"That's the thing about pain.

It demands to be felt."

-John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

                                                                                         WYATT

A high-pitched ring amplifies in my head causing me to groan as the pain takes control. Gunfire and distant explosions morph into screams and shouts, as pain demands its way into my brain from each thunderous soundwave colliding against my busted ear drum. Make it stop! As I try to open my squinted eyes, I'm met with an unforgiving orange light. "Welcome to hell" the words repeat in my mind from my first day. Flames engulf the surrounding cars and our truck that brought us here from base. As I try to lift my body from the ash covered ground, a searing pain shoots up my leg, hot embers bloom across my exposed skin as the fire eats away at my pant leg. I quickly roll allowing the dust to smother the flames, covering my blood drenched wound in sand as each tiny fragment buries its way into my burnt flesh.

The dry desert air burns, filling my lungs with smoke as I inhale with a wince to move my body to safer ground. Dragging myself along the flaming boundary I shout.

"Call out!" the sound of my own voice is far too loud, sending pulses of pain to burst from inside. I grab my head as if trying to control the throbbing agony, causing me to collapse, pushing each grain of sand and shrapnel deeper into my smoldering leg. Fuckkk! With a groan, I lift with my forearms, continuing to crawl and drag myself beneath the smoke, as searing pain rages at my injured knee. With each burning breath, ash and soot coat my lungs and the fire grows dim as I lower my pace. The surrounding embers turning from orange to white, the sound of muffled explosions break past the smoky walls, as more white lights swallow the air. My fucking ears! I drop my arms, bracing for impact, shutting my eyes as the grit covers my face, finding its way into the creases that formed from my tight lids and furrowed brows.

"Pectin! They got Pectin!" distorted voices and blazing flames greet me once again, pulling me awake.

Did I black out? as I shudder to open my eyes, my lashes fail to catch the dust that fall into my dry and burning eyes, my head sways beneath my shoulders, causing tension and discomfort on my throat. I can't breathe. Fingers grip onto my shrapnel filled leg, as the remaining fabric brushes against my charred skin in a repetitive motion. My eyes finally flutter open to the sounds of bullets zipping by my head and shouts of my name. But all I see are blood covered boots and the ground below. Where the fuck am I?

"Pectin!" Abbie? No, no, Katie?

"Wyatt! Hang in there!" Weston? "Release the Soldier!"

"There! Clean shot! Hardin Shoot!"

My body jerks, with each bullet that strikes the man still gripping on to my legs, causing his nails to grow deeper, I groan from the torture. Managing to gather enough strength in my rage to yank one leg free, forcing my boot into his chest! My broken body clashes to the ground as the blazing lights begin to fade, sudden darkness taking over as cool air washes over me.

Loud voices along with deafening rings awaken my thoughts. How long have I been sleeping? I try to shift but I can't move the lower half of my body. My legs. My legs! Why can't I feel my burns? My eyes flutter open in confusion and panic, but thick sleep blurs my vision.

As I began to lift my hand to wipe away the accumulated crust, it too fails to meet my demand, my arm lies there, stiff. Help. Helppp! I scream, but there was so sound. Not a single word escapes my dry and chapped lips, my breathing is rushed as hazy shadowed figures emerge, the sound of metal gently clinging.

"How are we doing?"

"He is peppered with shrapnel; this will take time. There was more damage than we expected, we had to do a little more cutting to remove some of the deeper shrapnel. Once everything visible is removed we will need to do a saline wash on the wounded area to remove any leftover debris before sending him to the Burn Unit."

Burn Unit? How bad is it? Why can't I feel anything? I continue to shout, but my voice is trapped inside my pounding head.

"It's been two hours, administer more anesthetics and another round of morphine." Did she hear me? The female's voice goes hush as more metal tings the bowl. "God forbid he wake up and feel this."

Within an instant her words float away from my mind like the delicate smoke of a vanished flame, my eyelids fight to stay vigilant, but are far too heavy, drifting me back to rest.

"You know?" she slows her words in an attempted tease. "I love a man in uniform, wounded at that, the scar to the face is a nice touch, Wyatt. Real appealing to the ladies. But I think you catching yourself on fire was a bit much, if I'm being honest, of course." Katie flirts trying to cheer my bitter mood, I was ready to go home, just not like this.

"Shut the fuck up Katie!" I say with a chuckle, as I continue to pack my duffel.

Deciding to leave the rest of my snacks, shampoos and reading material for Weston and the others. Katie is a bottomless pit when it comes to snacks and I know Hardin will appreciate something new to read. He had eyed my collection for almost two months but was never bold enough to ask to borrow any of it.

"Hey Katie! You can wound me anytime, in...or out of uniform baby!" Wes quickly chimes in, wiggling his brows in a seductive manner. "I'll be glad to show you all my scars."

"Ha! Yea, like where he cut himself shaving his legs!" Hardin contributes at Weston's expense from the bunk bed wedged in the corner of our – their barracks.

I appreciate them trying to keep the mood light, considering my eventful morning. This morning was my meeting with the Medical Evaluation Board to undergo a disability proceeding, they decided I was no longer fit to complete my tour.

After therapy there would however be a re-eval and a Physical Evaluation process, to document my status and duty limitations in terms of possible permanent disability. Be a soldier, has become my way of life; how do I return home? How do I go back and lead a normal life? Unable to provide for myself- I'm injured, useless, a wasted vessel of life. Why would God save me, if only to torture me with pain, labelling me with the title "Temporary Disable until re-evaluation". Why would he make me question my faith?

During my meeting with the Medical Board. The physicians asked how my early recovery was going, how was my memory lost, and how was I coping with the persistent pain. How do you think? I had to get a chunk of my lower leg cut out due to third-degree burns, the mingled meat that hung out of my deep lacerations from the embedded shrapnel had to be removed as well due to early infection setting in from the dirt and the man's finger nails that tore into my tender flesh as they tried to capture me. Successfully carrying my body more than 80 yards, until my unit noticed, engaging in fire before the "birds" came to save us. I still suffer from severe headaches and vertigo from my head trauma. The blast caused one of my left eardrums to rupture beyond repair and my right sensitive to sounds.

I hear the pens scratch against the thin paper filling in the boxes. Must they write so damn hard? Head Trauma? Check. Black outs? Check. Other notes and comments: partially deaf. I was far to familiar with the boxes from the charts my nurses and doctors filled out daily during recovery. I hear the random pauses on each pen in between questions as each physician jots down concerns, followed by more questions.

"What else can you tell us about your head injury? Now that you are released, and the bleeding and swelling has stopped."

The entire meeting was a blur as my thoughts ran together, lost in my intellect. I hadn't realized I was even answering questions, what were my responses? It's as if my mind verd off to deeper thought, but somehow still present to the surrounding world.

"Officer Pectin?"

"Fine, I guess. My vision is blurry at times, I'm still experiencing nausea with sensitivity to noises and light. Um confusion here there, like I'm a bit forgetful. Difficulty concentrating on some task-"

"Like you just experienced? When I had to call you by name for a response?" Her soft foreign voice cuts me off with more questions, something about brits and their accents makes them seem much more professional. More proper. Especially when compared to my thick southern drawl.

"Does the pitch of my voice, pen writing against the hard table bother you? In terms of your sensitivity to noise?"

"Uh, Actually, a little, how did you know?"

"Your facial expressions, Mr.-, Officer Pectin." She quickly corrects, before jotting down more notes.

"I have one last question Officer." The familiar voice of the doctor seating near the edge of table lifts his head. "How have you been sleeping? Any flash backs, terrors of any kind?"

" I Don't"

"Don't have flash backs?"

"Don't sleep- not really, naps here and there. After ICU, I started having vivid night terrors, I'd wake up sweating, ready to fight anyone in my path. I can't live like that. I can't risk harming someone just by sleeping in the same barracks as me. So I try to keep my mind busy and read most of the night- seems to be working."

The S's of their whispers hiss in my ears, as I watch them talk about me. Are you fucking serious? I'm literally two feet away. They could have easily called for a recess and compared notes a bit more discreetly.

"Officer Pectin, after reviewing you file and recent information you have provided. We have decided at this time, you will be put on temporary disability, as we continuously assess your progress, in terms of mental health." She pauses to clear her throat as her eyes dart to the other members of the board.

"I am sorry to inform you that for the time being your tour here is over. Once you return to the states, we will set up your weekly visits for physical therapy and counselling for the trauma you have experienced. You are going home officer."

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Is this why 4 letters were missing?

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