"The process of healing

does not end when the

wounds are no longer visible –

it ends when the wounds

no longer ache."

                                                               -Muskau sharma                                                          

  ABBIE

ONE WEEK LATER

I can hear music pulsing from the kitchen as I enter the foyer after work, turning the corner I'm finally able to decipher the song as the lyrics fill the kitchen from my favorite Pandora station. Without a clue of me taking a seat behind him, I gently place my keys on the granite counter, ensuring the metal not to clink, interrupting the "show" as I watch Wyatt's subtle sway with the beat, his hips mimicking his wrist as he stirs figure eights with a wooden spoon in a large pot. Stopping mid-stir he sings into the spoon before tossing in the veggies. My mouth waters from the sound of instant sizzling as the veggies start the sweat. Soon blessing us with the beautiful favors and scent of the Holy Trinity. I softly hum along resting my chin on my hand as I lean onto the island. Listening as Morgan works his way up to the course of the song. Just as I called it, when the words "To take your hand and spin you around" Wyatt balls up his fists, digging deep within his chest, belting out the words as he spins. 

Startled, he locks his knees mid spin not expecting me to be perched on the bar stool giving him my undivided attention. Gleaming is delightful satisfaction! I love watching this side ofhim.

"Shittt." His eyes go wide as the spoon slips from his grip, the heavy butt of the spoon manages to topple, hitting the granite with a thud as Wyatt swats to grab it as it shoots back up from the counter from momentum.

"Gotcha!"

I can't help but squeal when a full squawk escapes as I gasp for air! Snickering at my own laughter I hold a hand to my clinched core as my muscles restrict screaming for oxygen.

Pausing the music, sarcasm oozes as Wyatt impersonates my laughter to sound like Goofy's.

"okay, okay, I'm sorry" I plea, wiping my lash line with the sleeve of my cream cardigan.

"I'm sorry, I startled you. You seemed really into your element; I wasn't ready to pull you away from that yet." I say, standing to join him near the stove. "How was your day?"

"Better, now that you are here." He replies before planting a gently kiss on my forehead, turning to stir the pot.

"Gumbo in June? What's the occasion?"

"What? You didn't see those dance moves? It's been a few weeks, I'm graduating to phase two in Physical therapy, we can start introducing exercises now!"

"But?"

He turns to tend to the roux, answering in a low inaudible grumble," If you know.."

"Wyatt, What's the catch?"

"Well, with instruction to not overstress the healing process. But they don't know Abs! Every case is different." Frustration grows in his voice as his demeanor changes.

Why is he being standoffish, to me? I hate when he gets like this, that I can't help him. Why must he prove his strength to me? He is so used to handling everything on his own, even after weeks back home he still struggles with letting others help. I wish he would lean on me.

"They? The doctors?"

"Oh Abs, not you too, don't start!"

"Start what? Babe I don't want you pushing yourself too hard! You should listen to the doctors! To your therapist."

"Doctors!" he scuffs, slamming his fist to the counter "They don't know me, they never saw me before my injuries! I know what I can handle. Why can't you be happy for me moving to phase two?"

I flinch as his fist collide with the countertop causing the metal fruit bowl to rattle as its feet cling against the stone surface. But Wyatt's unphased, growing quiet as he tries to allow his aggravation to simmer. Channeling his annoyance with huffs as he quickly slices the andouille, scraping it into the pot and blending it with the mixture of onion, bell pepper, celery and roux.

I shift in my seat, biting my lip as an uneasy silence settles, ready to remove myself from this pleasant conversation, when he finally speaks up.

"Would you grab the jar of okra from the pantry and slide the bottle of bay leaves to me please." His brows lift as he watches, making sure I didn't walk away but his current irritation doesn't allow him to look me in the eyes. I know it's his way of keeping me close. Not ready to admit he might have taken his annoyance out on me. Not wanting me to leave.

"Damnit, fucking nerves!" the waves of anger that were just beginning to settle resume capping everything he tried to keep at bay.

"I can't even open a damn okra jar Abagail! " he shouts, throwing his hands up after pushing the jar on the counter away in frustration. But it was more than a jar, it was therapy, it was the nightmares, and the coping strategies that never seem to help. I knew what was coming, another fight.

"Don't you dare do that, shut me out." I shake my head, pacing the floor, my hair a tousled mess, as I push back the lose strands. 

"Don't you dare call me Abagail." my heart swells as pain rises in my gut causing tears to spill over, staining my flush cheeks as it mixes with black mascara.

"Promise me, I'll always be Abbie. Your Abbie!" I attempt to yell, anything to make him listen! but my voice fails me, breaking at the thought of him pushing me away.

"Take a look!!" but I turn, refusing to give into his steady battle of worthiness. He has pulled this card twice since he has returned, but never quite this far. This angry.

"Don't walk away from me, look at me Abbie." His voice, a plea. "I'm nothing, can't you see that Babe? I'm damaged, my hand barely works, I still struggle to stand despite bull shit therapy, I can't hear. You know I don't sleep! How long are we supposed to go around pretending thinks were as perfect as when I left?" he turns to stop but continues.

"I can't be the man you need anymore. You are patient with me, and I don't know why. That's all I do is hold you down. Don't you want more from life, than this?" he gestures to himself, "I can't dance with you, play around and pick you up on this counter like I use to. If I can't love you, why am I even here?

"Shh, Stop Wyatt! Why do you keep insisting I leave? That I'm not happy with you? I'm not going anywhere; can't you see that by now?" Pivoting on my heel, I rush to his arms, I know holding him will ease this tension.

But Wyatt does the unexpected, placing his hands on my shoulders stopping me in my tracks. And if it can't get any more life changing, his glossy eyes peer into mine, no longer avoiding eye contact. And his breathing is slow?

"It's time we stop denying the truth. Let's cut the bullshit. You're too damn good for me and we both know it!"

"That's not tru-" but his finger covers my quivering lips.

"I should go."

As much as it hurt me to watch him walk out of our house, what hurt me even more was how calm he seemed. His anger had dissipated, as if it evaporated into thin air, His voice was so slow, like he believed the nonsense he was saying. I wanted so badly to run after him, to tackle him and shield him from his own interfight, But I knew from our, his therapy sessions which I attended weekly that there would be situations that Wyatt must workout himself. To prove his worth to himself. I also knew this will never get better if Wyatt keeps refusing to talk about that day and what happened, he is still suppressing, he doesn't have issues speaking of the time he was shot in the chest or the patrol days leading up to the explosion. He has spoken of it once to me with the help and comfort of Bourbon, but not in depth, and never with Simpson the Therapist at the nearest VA Center. Maybe him walking out is the breakthrough we need. It just pains me to see him this way, to know my love isn't enough to keep him safe from his own thoughts, to keep the night terrors away.

I didn't sleep at all the first night - barely the second and third. Instead, I tossed and turned. Giving up completely the first night, I sat up in bed and read entries of the journal he gifted to me before his deployment. I remembered the times he wrote about, only from my point of view. It was so interesting to read his thoughts, I had no idea how much he cared for me all those years ago. How at first, he read, because I read. He claimed it was an easy way to stay near and another way to bond. But eventually he found himself reading even when I wasn't. He found the escape I had. How it made him fall even harder for me.

In the pocket of the journal, there was a slip of paper quoting a partial passage from Emily Bronte's novel, Wuthering Heights.

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

It was a novel I owned that belonged to my mother. One of her favorites, that she read parts of to me when I was younger to introduce me to Classic English Literature and to improve my vocabulary. I never completed the book but would flip to the pages she dog eared, to read bits of her favorite parts. What he wrote on the slip of paper, was underlined on one of her dog-eared pages. Setting a path for modern American literature as well, as I recalled Bronte's work being cited in Anna Todd's iconic romance series. I hadn't connected the two until now, until after I read Anna's books. Ironically, I've recited this same quote from Anna rather than Emily. Blame it on the naive millennial in me. But somehow. Someway. That same quote found us both and applied deeply.

Smiling, I turned the page deciding to use the slip as a bookmark, reading more. He wrote about the time I was finally able to gather the courage to leave the cabin one night. How nervous he remembered me being.

I grabbed a blanket and we snuck out into a wide-open pasture I had been working that day. Freshly harvested for hay, the cattle on the far in of the field. I helped her climb over the fence, lifting her at the waist. Touching her felt almost magical. Like being near her, a person so pure, made me feel like a better person myself. She will always be too good for this world – without a shadow of a doubt, too good for me.

Spreading The blanket across the grass, I sat down patting the empty spot beside me, gesturing for her to sit. And by the grace of God, she did.

"Wow, it's beautiful out here." She whispered, so afraid to get caught by my dad. I remember my throat going dry as I thought of a clever reply. "Absolutely stunning" or "I know" referring to her rather than the stars. But I copped out and opted for the truth.

"My mama and I would always come out here. We would sneak out just like this, riding our horses to this same pasture. We would talk about our day, talk to God, and her mama and papa. She said they were up there too. And one day that's where she would go."

That night we fell asleep under a sky full of bright and beautiful stars uncorrupted and drowned out from big city lights. 

A soft knock followed by the slow creaking of the office door interrupted Simpson and I's concerning conversation.

"Good morning Doc."

My heart leaped as I took in every bit of Wyatt's appearance. I've been waiting three damn days to see this man again. I was hopeful he'd show but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my doubts. If an interrupting discussion with his therapist is what it took for me to see Wyatt again, I'd visit her every day.

I was grateful. Grateful to watch the tall man I adore walk through that door. Not to end our chat, but to see Wyatt in the flesh again. His hair was tussled, long overdue for a trim – I had gotten use to his short army cut, and his growing scruff needed taming. Noticing me tucked away in the corner of the leather couch, he ran a hand through his locks, in a last-minute attempt to look presentable, before slipping his red faded stamped hand in his front pocket. He'd been drinking.

"You're here." His voice a mix of both a question and relief? Breaking the silence, the room adopted from his entry. But the only answer I could muster was what I hope resembled a smile as I shook my head and attempted to lift the corners of my mouth.

My heart ached at the sight of him, he hadn't been sleeping well. But then again neither have I, how could I? Knowing the man I love, needed space to sort his thoughts. It was different with him overseas, not being able to share a bed, but now? It hurts, he would rather sleep in his car, in a grocery store parking lot than with me.

Every inch of me wanted to leap into his strong arms, longing for his touch, his kiss, hell for him to tuck my hair back, for his rough fingertips to graze my cheek, for him to want me.

I could see the relief in his body language, his grip loosening on the leather-bound notebook as his eyes met mine, shifting to slowly rake my body, as if a sight for sore eyes. The corners of his mouth gently tugged, enough to reveal that beautiful lone dimple as a slight shimmer sparkled in his bright green eyes before taking a seat next to me. He was back. He gently scooped up my hand, bringing it to his warm lips before resting our intertwined hands on his knee. Paying no attention to Doctor Simpson, like we were the only ones in the room. 

"Why would you come, after the way I treated you?" His voice a mix of confusion, ease, and enthusiasm? "Im, so sorry for that. H- How are you?" His nervous brows quickly giving him away as he asks, followed by his free hand running through his dark waves.

"I was wrong to leave Abs, I, I can't do this without you."

And just like that, three days of separation was what he needed after all. With his hand in mine, he opened the cover to his ink filled journal. The room was hushed as my cheeks stayed damp from the continuous stream of tears. Over an hour had passed into his session as he read from his journal.

Wyatt was always so talented with his writing but hearing the truth in his words, page after page made me weak at my knees. His imagery so detailed, the words so cruel, yet so beautifully written by him. I swear I could feel my heart racing with his, I could feel his fears. Only his fear wasn't dying that day, it was me being forced to live life without him, me never having a chance to be a mother. My heart broke with how forward his selflessness was in the moment.

His words stuck like glue, each heart wrenching passage. He wrote of being able to hear the attackers whispering, before they lifted his scorched body, carrying it away from the smoke. How the night air was cool on his unburnt, limp arms and the sky was pitch black, not a star in sight. He continued to read his re-telling of that night, he recalled hearing Weston and Hardin's shouts, the frustration in their distant voices rang in his ears. "I can't reach him!" As a barrier of flames kept them away.

"The smoke was thick and too dark for the helicopters to engage; the birds never came to save me. All I remember is waking up during surgery after they extracted me from combat. I could hear medics speaking, I thought I was paralyzed, I thought my legs were amputated, I couldn't shift my own body, I had no control of my limbs. All for what was supposed to be a simple mission, to retrieve our guns and the backpacks of our fallen troops from the tussle in town back when I was shot. I simple mission gone completely wrong."

He gently closes the book, wrapping the worn band around the edges to keep the loose and folded pages from slipping out. The slight shuffle of the handwritten edges is the only sound that fills the room as we sit in awe, collecting our words, carefully dwelling on what to say, before Doctor Simpson bravely clears her throat as she removes are glasses.

"Nicely done, Wyatt! In all my years as a therapist, I have yet to have any of my patients write about such gruesome combat. How did you do it? I mean write so vividly of real trauma?" But rather than ready to write and pick a part his brain, she rests her pen on the black walnut desk, closing his file.

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Please note this book isn't complete, I simply marked it as such for algorithmic reasoning.

Thank you for sticking around and reading some far!!! and thanks for alllll the great feedback and votes per part!

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Trying to get another edit of Wyatt and Abbie for you guys soon!

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