Fairies

I ran a hand over my head, feeling the short stubs of my recently buzzed hair brushing against my fingers. I glanced at the window of the diner, not exactly looking outside, but rather at my reflection. I'd changed a lot. My hair was shorter, my muscles bulkier. I didn't look like the delicate schoolboy I'd once been. I used a cane now, my left leg weakened from a bullet that tore out most of the muscle. It's a wonder Aisling even recognized me.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, placing her hand on mine. I glanced down at it, comparing her pale slender fingers to my tanned and calloused ones. I withdrew my hand, rested it on my lap, and sipped my coffee. Caffeine: one of my addictions.

"Nothing."

"Liar," she said matter-of-factly, lifting her chin. She kicked me softly under the table, playfully. "I can tell when you're thinking, Gabe." She'd always been good at that. I remember the first time we met.

We were in highschool. I was sitting on the little brick wall that bounded the courtyard, sketching. She'd come up to me, clasped her hands behind her back, and stood on her tiptoes to lean over my shoulder and look at my sketchpad.

"You're the boy that draws all the fairies, aren't you?" she'd asked.

I'd blinked at her in silence, but I nodded.

"Draw me one?"

I don't think I actually said anything to her, but I nodded again. I remember her smile when she walked away. I drew her fairy.

I shook my head again to clear my thoughts, glancing back out the window of the diner. Fairies. That'd have gone over well with the Army. I'd given Aisling all my sketchbooks just before I went away.

"It's nothing. Just sorting through things."

She didn't reply, but just kept watching me with the same expectant gaze she'd always used to get me to talk. It was an old drill. I'd tell her I didn't want to talk about something, she'd nod, and then just watch me. I'd try to avoid her gaze a few times, but her eyes were magnetic and before long she'd have me spilling all my innermost thoughts. I still hadn't figured out how she did it.

"It's just hard, alright? I'm not adjusting well," I said finally.

Aisling seemed about to speak, but paused when our waitress came over to take our plates and asked if we wanted dessert. We waved her off, but she filled my coffee cup again, for which I was thankful. The coffee was scalding hot, and not particularly fresh, but it felt good when it burned my throat on the way down. Once the waitress was gone, Aisling spoke.

"Not adjusting well to what?"

I shrugged, glancing back out the window. I didn't want to look at her, didn't want her eyes to find me. "Coming back to life."

"I don't understand."

"Part of me died in Iraq. I think it had to. They shove a gun in your hands, tell you to point it at the guy with the turban, and pull the trigger. They tell you he's evil. But what if he's not? "Trust us", they say. So you pull the fucking trigger." My lip curled into something of a snarl, I think. Aisling was staring at me, pity and sympathy in her eyes.

"You did what you had to do," she replied, reaching for my hand again. I let her take it, but it didn't feel right. Not the way it used to feel, when we were kids. I slid my hand out of hers and drummed my fingers on the tabletop.

"The first time is the hardest. After that, it gets easier. Before long, you're shooting Iraqis without blinking, like it's just another fucking daily chore like making your bed or washing your socks. There was this one guy in my unit, Frankie. Used to go around singing "Tick tock, hickory dock, shoot Ali-Baba in the cock" like it was some sort of game."

"That's horrible," Aisling replied. She shook her head, then cupped her chin in her hands. Aisling had never believed in killing. Didn't think it was right. I'd agreed, at one point.

"It's war." I shrugged again, emptied my coffee cup, and set it on the table. It clattered slightly. "Then, one day, your duty's done, and they pack you in a plane and send you home." I glanced back out the window. It had started raining at some point. Not a hard rain, but a steady one.

"At some point, you wake up. The big truck parked outside Smithy's Drugstore isn't a bomb. The guy in the long coat walking in the mall isn't packing an AK and waiting for you to look away so he can blow your head off. Frankie got caught by one of those truck bombs. We had to inspect every vehicle that passed through our checkpoints. It was just a matter of time. Russian roulette. Blew him all to hell." I held up a closed fist, then opened it, spreading my fingers wide. "Boom."

"I'm sorry."

My gaze snapped back to hers. "Why?" My voice sounded harder than I wanted it to.

She gave an uneasy shrug. "I just wish I could help you get through this."

I sighed, leaned forward in my seat, and rubbed my eyes. I shook my head, pulled out a little bottle from my pocket, popped a pair of pills into my hand and dry-swallowed them. One of my other addictions. She watched me quietly. I avoided her eyes, sure they would be judging me. "You never asked me why I signed up," I said finally.

"Would you like me to?" she said, nearly a whisper.

"I wanted to be a hero. Now, I don't know who I am," I said, lifting my eyes finally to hers. She took my hand again and squeezed. This time I didn't pull away.

"You're the boy who draws the fairies, Gabe."