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My thoughts strayed to Merrick Thatcher, and I wondered if anyone could make a  connection with
him
. Mom said that Emma was certainly trying. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to see war and devastation. To watch your friends suffer along with you and have it all stripped away when you were injured so badly. Everything Merrick worked for, since he graduated from high school, was now over. He served his purpose, and my respect goes to any man who makes such sacrifices for his country. How many of them come back shells of their former self? How many of them have families waiting for them?

How many never make it home?

I drifted further, not realizing I had fallen asleep until I woke thirty minutes later. I didn't plan on napping and ,for a moment, was happy for whatever it was that woke me. Then, I heard the shouts.

"Son, you have got to stop this. I can't take care of you if you don't cooperate."

"I don't need you to take care of me. I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

Several thumps sounded before the voices came clearer and louder. I kept myself still, knowing that my window was wide open. If I moved, they would see me from his room. Well, Emma would.

"Merrick, you haven't been outside in weeks, you haven't showered in days, and I can't sit here and watch you waste away. You need to eat, you need to sleep, and you need to do your therapy."

Emma sounded desperate and on the verge of tears. I couldn't imagine how hard it was for a mother to watch her son return from war so broken.

"I don't need you wiping my ass all the time, Mom."

"Well when you can wipe your own ass, I'll stop doing it!"

"Jesus, just leave! Stop treating me like I'm some pathetic animal that needs healing."

"I don't. I am trying to do what I have to do so you can live your life."

"I don't
want
to live my life!"

I gasped and covered my mouth. Tears burned the back of my eyes, and it took everything I had not to sit up and look out that window. I heard the soft sound of Emma crying and another thump against a wall.

"Merrick," I heard her say softly, "let me help you."

"I can do it myself! If I run into something, who gives a fuck?"

They continued to shout at each other. Emma kept begging her son to let her help him, to listen to the doctors, and to stop pushing everyone away. Merrick kept telling her to leave.

I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want to shut my window and make it obvious that I had been listening this whole time, so I did the next possible thing to try to drown them out.

I sang to myself and hoped they would carry on with no notice of me.

"Wherever you are,

Well know that I adore you,

No matter how far

Well I can go before you."

I don't know why I chose the song I did. I had always loved Damien Rice, but it was the first song, out of all the hundreds I had memorized, that felt appropriate for the moment. Maybe that was because it was how I saw myself from another's eyes. Or maybe it was because I knew it would be how a true friend would see Merrick.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, stretching out on the bed and drowning out the anger just feet away from me.

"And if ever you need someone

Well, not that you need helping,

But if ever you want someone

I know that I am willing

Oh and I don't want to change you,

I don't want to change you,

I don't want to change your mind.

I just came across a manger

Out among the danger

Somewhere in a stranger's eye."

Maybe my focus was somewhere else, but the sound of their fighting was gone. All I could hear was the music in my mind as I continued to sing. I wasn't singing for anyone else but me. There was no way they could hear me. It was just enough to drown out everything else.

"Wherever you go,

Well I can always follow

I can feed this real slow

If it's a lot to swallow

And if you just want to be alone

Well, I can wait without waiting

If you want me to let this go

Well, I am more than willing."

I finally sat up and lifted my suitcase onto my bed. There was only silence coming from next door. I figured they had moved to another part of the house, or they were finally working things out a little less dramatically. I didn't dare look. I just started to unpack, singing through the rest of the song.

"And I don't want to change you

I don't want to change you,

I don't want to change your mind.

I just came across a manger

Where there is no danger

Where love has eyes and is not blind."

I stopped what I was doing as I sang the last line. I still don't know why I chose the song, and now it just seemed inappropriate. The slam of a window was the first clue of my mistake. They'd heard me loud and clear, and with my luck, that last line of the song was the very line they heard the clearest.

I turned and finally looked out of my window, only to see Merrick struggling to close the blinds with one hand while the other was in a cast and sling. I could only see one side of his face, a profile that looked even more handsome than it did all those years ago. His jaw looked strong, although unkempt, with a scraggly beard covering it. His hair was too long and hung in his eyes, and his shirt tightened around a muscular torso as he moved. He could barely reach the handle from his sitting position in what I assumed was a wheelchair.

I almost said something. What? I don't know. 'Hi', maybe. That just seemed superficial. I saw Emma standing in his open doorway, staring at me with wide, teary eyes. Looking like someone had just broken her heart.

I left my room quickly after that and stayed away from it for the rest of the night. It wasn't my place to interfere with Merrick. Not my place to do anything but lend a quiet support.

Mom returned with a pizza and other groceries, which I helped her put away. We sat in silence as we ate, and I refrained from asking any more questions about Merrick Thatcher or what happened to him. The man who used to be larger than life, was now withdrawn and cold.

If his own mother couldn't get through to him, who could?

Merrick

"Merrick."

I hated the sound of my mother's tears. What I hated even more, was the fact that I caused them. I didn't realize she was still in my room, but Emma Thatcher was never one to back down from a fight. Especially if she hadn't won, yet.

I was in the middle of telling her to go to hell, like the bastard I was, when I heard it. I didn't realize I stopped screaming at her until halfway through the song. That voice. Bluesy with a feminine rasp. One that sent warm vibrations across my chest. For a moment, I thought I accidently turned on my stereo and was listening to the radio, but I quickly realized that the singing was coming from next door.

I knew my window was only feet away from the neighbor's. However, I didn't realize that someone other than Alaina and Jeff was living there. That voice certainly wasn't Alaina Samuelson. I had heard the woman sing before. She couldn't carry a tune to save her life; something pointed out on more than one occasion.

It couldn't be their daughter, could it? What was her name again? God, I could barely remember what I wore yesterday let alone high school.

I didn't know her name, but I knew the song. It infuriated me and calmed me at the same time. She was singing that specific song for a very specific reason, but whether it was for me or her, I had no clue.

While I sat in my chair, I listened to her sing and move around the room, trying to picture her face or anything that would prompt her name. I got nothing. Once she sang the last line, I didn't care anymore.

Slamming the window shut was painful. The burns were healed enough, but they still hurt when I moved too thoughtlessly, and my leg throbbed every time I breathed. I struggled with the blinds, appropriately named in this case. I was blind and couldn't find the damn handle to close them up tight. I must have looked like a fool, fumbling my way up the window. Mom would usually come to my rescue, but after the horrible things I said to her, I wouldn't have been surprised if she kicked me out of the house and left me on the street.

I didn't deserve to be taken care of. The pain reminded me of that every day.

So, I sat there, pointlessly staring at God knows what, while I listened to my mother's heavy breaths. She was hanging on by a thread because of me.

"Merrick..."

"Please, Mom. Just go before I say something stupid."

I heard the step she took into my room, and I tensed, every muscle in my body going stiff as a board. I didn't want her to touch me. I didn't want to feel her motherly tenderness. I just wanted to be angry and damage everything I could get my hands on.

My insides shook as the tight hold on my control started to weaken.

"Sweetheart, I know this is hard for you, but you can't shut down. You have so much to live for and that's all we want. For you to live."

I didn't respond. I just sat there like I always did, in my pathetic wheelchair, with my pathetic broken body that was unable to do anything on its own. For the love of God, I'm thirty years old and my mother has to wipe my ass for me.

I was done. If I couldn't take care of myself, what was the point?

"I'll be back tomorrow. Get some sleep and call if you need anything. You have your cell?"

I lifted the small black phone up for her to see, then tucked it back into my pocket. If I lost this, who knows what would happen? I had used it a couple of times already and hated myself for it. It was when I'd been trying to go to the bathroom and slipped out of the chair before I could position myself correctly. I ended up on the floor with pain shooting through every nerve in my body. The phone was in my pocket, and I had to call the only number that was programmed into it.

Mom.

She brought Dad along with her that night. I never felt more humiliated in my life. I couldn't see his face, but I could feel the pity and the sorrow. The last thing I wanted my dad to see was one of his sons getting hurt because he couldn't get himself on the toilet. I knew he loved me. I even knew he was proud of me, but in my mind, the pride melted away in that one moment of weakness.

I shook my head and forced the images out of my mind. They only made me emotional; that was unacceptable. Anger was the only thing I wanted to feel anymore. I could handle anger. I knew its weaknesses and its strengths. Plus, it welcomed me more than sadness ever did.

"I love you, Merrick."

Again, I stayed silent, and I wanted to strangle myself for it. Mom was only trying to help, but for the life of me, I just couldn't let her.

This was my penance. The consequence I had to suffer through to somehow make up for losing my friends. It would never make up for it completely, but it certainly was a start.

I listened to Mom making her way through the house, switching off lights that she turned on earlier in the night. It was a task I wasn't grateful to lose.

Who the hell misses turning lights on and off?

I do.

God, I missed it. I missed
light
. Seeing one flicker of light would bring me joy, but it would be short lived. Lights always turn off. The sun eventually hides away. So, why not embrace the darkness?

Because I have always hated the dark, that's why.

Who the fuck likes darkness? There couldn't possibly be a soul out there that would be happy with darkness every minute of every day. It was depressing and lonely and ... cold.

I listened to my mother shut and lock the door before hearing her car back out of the driveway. She wouldn't be coming back tonight; that's how our fight started in the first place. I was tired of needing a babysitter and I was fine at night. There was no need for her to wake up whenever I did, which was a lot these days.

I didn't move my chair. Hardly moved at all. I stayed right there, listening to the sounds of the house. The sound of my own breathing gave me a headache, but it was all I could do these days, and I heard
everything
. They didn't mention that my hearing would improve as well as my sense of touch. Of course, I'm sure they assumed I would already know that, but when you find out you're blind and there is nothing anyone can do, you don't think about the positives. You think about all the shit you went through before, and you think about all the things you'll never see again. And everything ... everything gets blurry until it is consumed and forgotten.

I knew it was late by the time I finally moved from my spot by the window. The new clock Mom picked up for me, announced the time every hour. All I had to do was push a button to hear the exact time. It was annoying as hell, but helpful. Funny thing is, I don't remember ever thanking her for it.

"That's because you're an asshole," I said to myself, grumbling every word.

I was exhausted and wanted to slip into the oblivion that was sleep. An oblivion that could somehow turn into a nightmare when my subconscious decided to hate me. Every sound woke me, no matter how small. The creak of the house sent a spike in my blood pressure, making me wonder if someone was breaking in. The screech of tires from a car made me sweat bullets. The slam of a car door. The clanging sound of a train passing through town.

All of it was a reminder. How does one accept so many reminders all at once?

They don't. They just have to suffer through them.

Before I left my room, I thought once more of that voice. Why would she sing that song? Why would she sing at all, knowing that I could hear her?

I rolled my chair right back to the window, thumping into the wall and bed a few times, before I reached out and groped for the handle on the blinds. The smooth plastic felt so fragile in my hand. How effortless would it be for me to rip the whole thing down? I wouldn't see it fall, but I would hear it and feel it. Funny how that just wasn't enough.

I twisted the handle and only opened the blinds a tiny bit, or at least I hoped I did. I lifted the window until only a small crack was opened, and I listened.

The heat of summer in Morgan, Utah, was nothing compared to the scorching heat of that desert overseas. No matter how much I wanted to shut out the rest of the world, I couldn't bring myself to keep this window shut. Not when the warm breeze blowing into my room felt so invigorating. Safe.

I didn't hear anything for a while. Just the sound of a car passing by and birds chirping in the trees. Were those trees taller than I remembered?

I'd never know.

When there was nothing else, I finally decided to use the bathroom and go to bed. It took a lot longer than it should have, and my anger boiled all over again. I knew I smelled like the dump truck that hauled away the garbage every Thursday. My breath was awful, too, and I had dropped my toothbrush – again – and couldn't bend down to find it with my leg stuck in a ridiculous immobilizer. If it wasn't for the pillow my mom strapped to my foot, I would be crying out in pain every time I bumped into a wall. The damn leg was up and straight, for now, since my knee repair had been recent. No way bending over to find my toothbrush would be worth the pain.

I rolled back into my room, ignoring the rancid taste in my mouth. In sleep, I wouldn't register the lingering spices from the steak Mom cooked for me. I could deal with waiting until morning no matter how much it irked me. I'd dealt with a lot worse just a few months ago. You get used to sleeping in a box and smelling your sweat and grime. You get used to not having much more than what you could carry.

And you learn to appreciate the fact that you are even alive.

I finally found the window again and sighed with relief. Almost two months of mapping out the house I grew up in and it still took me forever to find something. Mom tried to help me remember the layout. She even placed rough stickers on the walls throughout, signaling me when it was time to turn the chair. There were changes all over the place to help accommodate my situation. It was more than I could ask for, but it was still difficult to adapt to. Once my other arm was working, it would be easier.

Fuck that. It would never be easier because I still couldn't see!

"Stop whining, you asshole," I whispered harshly and took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

There is a reason for my survival. God does not give these trials to those that cannot endure them.

I repeated the words my post trauma therapist had given me, but didn't feel them no matter how hard I tried. Still, I kept at it because I wasn't a quitter.

I had been given a chance to pull myself together. The same people that paid for Mom and Dad to travel to Germany to see me were the ones that provided the counseling that would supposedly help me cope. I was grateful for the help, but doubtful of the success.

I sat by the window for a few minutes longer, listening for the sound of someone moving in that room. Had these two houses always been so close together? I couldn't remember the exact distance, and I could never remember hearing much of anything back in the day. Now, it was as if everything was happening in
my
room when I heard the rattle of a doorknob.

My muscles tightened, sending an immediate pain through my leg and arm. Was that her? What the hell was her name?

"Are you sure it's okay, Mom?"

"Grace, you need a car. I'll get a ride with Karla in the morning. It'll be fine."

Grace.

Grace Samuelson.

I remembered her, but only because we'd been neighbors since the third grade. I couldn't remember her face, though. Was she the blonde that always followed me around the cafeteria junior year? No, that was the chick who ended up dating my friend, Kyle Gale, later that year.

What about the red head who was in my chemistry class and whose shirts were always too tight? No, that was the chick who ended up pregnant for graduation.

I could only remember the name.

Grace.

I lived next to her for years and couldn't see her face in my mind.

I was an asshole of the highest order for treating my mom the way I did, but this one took the cake. What kind of dick did a guy have to be to not know what the neighbor girl looked like? Did I ever even talk to her?

I couldn't remember if I had.

Wait! I did remember helping to fix her car once. It had saved me from running into Shannon Connors that first day of senior year. Shannon always waited for me in the morning, and being late that day saved me a few more days of her
not
knowing where my locker was. The girl could be annoying as hell, but she had a body that most of the guys in school drooled over. Sleeping with her was still one of my biggest mistakes.

"Thanks, Mom. I'll see you in the morning then. Goodnight."

The sound of her door closing was the last thing I heard for what could have been more than five minutes. She was just standing there. I would hear if she moved, wouldn't I?

Grace sighed and that's when I heard her footsteps shuffle across the room, then the sound of a zipper. Was she undressing? No, the zipper sounded larger than one would on clothing. Was it a backpack or a suitcase?

A few more moments of silence. Then she spoke. "I'm sorry about the song. I won't sing it again."

She knew I was there, but I couldn't bring myself to move. She couldn't see me, could she? Hell, I could have opened the blinds too far and not realized it. Should I continue to stay still? Pretend I'm not there, just breathing and listening. What would I say anyway?

"I'm glad you're safe now, Merrick."

Those were the last words she spoke before I heard the sound of her window sliding shut.

"I'm not," I replied, quietly.

Because I wasn't. I wasn't glad that I was safe and my friends weren't. I wasn't glad that I made it home while one of my men was still deep in a coma at the hospital in Germany because every time they tried to move him, he crashed. I wasn't glad that my best friend almost didn't make it home to his wife and unborn child.

I was miserable here, and I would be miserable tomorrow.

I struggled to get into bed, quickly giving up on removing my shirt and pants. I would just have to sleep in them and deal with the fight in the morning when Mom came to help me change. I would have to shower, too. That just added a whole new set of humiliations. The last time my mom had to bathe me herself, I had no idea that war even existed. I was a child. Now, I had regressed back to that pitiful state, knowing more about war than I cared to admit.