplished”?

 
Yeah, that made me
mad.  Mad enough to want to go out and end the mission
myself. End it all.

Next came a friend who died in a helo crash
getting back to the main base to have a severe sprain looked at
because we didn't have X-Ray techs on our camp.

Oftentimes, people who don't understand, won't
understand. That's why it's so hard to treat PTSD on an
individual level. Everyone is different. Everyone has their
own demons and experience. But one thing I can tell
you: This—whatever it is going on in my head—it doesn't do
anything to me. It takes away from me.

I never knew what it took away until I began
to miss it.

I miss having a good night's sleep. I
miss being able to relax. I miss the sound of the 4th of July.
I miss dreams; all I have these days are nightmares. I miss being
able to conduct myself in a crowd. I miss having a drink just
for fun; my mind has linked drinking to memory. So I
drink. And I think about the guys I'm drinking to—the ones who
should be drinking with me, the ones who should be drinking instead
of me. I miss the way morning used to make me feel so
alive. Now I question if today is my day. You know, The
Day. I miss action movies; gun fire makes me a little
jumpy. I miss being able to eat steak. Had a little
incident where a bunch of people were hurt by some really hot stuff
and, well . . . never mind. I miss how making friends used to
make me feel. Nowadays, if you haven't lived in my boots in some
way, shape, or form, you don't belong.

But hey, it's not so bad.

I've had countless missions and one failed
marriage—I think me dragging her outside to the MedEvac helo had
something to do with it. Yeah, I was dreaming. The heavy
drinking, screaming names in my sleep, and waking up to faces of
baddies that got it from me . . . yeah, I think I made out good on
this end. Better than most.

Once the docs figure out how to treat this
thing, though, I'll be good as new. But for now, good enough is as
good as it gets. I still got a job to do. Yeah, I may see
some things that may make it worse, but remember: if a 44 year-old
man can do it, I damn sure can.

I'm 19 years old and not yet in my
prime. I still have a long way to go.

Prologue

Maddy

My time is limited so I will make this
quick. My name is Madelyn Faith Carrington, but you can call me
Maddy. I am seventeen years old. My skills include running in
flip-flops and eating my weight in fried okra; sometimes together,
but not always in that order.  

I lie sometimes. Don't
look at me like that. Please. It's only to protect the ones I love
from the ones who hate me. Because of the scars on my wrists,
people think I tried to end my life. Between us, and only us:
I 
did not
 put those scars there.

My best friend, Dixon,
means the world and everything in it to me. He's the only person I
trust, and even he doesn't know everything. Tybee Island is my
home, but not for much longer. Daddy is 
forcing 
guiding me with the
best of intentions to attend school in New York. My mama died when
I was eleven. And Daddy? Well, he might have killed
her. 

I need to confess everything before
the same happens to me.

Prologue

Jackson

My name is Jackson Benton-Monroe. I am
an Explosive Ordinance Disposal soldier in the United States Army.
 

They want me to talk about why I am
angry. They say I should tell you about the guilt of coming out of
war without so much as a scratch, while others went home without
body parts, or in a box with a United States flag draped across the
top.  

But let me tell you
something, I 
do
not
 want to tell anyone about my
twelve months in the mountains of Afghanistan. So, no, I am not
going to talk about anger or guilt. Besides, if I told you an
untied bootlace saved my life you will probably call me a coward
for not dying. I don’t blame you.
I will say this once:  a war is not only fought by countries
of soldiers across oceans and deserts and mountains. No. After
combat, the battles at home begin. Our mind, our family, our trust
is never the same. I thought the worst was over as soon as my size
twelve boots hit American soil.  

I was wrong.  

I learned about a different kind of
battle; a backdoor assault where one person will take hits so
others don't have to suffer. Some of us wish we could be that
honorable, but instead we will bunker down and cower away from
anything that might hurt. 
I will tell you my story on the single term that this will all be
said with strict confidentiality. There are others whose lives
depend on your guarantee, so please consider carefully.