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I BREAK DOWN by purpleyin
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You never give me your money
You only give me your funny paper
And in the middle of negotiations
You break down
I never give you my number
I only give you my situation
And in the middle of investigation
I break down
*******
Just a little thought. It never happened. I was charming, I impressed her with my dancing and everything went brilliant, she’d probably even forgotten that embarrassing squirm of mine in the conference room. Of course there was one thing that I did wrong. But none of it had happened now. True that Donovan wasn’t dead nor Mark and the scientists were happily breathing through perhaps sweaty collars in the case of the guy who Mark still almost killed. And Lee was dead, except it trudged up old memories, which in turn could recover more, more terrifying ones about Somalia. They only thing worse than these flashbacks could be the hotbox ones. Frightening, overwhelming sensations of despair, irrational fear. Afraid of the walls around you, of the stifling air you breathe, need. Stuffy, week old air with barely enough oxygen but the little amounts counting. Relieving the brain that’s fighting its fear and the lack of all it needs desperately. Lack of food, oxygen, space, control, freedom. Deprived of thought, not enough oxygen getting to the brain. Enough to tell you there is no way out, that rescue is you only hope and there is no one left, no one coming for you.
Shake out of it. No more thinking about it or around it, any thoughts edging on it inevitably went straight there, idly walking so you wouldn’t notice being in the dark woods until there and the fear, remembrance distracting you for long enough as to give you a fair dose of what you’ve been avoiding. Catch-up. Payback.
He’d always wondered if that had been it, for all he’d done. For people he’d killed. Whether it was simply the fact he’d killed or that not all were absolutely necessary. Following orders had been no excuse for the war criminals to get off, what if everything was because of that. That he deserved it, more than death because this was a longer surer way of suffering, torture lasting forever. As hell.
Karma perhaps? Karma wasn’t in the teachings of the bible but it still held the belief that you should be a good person lest it comes back on you, in the form of hell or in bad karma in this life or the next.
He had to concentrate. Focus his mind on something other than memories, on lithe comforting hands wrapped around him. On what she’d said. Lee was dead and he alive. Those who enlighten us and take us to what is good in ourselves. If only she was still here, maybe he could talk. Not about backstepping, he couldn’t talk to her about what had happened, or hadn’t happened whether or not it was related to the recent events. But about the flashbacks, maybe. Maybe about them. Not about the others, Somalia, he could not talk about them. Just these ones. If she had been there. But she wasn’t. He’d have to enlighten himself. In a week he’d be over it, in the past. With nothing to dredge any of it up, no more Dr. Lee. In a week he’d wonder why it seemed like such a big thing, compared to everything else he’d been through. In a week no one would care, not even him and no one would mention it. He’d be fine. Hey wait, he was fine now. But in a week he’d be better, he’d be great. Ready to take on whatever terrorist threat there was or the next apocalypse. He’d be fine.
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