Yeah, what did it? Let me guess, the sliders on a stick. Some stuff just shouldn't be deep-fried.
[What a half-assed excuse. It sounds like something John would come up with if he were in her position, and he's been there. Plenty of times. Not that he'd ever admit it.
There's always something. Food. Booze. A bumpy ride in the back of a truck. A thousand and one reasons for a good soldier, tried, tested, and true on the battlefield, to lose his lunch seemingly at random, even after seeing things that would make the sturdiest civilian's stomach turn.
It's never the fight that does it. Never the mortar blowing up in someone's face. Never the head shots. Never the triage. Never an Apache going down behind enemy lines. Never seeing what's left of the decent men you graduated pilot school with smeared like Smucker's jam on concrete. Never the look on a child's face before pushing the trigger on a home-made suicide vest.
You see all that, but it goes in your back pocket. You download it later. While you're sleeping, or driving, or flying, and it's too quiet, so you hear everything you wouldn't let yourself hear while staying mobile. That's the stuff that keeps you up at night. The stuff everyone understands, and expects, when men and women return from war with far-away eyes.
What makes you puke is fireworks. Loud whispers. Crowded malls. Diesel. A song that was playing in your buddy's jeep. The smell of something good that was cooking on a relatively sunny day in Kabul before a truck loaded with explosive makes a go at the barricades.
All the little things the average person wouldn't bat an eyelash at, that become your own personal hell away from hell. Those small, insidious triggers you can't explain to anyone who hasn't stood in your boots, and puked the same shameful puke.
John reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a dark bandana. He carries one every day, along with a knife, a gun, and just enough paranoia to note the entrance and exit of every room he walks into. Because if a soldier knows one thing, it's that you never know when shit's going to hit the fan.
He hands it to the girl without ceremony, leaning casually against the wall. If he happens to be blocking the view of anyone outside the alley who might find humour in watching a girl chuck, it's just a coincidence. Kind of like fireworks and food poisoning.]
no subject
[What a half-assed excuse. It sounds like something John would come up with if he were in her position, and he's been there. Plenty of times. Not that he'd ever admit it.
There's always something. Food. Booze. A bumpy ride in the back of a truck. A thousand and one reasons for a good soldier, tried, tested, and true on the battlefield, to lose his lunch seemingly at random, even after seeing things that would make the sturdiest civilian's stomach turn.
It's never the fight that does it. Never the mortar blowing up in someone's face. Never the head shots. Never the triage. Never an Apache going down behind enemy lines. Never seeing what's left of the decent men you graduated pilot school with smeared like Smucker's jam on concrete. Never the look on a child's face before pushing the trigger on a home-made suicide vest.
You see all that, but it goes in your back pocket. You download it later. While you're sleeping, or driving, or flying, and it's too quiet, so you hear everything you wouldn't let yourself hear while staying mobile. That's the stuff that keeps you up at night. The stuff everyone understands, and expects, when men and women return from war with far-away eyes.
What makes you puke is fireworks. Loud whispers. Crowded malls. Diesel. A song that was playing in your buddy's jeep. The smell of something good that was cooking on a relatively sunny day in Kabul before a truck loaded with explosive makes a go at the barricades.
All the little things the average person wouldn't bat an eyelash at, that become your own personal hell away from hell. Those small, insidious triggers you can't explain to anyone who hasn't stood in your boots, and puked the same shameful puke.
John reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a dark bandana. He carries one every day, along with a knife, a gun, and just enough paranoia to note the entrance and exit of every room he walks into. Because if a soldier knows one thing, it's that you never know when shit's going to hit the fan.
He hands it to the girl without ceremony, leaning casually against the wall. If he happens to be blocking the view of anyone outside the alley who might find humour in watching a girl chuck, it's just a coincidence. Kind of like fireworks and food poisoning.]
You can keep it.