A Bleeding Heart Friendship

“If you looked into his eyes you would see nothing, he’s not there. He is miles away and I don’t know how to get him back. It started about a year ago, the night we lost Mom and Dad. Poor guy watched the whole thing. The nightmares, they are getting worse, but he won’t talk to me. I thought it would get better with time… but it is getting worse. ” Sadie, my sister said through the phone. I guess she didn’t hear the front door open. Sadie’s back was turned to me. She looks more and more like our mother every day. “No, he stopped working after the accident. He was a police officer, he’s been on leave since. Now he just works out and mopes around the house all day.” I clear my throat and pull out the dining room chair; she jumps.

“Holy shit you scared me, Sammy,” she said to me, but her attention returned back to whoever was on the other line. “I will have to call you back… Thank you for your time… I really appreciate it. I know he will too.” She hung up.

“Sadie, you can’t go around gossiping with all your little college friends about my life, Jesus. Can’t some things just be private?” Sadie was 22 and five years younger than I was. She was home for summer break. I would never tell her, but I like having her here; the house is starting to feel a little bit more normal. Even though I could live without her constant piano playing and the terrible singing when she’s in the shower.

“Actually that was Dr. Peterson. He’s a doctor down at the Veterans Hospital, he specializes in helping soldiers cope with their post-traumatic stress disorder, also known as PT-”

“I know what PTSD is Sadie, and it’s highly insensitive to compare our trauma to soldiers who fought an actual war.”

“I’m not comparing our trauma. I am comparing yours. Sam you can’t keep pretending like you don’t have a problem; help is available. I know you aren’t sleeping, the excessive exercising, and the nightmares, I can tell they are getting worse. Once you finally process everything, you could go back to work, maybe finally make detective-”

She has to catch her breath; she is speaking so fast like she’s scared I am going to interrupt her. She looks so much like mom. Her hair is the same dark brown with tints of red when the sunlight hits it. She has dad’s dark heavy eyebrows. Truth is, I want so badly to be angry with her. She has no idea what she is even talking about, but she also sounds so much like Mom, so I let her go on.

She continues lecturing me, “And I know you, you won’t ask for help, and you don’t have to. But you are going to have to accept it because I am not going anywhere. We are all we have left Sammy.” For some reason, I can’t bring myself to look at her, let alone respond. Silence fills the entire room, a room neither of us wants to be in anymore.

“Trust me, Sadie, I get it. I know. I just… I don’t know it is all so fucked up. I don’t understand how people just bounce back from this shit ya know?”

“I know, I know, but I am here, I want to help, but I don’t think I can be the one to help you through it. I’m worried about you and I’m scared because I don’t know any more than you do. I think it would benefit you to go to the VA Hospital, they have real doctors who will know how to help you through it.”

She takes my silence as a substantial answer. “Group therapy is at 5:00 on Mondays down at the hospital. The choice is yours, go or don’t.”

I get up and start to walk out. “Thanks, Mom,” I say sarcastically and roll my eyes.

I left the kitchen and head to the basement. In junior high, I thought about trying out for the football team, and the moment I mentioned it to my dad, within the week he had the entire basement turned into a workout room. I never ended up trying out, but this is where Dad and I hung out. Eventually, we put up a television and we would watch ESPN; he gave me my first beer down here, this was our space.

I turned on the TV. The news flashed before my eyes but my brain wasn’t computing any of it. I just watch the lights change and think of how miraculous it is that my eyes can absorb all the different colors and shapes; then my brain calculates and interprets those random pieces and translates them into something I understand. Sometimes I see all those colors and images, yet my brain stops interpreting them, I just stare at the things in front of me transforming. I think of all the things I have seen and will never remember, but also all the things I have seen and will never forget.

I think of my dad. I picture his face; his face once burned in my memory forever has started to become blurry, like a camera that can’t quite focus on the subject. I see him and my mother dancing in the kitchen, I hear Sadie playing the piano, but it is disrupted by their laughter. Their laughter, my mom’s loud and offensive laugh that I am sure the neighbors could hear; my dad giggling in response to her contagious joy. I feel my body relax and my muscles release all tension.

The sound of their joy and laughter mold into screams.

I wake up in my bed upstairs. I hear another scream. Then a bang. I run downstairs, and pass the now wide-open front door; I see my mother and father on their knees. Instinct tells me to reach for the gun holster, but it’s not there. Dread, fear, agony, pain, anxiety, adrenaline: all pumping through my body directing me in different ways. I dare to move, but I cannot. A hooded man with lifeless, cold eyes stands before me; he drops the bag and smiles at me. He pulls the trigger. Bang. My mother falls forward. my dad lunges toward her; another bang. Their faces stare at each other on the ground. The man bolts for the door. I see my gun come forward. One bang, two bang, three bang, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

His body lay on the front lawn, with nine holes scattered around his body. My legs move me to my parents. My muscles crumble, I fall to the floor where I lay in their blood, holding them both. My mother’s long blonde hair stained a deep red. My dad’s glasses broken and spattered with both his blood and my mother’s. Staring into eyes that aren’t staring back. I cry, I cry, and I cry until I can feel the warmth of the blood around me starting to turn cold, and the once liquid blood on my hands is starting to stiffen.

“Sammy, wake up!” My body rattles into a blurry, dazed state. I am staring at the spitting image of my mother 20 years ago. “Mom,” the word falls off my lips before the fuzz wears off and I realize I am staring at Sadie.

---

Monday I came back from my run, Sadie made sandwiches for lunch and rambled on about God knows what, tiptoeing around the question she really wanted to ask. But she doesn’t. Truthfully, had she asked I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I had thought about it, I really did but I’m not a soldier terrorized by the ongoing global wave of violence. It’s not fair to go in there to ask for their help or pity.

I sit across the dining room table pretending to listen to her go on about God knows what. I notice the tiny things she does; she tucks her long brown hair behind her ear every time she pauses and she taps her fingers in a delicate way like there are piano keys lining the edge of the table. I think it’s the space. In the space next to the table is the one that haunts us both. After the incident, she came home a few hours later to find us all lying in a pool of blood. Sadie was the one to call the cops, she lifted me off the floor and put me in the shower as she dealt with the police. She dealt with it all with grace and composure. She even talks about the situation with dignity as though she has processed and come to terms with it all.

But I see the way she takes a deep breath when she walks through the doorway; I notice the way her footsteps are lighter when she walks across the center of the room; I see these things because I do them, but for her, she notices, notes, and moves on. While every room I walk into I find myself noticing the memories that have blessed and cursed the house. I see her now, talking to the portrait that I know is hung behind my head, above the kitchen table. It is our family portrait. We took that picture at the beach after I graduated. Sadie looks so young still in her awkward pre-teen phase. But she sits in between mom and dad, who look like the annoyingly happy stock photo couple. I stand awkwardly towering over them in the back. Because they are sitting, my 6’ 3” body looks even more lanky than I imagine it was. My dark hair had just been buzzed cut since I had no idea what hair gel was back then. But still I stand tall, my olive skin tanned to a crisp from the beach sun. Now I am much paler, but still had more color than most in the neighborhood. Despite being heavily caucasian, people always asked if I was hispanic. It happened more as a kid, but every once in a while some nosy white mom in the grocery store tries to make conversation by asking.

I must have zoned for a moment, Sadie starts snapping her fingers in front of my face.“Hellooooo,” she is leaning over the table now.

“Sorry, it’s just soo hard to listen when you’re so boring,” I joke.

She smiles but with a soft “you’re lying to me” smile.

“5:00 please, for me.”

I know I have to go. I don’t want to, but I have to. When I look at Sadie I see her motherly compassion and every part of me wants to be better than the person she believes me to be. I mean come on, five years her elder and she has to take care of me now? I was the one to pick her up from piano lessons, I babysat her in middle school, and I egged the car of her ex-boyfriend after he dumped her. But now she has taken on the caretaker role and I am conflicted by the feeling. On one hand, to have someone who reminds me so much of Mom taking care of me, making sure I eat, playing the piano, livening up the house, and keeping it clean, that is the best thing to come out of this year. But, Sadie isn’t mom, she can’t replace her fully. And she deserves to be treated as her own person. Plus, I’m scared she won’t go back to school for her senior year if I don’t get better. So really, it is for her. It is only ever for her. I decide in that moment staring at her all grown up, but my mind remembers the tiny little nerd who used to wear pigtails and braces and call me Thammy with a lisp, this is for her. That girl deserves better. She made it through, she dealt with the heartbreak and she can’t stay here in this house, just to watch me continue to suffer.

I spend the afternoon in the basement when I check my phone at 4:45; the look of Sadie and her pitiful smile appears in my mind. I groan and grab my crap.

I walk into a large brick building that feels cold, despite there being large windows that surround the entire lobby. The walls are painted a crisp white that exemplifies the hospital feel of the place. I walk past a few guys in wheelchairs and on crutches.

I keep my eyes down and make a straight beeline for the reception desk. “Hi, I am looking for a Dr. Peters or Peterson, he may be leading some group thing?”

The elder woman looks up from the computer screen, pulls down her reading glasses, and smiles, “Second-floor room 204 sweetie.”

I manage to find an empty conference room, the room is filled with cheap fold-up tables and terribly uncomfortable chairs. I count 6 people surrounding the snack table despite there only being a box of store-bought muffins. I notice a ginger woman missing an arm talking to a guy close to my age in a wheelchair. I felt the urge to come up with a comedic joke, but my thoughts were interrupted when an older gentleman, maybe 65, comes up behind me and says, “You must be Samuel Morton.”

"I would feel better about you knowing my name if I knew yours.”

“Doctor Peterson, I believe I met your sister, Sadie Morton, earlier today.”

I audible snark, “Of course you did.”

“To have someone who cares is not a bad thing ya know.”

I clear my throat, “So how does this work?”

“Well come sit and find out.” He pats my shoulder and we walk to the unappealing circle of chairs. “Well, bout time we kick this thing off. I would like to welcome a visitor, Samuel Morton. Samuel or Sam?” he looks at me while everyone else is getting comfortable in their chairs. The ginger woman sat to my left and an older gentleman with all his limbs sat to my right.

“It is Sam, not Samuel or Sammy. Just Sam.”

“Well just Sam, thank you for coming. Who wants to kick off the conversation?”

“I can,” the woman next to me speaks up. She must be in her early thirties. She was pretty, but she looked tired. She had deep circles under her eyes, but she was a tormented type of pretty.

“Um, as you all know I have been struggling a lot with dealing with what happened after I came home. Oh shit, I am Mary Herra. ” She looks over at me, “For some background, I got home from Iraq 8 months ago, where we were blindsided, and then blah, blah, blah, I come home with one less extremity, but not the point really. I thought I had finally come to terms with my new life, and I’ve adjusted. I am even currently getting fitted for a prosthetic finally, but I was raised Catholic. I believe in a good and merciful God. I do, I believe that. But I can’t find him anymore. I don’t see him in this new life, and I close my eyes to pray and all I see is the Iraqi desert littered with the bodies of soldiers and pedestrians alike. I am scared to blink because I know they are waiting. I don’t know, how do I pray to a God that is making me relive that shit. It was bad and bloody, I know, I was there.”

There is a small silence. I shouldn’t be here, this is not who I am. I mean I feel terrible for her, but my pity won’t benefit her and her pain won’t cure mine.

“Well I don’t claim to be a religious man by any means, but I do know the very concept of faith is believing in something you can’t see. So I know you are seeing and reliving these horrendous moments but you have that faith. That faith has gotten you this far in life, I wouldn’t give it up so easily.” Dr. Peterson is sitting with his legs crossed like the stereotypical therapist.

“I mean you could give it up because it doesn’t make sense, but hey just an idea.” I turn around, and I see a guy with dark sunglass walk in, he’s easily 6’ tall and using a walking stick. He comes to the circle and taps the top of the closest chair with his cane; it is chrome black with red snakes carved into the stem of the cane, that spiral to the top. “Is this seat taken?”

“So nice of you to join us, Henry. Please sit.”

“I am just saying your “good” and “merciful” God done put all our asses in these seats. Your “good” and “merciful” God made sure I’d never see anything again. Your “good” and “merciful” God killed your friends, my friends, kids, women, men, good, and bad alike, without a second thought. Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“No-”

Dr. Peterson interrupts, “I am loving this dialogue, but this is not a theological class. As Decarte says, religion is real when the impact it has on one’s life is real. Coping with your trauma is important and certain things in life can help us deal with and process. Since religion isn’t your coping mechanism, Henry please share with us how you deal with your trauma?”

“Alcohol,” Henry’s laugh echoed in the silent room. “Tough crowd. Did I accidentally walk into AA?” His voice was raspy, yet oddly soothing.

Dr. Peterson sensing the dark path the conversation was taking, “Someone please share to shut him up. And yes Henry I would suggest AA as well. Sam, would you like to share in the last few minutes?”

“Um, I can try. I um don’t necessarily belong here. I mean I am not a veteran. I was, well am, actually, I am not sure, they probably gave my desk away, but a cop, I am a police officer. Or was? Um, I have been on leave for almost a year. There was a home robbery in my parents' home. I was asleep upstairs around midnight, while my parents were downstairs sharing a late night glass of wine. I heard a scream and naturally followed it. I saw this guy holding a bag with my mother’s necklace hanging out of the side pocket and I froze. I instinctively go for my gun and I had left it upstairs. I mean come on I left it upstairs, what kind of cop does that? So maybe they were right to give my desk up. But I snuck upstairs to grab it, as come down the stairs ready to shoot, I heard one shot, followed by another. He got halfway to the lawn and I put 9 bullets in him.”

They all stare at me waiting for more information. I begin to squirm, “But yeah that’s about it, I don’t umm… well I am not gonna lie, I am not like you guys. Ya know like yall made this big sacrifice for the greater good but I... I fucked up. It was my fault..." my voice breaks and I find it hard to continue, I begin to fiddle with my fingers.

“It’s okay, this room is a safe place. If you aren’t a vet, there has to be a reason why you are here,” Peterson says.

Henry speaks up, "Don't let the self-righteous bullshit get in the way. I mean I know our Danny over there,” pointing to the guy in the wheelchair, “he stepped in, saved his best friend in the line of duty, ended up in that damn chair. But if you look at the bigger picture. Our "sacrifice" didn't mean shit. There is still a war going on. No one's given up. Violence is here, violence is there. There's no way to escape it. So, no, you aren't like us, you might just be a little smarter, fighting the violence on your own turf."

“Well, honestly, it was my sister’s suggestion. It’s nice, she does care. She knows me better than anyone alive. I guess she has picked up on the fact I can’t sleep, and the house… the house is teasing me with memories, memories good and bad,” I pause and take a deep breath. “I walk into a room and it is like a time machine, I am completely transported to a different time.”

“Does anyone have any suggestions for Sam to help before time runs out?”

Mary speaks up, “I tried dream journaling. It helped, if you do it before you go to bed I felt as though I got the dream over before I went to sleep. I dealt with the dream on my own terms versus when I was unconscious.”

Henry giggles to himself and speaks out, “But hear me out…” He leans in as if he is going to spill the special secret, creating dramatic suspense, “If you drink so much you can’t remember you’ll sleep just fine.”

“Great suggestion Herra; Henry no more speaking for you; Sam you can also try meditation, but talking about them is the first step in overcoming them. Coming today was a big step, unfortunately, we are out of time, but I encourage you to continue coming. If you need anything please call my secretary, and we will set up a time to talk. Other people in the group are a great resource too, except obviously Henry.”

Henry raises his hand like it is junior high, “permission to speak sir?”

“Denied Henry. Have a great day y’all.” He got up and headed out of the conference room.

Most everyone left quickly after, but a few stayed to snack on the muffins in the back of the room. Of the few that stayed were Mary and Henry. I could hear them bickering:

“You are so hopeless. One day you’re gonna wake up and realize that the war didn’t ruin your life, the fact that you’re an asshole did.” Mary snapped at him.

“Oh please, the war didn’t ruin my life, quite the opposite actually. If I didn’t lose my eyes in the war, I’d be staring at your ugly face, but luckily I don’t have to anymore.”

“Oh my God, stop with the sarcasm. Face the fucking music, Henry.”

“Oh don’t you worry honey, I am dancin’ to the motherfucking music,” he started tapping his legs, pretending to dance. His head turns toward me. Crap, how did he know I was listening? He waves me over.

“Welcome to the fucked up club, I am Henry Stultz.” His black hair was combed to perfection, maybe a bit too long for a man in his 30s but his tan skin made him look like a movie star.

He stuck his hand out and I shook it, “nice to meet you,” he flashes a big smile. “It’s nice to hear a new voice. I was getting tired of hearing Mary ranting the entire time.”

“Hey! You’ve come once in the past two months don’t even start with me. I’ve gotta go, I better see you next week dumbass.” She flashes a small smile and leaves.

“Will you look at that! Six o’clock! Happy hour, can I buy you a drink? There’s a place down the block,” Henry says to me.

“Um, it is actually 7 and you don’t have a watch,” I replied.

“Doesn’t matter, come on, Sam is it?”

I nod my head forgetting that he can’t see it, “Oh yeah, Sam Morton.” We walk through downtown Pittsburgh. It’s been a while since I’ve just walked the streets. When I go out for my runs, I take the neighborhood streets mostly to avoid the traffic but also to avoid the people. The streets are crowded with people leaving work. We walk in silence listening to the city around us. There’s a businesswoman speed-walking past us while she screams into her cell phone. There’s a couple holding hands in front of us, but in an awkward first date kind of way; you know, there’s way too much space between them and their arms are too rigid.

A block and a half later we come to a bar squished in between a laundromat and a women's clothing store. The black flag in front of the building has white letters that reads “WAZE.”

We walk in and my nose is greeted by the smell of cigarettes and grease. The neon signs light up the brick walls. There is a crowd of young people in the back playing pool, while the old townies are scattered around the bar.

“Welcome to my second home,” Henry says with a big gesture of his hands. “It helps that my apartment is right upstairs.” We find two seats at the bar.

“Yo Tony,” he shouts to the bartender. “Two Millers.”

He turns to me as Tony puts two Miller Lite bottles in front of us. “So what’s the truth?” Henry turns toward me, “Your story, it’s bullshit. Drink. Then you can tell me the truth.”

“I really don’t know what you mean, everything I said was true. Parents killed in a robbery nI should have stopped, and used to be a cop.”

“Why aren’t you a cop anymore, how long’s it been?” Henry starts his interrogation.

“Uh, a little more than a year. I don’t think I want to be a cop anymore, don’t think it was my calling. I’ll find something else.”

“Ah gotcha, failed your parents, failed your job, and now you’re scared, figures. What else, what about your sister?”

“You can’t grill me like a freakin’ criminal. This is a conversation, it’s your turn to share.” “Iraq. There for 8 years. Been back for 2. Bomb. Failed to dismount. Explosion. Shrapnel and infection in the eyes. Blind.” He avoids looking over at me, but his tone is very matter-of-fact. “Now what about your sister, you mention she forced you here?”

“Yeah, she’s stubborn but has the right intentions. She found me that night, sitting with my parents in complete shock, dealt with the cops, and nursed me back to reality. Initially, after she would play the piano to help me go to sleep. Didn’t matter the time of day, I would lay on the couch and she would play for hours. At least until I woke up screaming, and she’d just start playing again.”

“You’re lucky, that’s a good sister.”

It feels nice to hear someone say that I was lucky. I don’t see a pity in his expressions or hear it in his voice. After a while, you can sense pity without seeing it their eyes.

I try to pin down what kind of person he is. I hear a guy who doesn’t know how to speak about pain. The drinking is his way of talking about it; it’s his excuse to think about it. Henry’s hiding, but his jokes make me wonder if that’s a coping mechanism or a way to make people around him smile.

There’s a little bit of silence, “Tony! My man 2 beers, 2 tequilas.” I look at him with wide eyes. I haven’t taken shots in years, I find straight liquor to be disgusting. “Happy hour! Two dollar shots.” He flashes his pearly whites and says, “Plus you and I got a lot in common and you need a friend.”

He’s not wrong. Around the six month mark after the accident, my cop buddies stopped checking in. The frozen meals slowly stopped coming. The extended family stopped showing up. My partner, Lindsay, still comes over at least once a month, but she’s the best one at the station, and she’s only getting busier and busier.

I look at Henry, then down to the shot glass on the bar in front of me, then back at Henry. He smiles and laughs a big laugh that makes me smile. I grab the shot glass and hear the bottom of the glass unstick to the brown marbled bar beneath it. “Cheers,” I say as we clink glasses.

The warmth of the tequila comforts my nervous system as it slides down my spine. But my throat feels as though it’s been set aflame. My face pinched together as I cough away the burn. I grab the beer to calm the heat in my throat.

“Don’t die on me buddy,” Henry smacks my back. “We haven’t even gotten into your love life yet.”

We laugh together. “Nothing to tell there.”

“Bullshit. I call bullshit.”

I shrug, “You’ll never know.”

“Booo, you’re no fun,” he responds back to me. Tony takes our glasses and Henry nods at him. 5 seconds later Tony turns around with two more shots.

“Woah there Tony slow it down. Some of us drove.”

“Is that a blind joke?” Henry looks offended.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just have a car at the hospital and— “

Henry interrupts “I’m kidding dumbass. Of course, I didn’t drive. I told you I live upstairs. And Tony here is my roommate and childhood best friend. Tony this is Sam.” Tony is a big guy. He looks to be Italian, with dark features, deep brown skin, and a dark mustache only amplified by the black wife beater he’s wearing.

“Some would call me a glorified babysitter,” Tony says with a heavy New York accent. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam. Did you actually go to group today Fiddle?”

I chime in, “Yes he did. But who the hell is Fiddle?”

Henry scoffs, “Take the shot and I’ll tell you.” We clink glasses once again and I tell him he has to spill the beans. “Okay fine, as a kid we didn’t have much. My parents weren’t around much, so my granddad raised me and my little brother. He was living off of government compensation for the injury he sustained in Vietnam, so it was harder for him to care for two crazy ass kids when he could barely leave the apartment. Anyway, when he was younger he was in a band. He played the fiddle, he taught me when I was young. I practiced and played until my fingers bled. Now I am the best fiddle player you will ever meet.”

Tony was pouring a draft beer for some teenager across from us. He peers around, “Damn straight, played “Ole Joe Clark” for hours on end. Sometimes Fiddle here comes in and plays a few for the regulars. They really love him.”

“I don’t meet many fiddle players, so I am sure you are the best one I have ever met,” I tease. “What about your little brother? He a fiddle player too?”

“Probably, I hear the devil is a mighty big fiddle player. Sure he likes the competition down there,” he smiles into his beer, lifts it up, and finishes it off.

“Damn. I am sorry how’d you lose him?”

“Dumbass convinced me to join the army with him. Tony! He asked about Joel! 4 whiskey shots stat. And 2 more beers!” Henry was screaming across the bar, but Tony yelled back. “On it boss!”

“Boss?” I asked Henry.

He looks at me and grins, “Oh did I mention that this bar is a family legacy bar? It was my great-grandfather’s. Bought the space during prohibition, turned it into a speakeasy, been here ever since. Tony runs it now, the only one I’d ever trust with it, but the bar is in my name. Gave it to him after granddaddy died, before we departed.”

“How old were you?”

“Let’s see, Granddaddy, died in ‘05, so I was 20. We joined in ‘07, I was 22 and Joel was a fresh 18-year-old. Speaking of which, every time we talk about Joel we take a shot for him. Whiskey was his favorite, like any 18-year-old.”

“Why are there four?” “One for you, one for me, one for Tony, and one for Joel. That seat, the one your fat ass is sittin’ in, the first time Joel came home drunk he passed out in that seat covered in his own vomit. Granddaddy made him clean the entire floor of the bar the next day, but he was so hungover he just kept puking on the places he had just cleaned.” We share a laugh together, but he doesn’t laugh loud and obnoxiously like before. There is pain that is stifling it.

“Do you miss him?”

“Nope, I drink for him. Come on Tony, gotta pour one out.”

I watch as Henry throws the shot in front of him over his shoulder onto the bar floor. “Careful Wet Floor over here!” He screams so the whole bar is staring at him. He doesn’t seem to care. He fumbles trying to find the other shot glass. Tony hands it to him, “Cheers boys!” We take the whiskey shot and slam the glasses down. Henry slams his on the bar so hard, the glass shatters. Glass flies across the bar in front of us. Both mine and Henry’s lap are covered in glass.

“Oopsies, sometimes I forget I am stronger than Superman.” Henry stands up shaking the glass off himself. “Eduardo, broken glass over here! Tony, will you send two more beers to the corner?” A young dish boy comes out in an apron carrying a broom.

Henry tells Eduardo to send one of the waitresses over to our table since now we have to move. Henry grabs his cane and leads me to the booth in the corner of the bar. Quickly after we sit down, a young blonde drops the beers off and asks if we need anything else; Henry calls her Abagail and says we are good for now, but to check on us in half an hour.

“Is there a story with the cane?”

“What do you mean? I’m blind, I use a cane.” He holds the cane with both hands.

“No, I just mean I have never seen a cane with such intricate design. The snake engravings are beautiful. And wow, I didn’t notice the grip was a cobra, let alone the detail. It’s stunning.”

“A beautiful man needs a beautiful cane.”

“No offense, but you can’t even see it.”

“Quality things are not seen, they are felt. I can feel the quality and dedication the woodworker invested into her, I know she’s beautiful, I don’t have to see her beauty.”

“Sammy boy, you have asked far too many questions, it's my turn now.” He takes a sip of his beer as he pauses to think, “The house, why are you staying in the house?”

“Well, just like your cane, she’s beautiful too, in her own way. I love that house. When I was in my first serious relationship, I dreamed of raising my kids in that house. My whole life was and is that house. I couldn’t–”

He interrupts me, “That is where you’re wrong, that house was your past, not your future. It is getting in the way. You bring a girl over since your parents die?”

“No, but I don’t–” Again he interrupts me, “See, what are you almost 30? You should probably be gettin’ more pussy than you are. You won’t be young forever.” “I am 27, but I am choosing not to be offended since you can’t see my handsomeness.” I finish off my beer.

He chuckles, “You talk like a millennial, I just took a guess. But I’m serious. Triggers are real when it comes to trauma and they are real fucking annoying. You can’t live in one big-ass trigger. See, everyone thinks I have an alcohol problem, and maybe I do, but I live above a bar for godsakes, of course, I have slightly more of an appreciation for alcohol than others.”

The more Henry talks, the more I start to understand him. His parents, his brother, this bar, this is his safe spot; this is where he connects with them and remembers them. I see myself in him. When I look at him, I see my own pain.

I also see the room starting to spin.

“I think I have had enough,” I look at my phone: it reads 9:15, and 4 missed calls from Sadie. “Time for me to get home.”

“Well, you aren’t driving. Let me walk you home.”

We head out the door and I realize I don’t know which way to go. My breathing starts to speed up. I look left, I look right. I don’t know which way the house is. How do I get home? Where do I go? My heart starts to race. I spin in a circle, where am I?

I panic. My heart is beating in my ears; my eyes darting around a place I don’t recognize; my stomach churning; my throat burning again. I start to call out: “HELP! HELP!” I keep screaming until I feel Henry’s hands on my shoulders pushing me to the ground. I sit on the cold pavement with my head between my legs. I watch my tears stain the concrete street. I count each one as they fall: one, two, three… four, five, six, seven… eight, nine.

I mentally prepare myself to hear the embarrassing jokes Henry is undoubtedly going to make when I lift my head up to Henry. He is crouched down and we make eye contact. “What’s your address?”

“739 Walnut Street,” I say in between my deep breaths.

“Luckily for you I am a native, I could get you there in my sleep.”

We don’t talk on the walk back. Henry walks slightly farther in front as I follow him. I want to apologize. I want to say that I never should have embarrassed myself like that. I want to tell him that I am drunk and was just being dramatic, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I listen to the tapping of his cane on the street as I stare at the full moon above us. I follow that noise all the way to my house.

I stand in front of the house and just stare at it. I stare at the pristine white paint on the exterior; I stare at the front porch swing; I stare at the brick red shudders around the three-bedroom windows; I stare at the shingled roof; and move my eyes back to the full moon above me. I walk forward and lay down in the grass of the front lawn. Henry follows behind me until he hits me in the head with his cane.

“Ow, careful dude!”

“My bad didn’t know where you went.”

Henry sits down next to me, we sit in silence for only a moment. Then as a volcano erupted in my brain, all my thoughts exit my mouth. I embarrass myself furthermore. I tell Henry, “I don’t have friends, I am sorry. I don’t want to screw this up. I know we just met but I see your pain and I know you see mine, but you don’t look away. You see me. I swear –”

“It’s okay Sammy boy. Really. Not a big deal. I do see your pain, I know it far too well. I wish I didn’t but I do. You will be okay.”

It’s silent once again. I wonder if I will really be okay. I feel the grass in between my fingers and notice the fireflies have come back out for the summer.

“Not to be insensitive but man I wish you could see this.”

“Describe it to me.”

“Well, it is a full moon tonight. It is so bright that the stars closest to the moon are barely visible. But if you look away, you’d see the sky speckled with tiny little sparkles. Then you unfocus your eyes off the night sky and you see the fireflies and their yellow butts playing in the air above your eyes. And–”

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” A voice comes bellowing out the front door.

“Crap,” I mutter, but I physically cannot get up. “Sadie! My loving sister, come sit! Meet my new friend Henry.” She sits next to Henry.

“Hi Henry, I am Sadie, Samuel’s irritated and angry younger sister who was about to call the fucking cops over her missing brother.”

“Very nice to meet you, Sadie, it's my fault. I took our good pal Sammy out for drinks. I heard lots about you, but he failed to mention how ravishingly beautiful you were.”

I break out into a laughing fit. I laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes. The two are looking at me like I’m a crazy person, but I cannot stop. When I finally catch my breath I manage to tell her the compliment meant nothing since he’s blind.

Sadie responds with, “My beauty is so strong even the blind can see it.” We all laugh a little bit more. She lays down as does Henry. Sadie breaks the silence to ask if Henry is a veteran and if he also has PTSD.

“Only when I’m sober,” Henry responds.

“You sound like a terrible influence on my brother,” she snarks back. “Sammy this is not going to help. I thought you would get professional help.”

“Oh please, professional help won’t help your brother. Therapy won’t help your brother. You can’t help him. I can’t help him. He’s the only one who can help himself.” I take in his words. I want to help myself. I want to move on, but for some reason, I can’t move. “And he can only help himself when he’s ready.” There is a heavy silence that follows.

“Please stop talking about me like I’m not here,” I say in hopes that someone will speak and fill the silence that is suffocating me. I lay in the grass staring a the big grey circle in the sky unable to breathe for what felt like an eternity.

I hear a voice that reminds me of Mom speaking to no one in particular: “Will it ever get better?”

Followed by more silence. Three lost souls lay in the spot that brought us all here together; staring beyond a lit sky searching for something, searching for someone; asking someone to care; begging someone to cure the sadness that is permanently sewn into our hearts.