Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

bunch of emails. Right after I blew my laptop up, and again the next day, and the day after that. Every day for a couple weeks, then about once a week. Then they stopped.
    I haven’t read them. Every time I open my email, there they are. 16 unread emails. I’m sure she hates me now.
    I’m also sure it’s better that way. You say I should take a second look. But I already know. I loved her more than my own life, Sherman. But she’s smart, and beautiful, and going to a great college, and has her whole life ahead of her.
    I did get an email from her Dad. He’s a real sweetheart. Former Ambassador, likes to keep his tentacles in everything. Back when I went to visit her in San Francisco, a couple years ago, he took me aside at one point to tell me what a worthless piece of shit I was. That I wasn’t nearly good enough for his daughter. Would you believe he had run a background check on me? And my parents. I’m sure he dug up some good stuff on Dad. He told me to stay the hell away from her in his email. “Let her believe you are dead. It’s better for both of you.”
    The thing is though, he’s right. She’s got a chance for a beautiful life. I, on the other hand, am a disabled vet who gets seizures, and blackouts, and flashbacks. Sometimes I wake up at night screaming. Because I keep having the same dream over and over again. We’re headed down that fucking dirt road, and I can see the bomb, it’s right out there in the open. And I can’t stop it. We’re headed right for it, and we’re going to run over it, and I grab the wheel, and it’s too late. Boom. Roberts is vaporized, about two gallons of his fucking blood all over me, and then, eyes open, I’m awake and screaming my fucking head off. They come and give me sedatives, and I’m out again. Until the next night.
    I’m never going to be worth a shit after this. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t need me in her life, dragging her down, ruining everything for her.
    Ray, I love Alex, like nothing you can imagine. And because I love her, I’m going to leave her alone, and let her move on. Anything else would be hurting her. And I would kill myself before I harm one hair on her head. And that’s not an idle threat.
    So, no more fucking talk about Alex, all right? The subject is closed.
    Dylan

    APRIL 1, 2012
    TO:
    FROM:
    Dude,
    Your email made me cry like a fucking baby.
    All right. I won’t bring up Alex again. But you better fucking promise to get better. Do you hear me? I don’t give a shit how bad you feel. Get better. Man up. Do whatever it takes to get it through your head that a) you’re a good guy, and b) you deserve better than the shit you’re writing about, and c) You are NOT fucking responsible for Roberts’ death.
    Dude, get some help.
    Fuck the Army,
    Ray

    Oh, God. I missed Dylan. I loved him. But I didn’t know how to help him. I don’t know that anyone could. Not unless he was willing to help himself. And this about my father, I had no idea. Dad and I would be having a discussion when I went home for the holidays.
    I did some googling. “How to Help a friend with PTSD.” And it wasn’t much help, to be honest. It was all generic, useless stuff. Don’t take his behavior personally. Have good boundaries. Yeah, right. Don’t judge. Love them.
    Love them.
    Oh, God. I couldn’t stop loving him. But I couldn’t help him either.
    The sun was setting, on what was possibly one of the longest and saddest days of my life. I stood up, put my phone away, picked up my rose, and began walking back towards my room.

    How can you be so casual about it (Dylan)

    When the alarm went off the next morning, I got up as usual. Really, I didn’t know what else to do. Keep going. Go to class. Go to court. Whatever.
    It was dark, quiet, and bitter cold. An icy wind blew off the Hudson River, turning the green in front of the library into a wind tunnel. I hoped it wasn’t going to snow any time soon. In the meantime, I wore my army sweats, kept my hood on, and got out there and started to stretch.
    I’d gotten pretty adept at doing pushups with just my left hand, but I hoped my right would be back into shape soon. Needed to go see a doctor, and soon, about that. I’d missed my Monday appointment at the VA, because of jail, but I’d be down there Wednesday. Maybe they’d put it in another cast.
    I was doing pushups when I heard footsteps. I kept doing what I was doing, but my eyes