1: Broken
1084 Words
1: Broken
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HE DREAMT OF THE OCEAN.
He dreamt of his years of training as a clearance diver, a Special Forces role within the Royal Australian Navy. He saw his eighteen-year-old self thrust into the bitter, icy-cold world of military water warfare. Like photographs floating in an underwater current, he saw the years flicker by, strengthening his resolve, reinforcing his fearlessness.
His body was clenched in the neoprene grip of his wetsuit, tank weighing on his shoulders. Salty waves beat on his face; he could taste them around his snorkel. Ripping off his condensation-blotted goggles, he rose and fell on the choppy tide as he searched for the enemy.
He sucked in misty air and dove under again. He had to make it to shore without being spotted by members of the Kopassus. Indonesian Special Forces, highly trained, outdated armaments made up for by sheer force of numbers.
He saw the ocean floor slope before him through the bubbles and fronds. His finger was poised over the trigger of his waterproofed MP4, waiting for the inevitable.
His knees jerked when gunfire kicked off; bullets peppered the water around him.
He rose. His blacked-out face materialized out of the water like an apparition. His enemies scattered under the fire from his MP4.
Then he was running again. But not fast enough, weighed down by his wet body and diving equipment. He yanked at the straps and buckles but was too slow, too slow.
Suddenly, the scenes cut away to six monstrous men. They subdued him and caged in an improvised chicken pen. He rolled into a foetal position, struggling to breathe in the narrow, humid cage. His throat constricted. No-one could hear his voiceless scream. An evil vision peered into his nightmare; it was trying to drag him to hell. He fought back. Hard.
Remembering his knife, he grabbed it and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed into the darkness.
Suddenly there was light.
*
HE AWOKE. HE WAS KNEELING on the floor. His bloodshot eyes saw the shredded mattress. Then he noticed the Ka-Bar knife in his hand.
Bonita stood by the door, quaking with fear.
‘Duck,’ she said softly. She always called him by his family nickname.
His shoulders sagged weakly, wracked with sobbing. He moaned, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
Since his return from Somalia minus his left leg, he hadn’t been the same. They hadn’t slept in the same bed ever since.
He had been in god-awful pain. It made life unbearable. But it was staring at the tattered mattress and seeing what potential damage he could do to his beloved that made him decide to leave for good.
He tried to get up. Bonita rushed forward to help.
‘No,’ he said in a tone alien to her ears, pushing her back. ‘Leave me alone.’
In a thick voice, she said, ‘I’ll make the coffee.’ She wiped her tears with fingers as she turned away, padding quietly to the kitchen. By the time two mugs of brewed coffee were ready, Duck had appeared with his prosthesis attached and a military rucksack over his shoulder, his intention clear. Tears pooled in her eyes, reflecting her pain; he averted his sight to avoid seeing her sorrow.
‘Why?’
‘This is for the best,’ he said.
‘Help me understand. Please.’
Her pleading was too much to bear. He just didn’t know how to handle it. It would have been better if she threw rocks at him. Kicked. Punched. Screamed. But the quiet tears he couldn’t handle. They tugged at his heart, shredding his fragile soul to pieces.
She didn’t know if she could touch him, so she extended a hand instead, hoping against hope that he’d take it. He grasped her hand in both of his, holding back his tears, fighting them. Not so her. She sobbed. She moved towards him, needing to offer him succour from pain.
He cupped her face instead to avoid the embrace.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said, but it only served to open the tap. Her tears now come in torrents. ‘Sssh...’
She slapped his hand away.
‘Don’t shush me. You don’t know how much it hurts.’
She left him standing in the kitchen as she raced to the bathroom, slamming the door shut in the process. She slumped on the floor, crying her heart out.
Duck turned to leave just as little Megan begun to cry. He paused to listen to his eighteen-month-old baby, sensing her distress. He dropped his pack and awkwardly limped towards her bedroom, his prosthesis still an uncomfortable artificial appendage. He opened the door and found his daughter’s teary face looking at the door, expecting to be picked up for a cuddle.
The teething seemed to go on forever, a third tooth coming out in as many weeks. He picked her up for a cuddle; she wasn’t meant to be awake this early. He brought her out, hoping a cup of tepid water might be just the thing to soothe her. With one hand, he poured cooled boiled water in her cup. He screwed the lid on before offering it to her. Megan took the cup’s handle and put the latex spout in her mouth. She wasn’t too interested in the liquid, happier to chew the spout to ease the niggling pain in her gums.
He walked towards the living room, reclined on their favourite seat, chest to chest. He patted her back. She mimicked him and patted his arm in return. It brought him to tears as he felt her ministering little hand offering comfort.
Bonita came out of the bathroom, expecting him to be gone. She was taken aback to find him still home, cradling her child that he had accepted as his own. She went to the bedroom to get ready for the day; it was only four in the morning, but there was no point returning to bed. Sleep would be elusive from now on.
Half an hour later, she came out of the room dressed in her suit, prepared to tackle the day.
He was gone.
She hoped he was in Megan’s room, but alas he was not. The wee one had returned to sleep. She closed the door quietly so as not to disturb her. She went into the guest bedroom, blind hope propelling her forward. But all she found resting on the desk was a yellow plastic duck for Megan and a letter for her.
Dear Bugs,
I love you more than words can say. I’m leaving to protect you. Move on, my love. Where I go, I will take memories of you with me. Your happiness will be all I pray for. Your joy, my aim. Your pain, my anguish.
Give my love to Megs.
With all my heart,
Ducky
- Writer
