Fake (A Pretty Pill)

Criss Copp

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2013 by C.E. Copp

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the express written consent of the author; with the exception of the use of short excerpts quoted in reviews of this ebook.
  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. 

Once again I want to dedicate this book to my friends and family for their support. 

I’d like to especially thank Tallowyn for his insight and reading it with me and debating over certain scenes to be sure I made them real.  Absolute legend!

I’d like to thank David for a fabulous cover.  Really, you have a terrific eye for art.

And thank you to anyone who has read one of my books thus far.  You’re all truly amazing.

Word
back at home was that Marjah was all but completely liberated from the insurgent forces back in August of 2010.  I had to ask my parents where they were getting their information from at the time, because from what I could see at Camp Dwyer, there was no liberation; there wasn’t even an out and out win.  There was an ongoing tussle of affairs between our guys on the ground and the Taliban, who were relentless and ruthlessly efficient.  The fact that my parents were feeding off of information placed out there that would make the general population back at home more comfortable about this ongoing war, didn’t really cross my mind at the time.  My parents had been completely opposed to my involvement from the beginning anyway; and because being in the military was completely beneath them; I always felt they were just having another dig at me.

I had been months into my deployment with the Army as a fully trained specialist; 68W Medic.  I had wanted in from the moment the
Military spokesman came to our school on a careers day.  I originally thought being an Army paramedic would be exciting, I thought it would be interesting and I would learn more about life than being cooped up with my ‘respectable’ parents in San Luis Obispo County, California.  I was right; it was indeed an experience I would never receive back at home painting my nails, or shopping for dresses with my mom; or going to the Country Club all primped and pulled and made up; and trying to impress a rich doctor type, like Mom wanted me to.

I had already successfully completed a deployment in Kandahar the year before I was attached to an infantry unit out of Camp Dwyer, so I
had experience… valuable experience.

But the
fact that I saw the inside of Camp Dwyer more than I got to hump along in the back of infantry vehicles throughout the Helmind River Valley was also an indication that things were still very unstable.  The infantry didn’t really like to see women on the field if it was volatile; although we were getting to see more and more action, and there were the female only platoons (albeit in their infancy) being utilized even within these hostile territories.  However, I got my fair share of action.

The day that
we got blown away was a typically hot day in Helmind Province; well above 100 degrees.  I was travelling with an infantry unit because they had a situation where they needed an Afghan female searched as a matter of urgency, and it was called in.  There was something very suspicious about the family dynamics.  They lived on the edge of Marjah, farming the meager land there. It was a 40 minute drive away from camp, and because it was urgent, we mobilized promptly.

The boys in the company were
mostly polite; I’d worked alongside many of them already, and they were sincerely protective of me.  I guess they always saw danger coming, certainly they were on edge, despite the place we were heading having already been scouted and searched; and then deemed safe to approach the day before, with no devices discovered. 

But of course
the guys weren’t lacking; they were rightfully wary, alert and pre-empting danger; all of them scouting and looking out for me, every step of the way.  They were most certainly ‘prepared’ for an altercation.

I remember stepping out of our vehicle.  I remember Scott, a 19 year old from Tallahassee, Florida; mirroring my movements, taking possession of my protection, despite not being senior.  I remember talking to him about the smell
as he moved forward away from me, toward the Sergeant some distance away; yet remaining before me in a protective fashion; his eyes darting left and right as he spoke.

I could smell burnt wood, dusty earth,
and sweat; lots of sweat; but somewhere amongst those normal smells; those expected smells, I could smell the sickly sweetness.  A rancid, sickly sweetness that made the back of my throat swallow instinctively.  This wasn’t an unlikely smell either.  Lots of death, in the heat that is summer there, brings with it such smells.  But for some reason, the hairs on the back of my neck raised instinctually.  I watched the Sergeant as Scott walked forward to him, I noticed that the family were uninterested in coming forward to greet us, choosing to remain in their dwelling.

The smell was getting to me.  I had the distinct feeling we were missing something here, and I knew that Scott felt the same, and that was why he had walked forward to talk to our Sergeant.  They met some distance away.  I watched them talk a little, but they were too far away for me to hear anything.  I watched as Scott turned and gave me one of his cheeky grins, he was a handsome guy.  I guess he clarified if he could shadow me
, because he felt distinctly uncomfortable about this situation.  It wouldn’t be the first time he appointed himself the role.  I briefly watched the Sergeant about face and walk towards the dwelling. 

I went to clear my throat,
and I looked down at my boots to hide the smile that was forming because Scott was beaming his stupid grin.  I took a big deep breath; and then I was thrown back several feet, and slammed into the side door of the vehicle I had been travelling in.  My whole body lifted for those few split seconds; which for some reason, felt like minutes.  I hit the vehicle with such force; I could feel the give in the metal.  That was what I recalled; that, and Scott’s body being plastered across mine; piece by fucking piece.

*

A clattering sound caused by the squidgy falling from my trolley onto the vinyl, brings me back to the present moment; and I’m here, at work; not in Afghanistan at all.  I’m breathing hard, but I’m alive and present.

Looking around me
at the pristine hallway, I have no idea why I just recycled that memory; except to remind me that it was two years ago last month, that I woke up having survived that God awful experience that left me scarred; both physically and emotionally.

My mom was
angry at me when I returned home from Afghanistan, because of my near death experience.  She felt and expressed her personal insult at the extent of my injuries; however, she also expressed her pleasure that at least my face wasn’t scarred. I guess I looked down at the right time, my helmet kind of did its job; but the scars across my stomach, hip and thigh are quite a sight.  Let’s just say I don’t go out of my way to parade around in a bikini anymore.  But I’m alive, which is more than I can say for Scott.

I need to dismiss these thoughts; they’re unhelpful.

Again I look around me.  I’m at work; I’m currently finishing up cleaning the rail along the East Wing near room 24, and its 10:30am.  The hallway is empty, because everyone is in their therapy sessions.  At least they should be.

The ‘May Sedgwick Respite Facility’, Mental Health Services division for transitional aged youth,
where I work; is not to be confused with their Detox and Recovery centre, located on the same ten acre property, but on a different front.  Both of them are expensive privately run facilities; the clientele are rich, or have amazing health insurance.  I certainly wouldn’t be able to come here if I was currently in the market for it.  But the restrictions between the two centres towards visitation and security are significantly different.  This section may look nice, but it’s a prison nonetheless.

I sigh, momentarily allowing my
hand to drift across my stomach where my clothing hides my contractured skin.  I have reached the door for room 24.  There is a new patient in room 24, but he’ll be attending his counseling session; a mandatory first day experience for all new patients.  I know it’s a young man rather than a woman, because I was given his name when I got to work this morning.  Mr. Tayte… Mr. Silas Tayte.  I don’t know anything else about him or his condition, however, to be here in this facility he must come from money, and he must be getting better because this is the beginning stage of his transitional return to everyday life.

I offer a small
, timid knock on the door; merely habit since as I said, he won’t be in here; and I push my trolley through the door.  There’s nobody inside the room, just a rumpled bed and some clothing on the floor, since he came in last night.  I keep the door open, since I’m not allowed to be alone with any patients in their bedroom unless the door is open; and despite the fact that I am alone, I don’t like to break myself of the habit of keeping things transparent.  The door to the ensuite is at an angle to the room, so I don’t see in there at first, it is only when I walk forward to go and open the windows that I discover a figure present in the corner of my eye.

I’
m a little edgy these days, so the fact that there is someone in my peripheral vision has me instantaneously on alert; so I swing around to face the anomaly.

And there he is. 
Mr. Silas Tayte himself, standing in front of the fixed, unbreakable acrylic mirror.  His back is to me and he is wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.  He’s very tall, lean and muscular.  His shortish hair is dripping wet, as are his back and shoulders.  He’s hunched over the basin, a soft keening cry escaping him.  His whole body appears to be trembling, and I can’t help but notice his massive tattoo over his right shoulder and down his right arm in a half sleeve.  It is mechanical, as in robotic.  The flesh looks torn over the underlying image, and it’s a masterpiece.

I cannot believe that he is standing here instead of in therapy to begin with, and it makes me a little annoyed; however, his obvious distress is pulling at me
, tearing at my heart.  I forgot I even had one till right now.

He looks up into th
e mirror and I notice his eyes; his piercing green eyes, which are staring back at me.

I live in a bubble.  I live in a bubble that allows me to bounc
e from one situation to another relatively unscathed.  The world beyond my bubble is a whole lot of white noise.  The bubble is what keeps my fractured existence intact.  It holds me together and gently allows me to navigate through life, cushioning my travel through the rough traffic.

This young man hasn’t bothered to say anything to me yet,
and still he’s saying so much with his expression, I feel like he’s screaming at me.  He’s stunningly handsome; I’d have to be dead not to notice that.  His face is well proportioned, with a strong nose, generous lips and a well defined jawline.  He has some growth on his jawline – slightly scruffy and sexy as all hell.  But his beautiful eyes; an amazing and unusual color of green – scream at me in fear.  His expression relays the fact that someone has stolen the sun from his sky.  I can’t help the way that makes me feel.  I don’t get to feel anymore; my feelings have been shut away in the dark recesses of my soul for the past two years.  But he is making me feel something positive and negative all at once.  And then, just like that and without a sound; without a whispered word or a fraction of movement, this young man has glided through the boundaries of my bubble, merged inside beyond my line of demarcation, the barrier I have constructed around me; and forced me to care.