‘‘It gave me PTSD,’’ he continues. ‘‘Same symptoms you’ve got. The rage. The spiraling. The dreams that aren’t dreams. The feeling like you’re still back there, still fighting a war that never ends.’’
The corner of my mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. I know exactly what he means.
Sawyer exhales again, slower this time, like peeling back layers.
‘‘Later, I met a woman. She was good. Too good. She gave me a daughter, the only thing pure I’ve ever had.’’
His voice falters, just slightly.
‘‘But I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t be what they needed. I was angry all the time. Reckless. Every time I looked at her...’’ He shakes his head, jaw tight. ‘‘I saw my father.’’
My hands clench instinctively. That word—father—is its own kind of trigger.
‘‘He was a drunk,’’ Sawyer says, quieter. ‘‘Used his fists to raise me. Told me I’d never be more than a mistake he regretted. And when I grew up...’’ He shrugs, a bitter, empty gesture.
‘‘I proved him right. I became a monster. Just in a differentuniform.’’
The room hums with the weight of it, the shared understanding that neither of us says aloud.
Sawyer runs a hand over his face, rough and tired, like the memories themselves wear him down.
‘‘I didn’t see her for five years,’’ he says, voice low and scratchy.
‘‘Five years I stayed away. Thought I was doing her a favor. Sparing her from the man I was.’’
He lets out a breath that’s more a shudder.
‘‘Spent those years in therapy. Trying to fix the mess my old man left in me. The mess I kept feeding without even realizing it.’’
He falls silent for a second, and the room seems to sink with him.
‘‘Now...’’ He clears his throat. ‘‘Now I’ve got contact with her again. Slowly. Carefully. It’s been a couple years. She’s older now. Smarter than I’ll ever be. And forgiving in ways I’ll never deserve.’’
He smiles, but it’s broken at the edges; the kind of smile that remembers the cost of every piece of happiness.
‘‘I understand it,’’ Sawyer says after a long moment.
‘‘The violence. The inherited pain. The way it grows in you without permission, like some sickness you can’t scrub out of your blood.’’
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
He’s saying things that feel like they’re bleeding out of my own chest.
Sawyer’s eyes flick over to me, steady and raw.
‘‘I never talk about this,’’ he says quietly. ‘‘Not to anyone. Most people don’t know. They look at me and see... what? Some good soldier. Some medic. They don’t see the shit I did. The mistakes. The moments I crossed the line and never came back.’’
His jaw works for a second, fighting something.
‘‘It’s easy to hide it. To pretend you’re not a monster when you’re quiet about it. When the blood’s washed off and the stories stay buried.’’
He gives a short, hollow laugh. ‘‘But a monster’s a monster. Obvious or not.’’
We sit there, the words hanging between us, heavy and sharp.
I feel it deep in my bones, the ache of it, the truth of it.
Then Sawyer says, softer this time, like offering a lifeline:
