Fan Fiction ❯ Gone Numb ❯ Gone Numb ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Notes: Rated R for language and sexual situations. I must give credit to "Wall of Blood" by Fred Leo Brown, for the PTSD names.

The last cigarette had burned down to the filter, but I didn't really notice. A few more puffs, and I gave up, spitting the butt into my gloved hand. Immediately, my fingers work to feild strip the cigarette, tearing the paper away in a long curl. Then I ripped the filter up, grinding it and the paper under my boot heel until they are unrecognizable in the snow.

Feild stripping. One of the things I had learned in basic training. Leaving evidence of your position behind was deadly, especially if you were on a sneaking mission. Learned that the hard way. I didn't strip a cig once, and my commanding officer wanted me to make sure I would remember.

So he relit the butt and ground it out on the back of my neck, sarcastically hissing "this is going to hurt".

At the time, I wanted to fucking kill him, but he made a good point: "It might hurt now, boy, but it'll hurt a lot less than if some Ruskie has his AK up your ass". I still have the scar there. It makes me stop and think before I do something stupid.

I looked down at my heavy boots, brushing away the snow that had drifted over the toes. Why the hell did I do move to Alaska? Alaska, for Christ sake. I hate the cold. I remember now: I came here not to be bothered, but Campbell found me anyway. Damn him.

And then I met Meryl. Bless her perfect little heart. We had a blissful month-long relationship. But I couldn't count how many times I woke up at the tiniest sound from her, holding a gun to her head, nervous sweat dripping into my eyes.

<o>During the Civil War, PTSD was called "Nostalgia", or "Brave Heart".</i>

I know it was enough times to make her leave, though. Enough times to make her throw hot coffee in my face, screaming "what the hell is wrong with you!". Enough times to tell me to go to hell and to get help in the same breath, while storming out the door.

Fuck you, Meryl. I don't need help; I know exactly what's wrong with me. Nightmares, flashbacks, guilt, irribility, trouble sleeping...yeah, I know what it is.

But fuck her. I don't care.

<i>During WWI, PTSD was called "Shell Shock".</i>

I searched my pockets for another cigarette, forgetting that I was all out. Damnit. I'll have to get some later. It's probably a good thing, though; a man can have too many coffin nails in his life. Thing is, though, if I don't have a cigarette in my mouth, my hands start shaking. Not just little twitches, but uncontrollable tremors.

I heard a sound beside me and I spun, socom gripped tightly. My hand doesn't tremble when it holds a gun. I scanned the snow-covered landscape frantically, my heart pounding loudly in my ears. A flash of white streaked across my vision and I sat back down on the cold, hard steps of my front porch, chuckling quietly to myself. Just a fox. Probably looking for food.

It's strange. Usually seeing that animal would make me think of Grey Fox, but strangely enough, it's making me think of Liquid.

Watching him die was one of the...strangest things I've ever seen. He just lay in the snow, twitching and clutching at his chest, trying to breath. I watched with an impassive expression, finally asking him "why don't you just put a bullet in your head?"

"Why don't you?" he shot back, blood flecks from his lips spattering the snow. I wonder to this day if he meant into his head, or my own. Could be both, considering him.

<i>During WWII, PTSD was called "Battle Fatigue", or "Bloodless Wound".</i>

Strange to think I have a good memory of that bastard. After that fight with Metal Gear, after he had me tied up and shirtless...he started touching me. Hell if I know why I consider this a good memory.

He was touching my face like a blind man trying to make out my features. My chest, my arms, my legs...he was taking it all in. Maybe he was trying to see how much we really were alike. I was too sore to move, too tired to care. I watched him with half-closed eyes, preparing gather my strength to kick him if he did something weird.

Except when he did do something weird, I didn't do a damned thing to stop him. I let him unbutton my pants. I let him draw my cock out of my pants, stroking it in his slender hand until it was hard. I let him push me up until my back was against a pile of rubble, then kneel between my legs, taking my erection into his mouth like he'd been dying to since the first moment he met me. Maybe he had.

And I let him get me off, let him make me come in his mouth. Even though he wanted to kill me. Even though he tried to kill me after I "woke up".

And I enjoyed every second of his soft lips around me. At the time, I wondered what the fuck was wrong with my head.

<i>During the Korean War, PTSD was called "Operational Exaustion" or "Nerves".</i>

But now, I'm too numb to care.