Abuse

  This deceptive and attractive exterior hides a multitude of ugly, toxic secrets.

  I place my suitcase in the trunk of my new car, a Cadillac CTS/V. I wanted to buy an actual car, not something big like an SUV. An SUV would feel too much like I was still riding in a combat vehicle.

  That’s something I never want to do again.

  Hopping in, I hit the automatic garage door opener, back out and start the thirty-minute drive to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.

  Mother is matchmaking again. Crap.

  Power, looks, and wealth seem to be stimulating aphrodisiacs.

  The Wilkinson family is well known and has powerful connections. Our original wealth came from oil wells. Considered as handsome as my charismatic father, I’ve always been a target as an eligible bachelor, from a ‘good family’ with money.

  Consequently, women used to regularly hit on me and matchmaking mamas used to set me up with their offspring until I was sick of it. I felt sorry for their daughters, but power, looks and money were involved, so maybe their interest was genuine.

  Being hunted isn’t so much of a problem anymore. I took my good looks for granted. As the song says, you really don't know what you've got until it's gone.

  Everyone assumes my disfiguring neck and facial wounds were the result of my military service overseas.

  They aren’t.

  My scars are the result of a shameful secret. A secret I don’t know if I’ll ever come to terms with. A secret I plan to take to my grave.

  Why the hell did I end up with the overactive conscience? Is it a result of my upbringing or something built into my DNA?

  Whatever. I’m burdened by a sense of emptiness, remorse and unresolved guilt, every single damn day of my life.

  Disfigurement is my punishment.

  It seems to me that I deserve every single scar I have.

  Chapter 2.

  “What makes a monster and what makes a man?”

  — Victor Hugo

  ~~~

  I park my car in long-term parking, make my way into the airport and check in my luggage.

  Well-traveled, I’m used to going through all the intrusive security measures they’ve enacted for the passengers on both national and international flights. I take off my shoes, my belt and empty my coins into the basket without even thinking of it.

  Airport Security personnel are trained to be observant. They take in my age, my obvious combat-ready fitness and my facial scarring. Their deduction? They assume I’m a vet.

  While they find it difficult to look me in the eye, they treat me with respect.

  A child of about four years old gazes up at me from where he’s holding his mother’s hand. Instantly, he starts to howl in terror. Mortified, his mother picks him up, but she can’t look at me either. Turning so her back is to me, she shifts so her son can no longer see me in an attempt to soothe him.

  I look like a monster and scare young children everywhere. Adults are horrified too, but they’re usually able to hide it better.

  Over time, it’s become less painful to see the shock in a stranger’s expression when they first view the travesty that is now my face. I’m over it, really.

  Horror, pity and sympathy however, I still find really embarrassing. They’re so much more difficult to deal with.

  The doctors put my facial fractures together pretty well, but my extensive burns couldn’t be repaired. The skin on my left cheek is thick, rippled and pinkish. Although no one would know it, I’m blind in my left eye and a thin line on my scalp will always be bare. I wear my hair longer than Army regulation now, to cover those scars at least.

  When I smile, the burned side of my face doesn’t move. This partial paralysis makes me appear even worse. My smile is distorted and looks almost painful, appearing more like a grimace.

  I assure you—I keep my smiles to a minimum, with no difficulty at all.

  I was lucky to have kept my ear and not to have lost my hearing. It's been over a year since it happened, so I’ve pretty well come to terms with the scarred disaster that’s my face.

  The outside of my body suits me. One-half looks fine; the other looks like Hell. Poetic justice, as I see it. Somehow, it seems like a direct reflection of what’s inside.

  Maybe that's why my disfigurement hurts so deeply. I feel as if I'm open, exposed and laid out for everyone to view and to judge.

  I should be so lucky. As my own judge and jury, I'm doomed.

  I’m on the air-bridge with my fellow passengers, plodding along the ramp, being loaded onto the aircraft like docile cattle. Suddenly, a male passenger becomes abusive to a petite, blonde stewardess.

  The ill-mannered bastard is arguing about seating, and he sounds like he’s had a few too many. His accent’s a slurred version of either British or Australian.

  I’ve been to the U.K. and I’ve served with Australians. The people I met were terrific. It just shows you, there are dickheads in every country.

  On the other hand, maybe the jerk is actually a stand-up guy… unless he’s been drinking. It’s a common recipe. Just add alcohol and—bang!—instant asshole. I've known my share of those.

  Due to combat training and experience, without any conscious decision on my part, I go into fight mode. I become hyper aware of my surroundings as I take in the scene. My body tenses. Adrenaline floods my veins and my pulse elevates.

  I’m pumped and ready for action.

  It’s not my business, I tell myself. Security will deal with it.

  The douche bag is towering over the stewardess and in her personal space. He's in an aggressive stance, pointing at her face as he slurs insults at her. No one should have to put up with that kind of crap.

  Especially not a woman.

  When the bastard raises his voice and yells, “You stupid cow!” I lose it. Instantly and automatically, I move into action.

  In five long strides, I push through the waiting passengers ahead of me and take control. My chest to his back, my arm goes around his neck, cutting off his air. At the same time, with my other hand, I take his wrist and twist his arm up behind his shoulder blades.

  The asshole rises to his toes in a fruitless attempt to ease this painful pressure. I could break his arm this way.

  Right now, I want to.

  “You should apologize to the lady,” I advise him, my voice a low and menacing growl. My chokehold on his throat is so tight he can’t talk.

  Frightened, he nods awkwardly. I loosen my hold slightly, just for a moment.

  “Sorry,” he chokes out.

  I look down at the stewardess. Her eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step back when she sees my face.

  “What would you like me to do with him, ma’am?”

  She opens her mouth but says nothing. Three more members of the flight crew gather to watch the scene, but they don’t make suggestions either. They silently stand there, obviously dumbfounded.

  Without any outside input, I determine the best course of action. “You think you can behave yourself?” I ask the guy.

  “Yes, sir,” he gasps when I loosen my grip, so he can speak.

  I let him go. The idiot hasn’t got a mark on him. The entire episode takes less than a minute. Holding his throat, he hands the stewardess his boarding pass. Eyes averted, head held low and shoulders rounded, the drunk quietly boards the plane.

  The stewardess gives me a heart-stopping smile. Beautiful teeth, nice blue eyes—lovely. She welcomes me warmly, despite my scars, checking my boarding pass and directing me toward my seat.

  I move down the aisle, put my bag in the overhead compartment and remove my e-reader and a few other items. I sit down in the window seat. Like always, I’ve planned it so that my good side is what the person next to me will see.

  I consider this act a public service, yet it's partially selfish. It allows me the comfort of not having to deal with the fallout of unpleasant reactions to my appearance.

  Every single day I’m grateful that at least ha
lf of my features are acceptable. How do people survive if their entire face is mutilated? There's no way to hide amongst crowds if your whole face is a mess. Maybe they just never leave their homes.

  I figure suicide must be common.

  In their case, walking around in public would take a whole new level of bravery. I don't think I have that in me. Not at this point. Right now, I'm pretty much tapped out.

  I fasten my seatbelt, get out a pen and my journal. I may as well spend this time doing the exercise my counselor has asked me to do.

  I shut my eyes and think about my day so far, sifting through my emotions and re-experiencing them, as I go. Let’s see now: wake up, phone calls, scared kid, asshole and petite stewardess.

  I open my eyes and write, depressed, frustrated, guilt-ridden, empty, sad... lonely. I’ve always been independent, so the lonely thing is hard to face and difficult to admit.

  I feel like a pussy in the face of what seems like too “girly” emotions for a man. André would give me shit for thinking such thoughts.

  “Why should women be the only ones to experience the pleasure of such strong feelings?” he’d probably say.

  Pissed off, guilty, hate… Ah. My sister inspires such a mixed emotional response. My list grows to include, Embarrassed, disheartened, manipulated, awkward, guilty, shame, resentment.

  What a load of bullshit. Am I sensing a theme here?

  I think that's what gets to me most. I'm overwhelmed by guilt and powerless to do anything about it. I have no control and I don't know how to get rid of that useless emotion.

  What good does it do? Nothing—not a damn thing.

  But I can’t run from myself.

  The incident with the drunken asshole was the highlight of my day. I write, righteously angry, powerful, protective, capable, in control.

  Oh yeah. These are outstanding feelings. I hold on to them, recalling and reveling in every delicious moment.

  What else? Ah. Justified. Satisfied.

  I remember the stewardess’ friendly smile and add, Pleased with myself. Proud. Appreciated. Happy.

  Well. What do you know?

  For one long moment, I felt the fluttering pleasure of real happiness.

  In the combat zone, you suppress emotions. Soldiers learn to live under pressure. They adjust to the possibility and proximity of death that way.

  The Army not only allows you to ignore your feelings, it freakin’ teaches you how and makes sure you do it. When somebody’s shooting at you, a sane person would scream and run, but not us Joes. We bury it deep, deep down and cover it up with trivial crap, like who’s playing in the Super Bowl or what’s for chow tomorrow.

  Emotions may be hidden, but dammit, they’re still there, waiting.

  When I returned home, no one was shooting at me. All that shit—all of that fear, anger and stress started bubbling up from that deep, dark hole in my psyche where I’d thrown it. My emotions trickled in, pushing up through my mind like water through cracks in the hull of a leaky rowboat.

  As the alarming flood rose, I began to sink under a barrage of unexamined feelings. I began to drown in the rapidly rising tide. I simply couldn’t deal with the crap I’d locked away.

  Bullets and weapons, I could handle. Invisible mind shit? No way. My thoughts and emotions were brutal and relentless. I was powerless against them.

  It freaked me out.

  Bravery is incredibly subjective. I had courage enough to fight the enemy and face death, but I couldn’t face myself.

  If I hadn’t lost my sight in one eye, I’d still be in the army. I’d have run back to the relative safety of combat, to that emotionless comfort zone where I could hide.

  How screwed up was that? When fighting in a war is the most comfortable place to be, you pretty much know you seriously need help. It's tough to deny.

  But who could I go to? I didn’t want to pick some psychologist at random from the internet.

  I asked around, but not one of my Army friends admitted to seeing a counselor. When you’re tough and consider yourself strong and independent, seeking another person’s assistance feels like a crutch or a “pussies” way out. I don’t know about service women, but as far as I can tell, service men bottle all their shit up until they have a complete nervous breakdown.

  By that time, I’d felt pretty damn close.

  I asked around for weeks before an Army acquaintance admitted he’d seen someone and referred me to André Chevalier.

  André gave me the support I needed to get through it. The cruel bastard gives me exercises to teach me how to recognize and experience my ‘feelings’ until, as he says, “Such comes naturally.”

  Examining my feelings? It’s excruciating.

  I can hear André’s French accent and his cheerful, somewhat mischievous tone of voice in my mind. It makes me smile as I imagine him waving his hands in the air. When André gets excited, he gestures like the enthusiastic conductor of a symphony orchestra.

  “Anger, fear, shame, guilt and pain; all are emotions and sensations, my friend! They are neither right, nor are they wrong, good nor bad. They are simply the passions, your response to life and to being alive! Do not deny them. Feel them, fully experience them, surrender to them and learn to accept them. They are human and natural—a part of who you are.”

  I left the Army a year ago, on my twenty-eighth birthday and I sought out André Chevalier about five months later. He was highly recommended. André helps people effectively deal with PTSD, stress and relationships.

  Chevalier charges an absolute fortune for his time. As the guy was only around my age, I had my doubts about his abilities. If anything, I soon discovered my associate understated André’s talents. I would’ve paid a hundred times as much—not because I was seriously screwed up, although I was.

  André’s just that good.

  The young Frenchman was also considered unrivaled when it came to ‘sexual problems.’

  Despite emotional turmoil and persistent, vague nightmares where people are always trying to kill me, it’s sexual issues that disturb me the most.

  My stomach tightens as I consider the graveyard full of skeletons I’ve hidden in my closet. I have Arlington National Cemetery-sized secrets—that’s what I’ve been dragging around with me.

  André’s helped me beyond what I expected. I consider him more of a trustworthy and loyal friend than a therapist. However, after all these months of seeing my counselor, I’ve yet to talk to him about my exasperating little ‘problem.’

  Will I tell him this time?

  Frowning heavily, I add ‘anxious,’ ‘nervous’ and ‘indecisive’ to my list.

  Chapter 3.

  “One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn’t a clue. A day is a fuckin’ eternity.”

  — Roddy DoyleIf

  ~~~

  I tuck my journal in the pouch of the seat in front of me, cross my arms over my chest and shut my eyes.

  André. He’s such a scheming bastard.

  He knows when I’m avoiding an issue. He also knows I know that he knows, when I’m avoiding the issue. With tacit mutual agreement, he lets me get away with it.

  But we both understand in the end, I’ll tell him everything.

  Everything except how I got these scars.

  The oddity about my unconventional therapist is that André never reacts as one expects. I speak of horrible things and before you know it, he says or does something that makes us both laugh.

  “Mon Dieu. Me? I can travel upon any road when in the right company,” he explains as we bump over the awkward and difficult terrain of my past.

  I have to agree.

  I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to go down this land-mined, cliff-riddled trail of self-examination without him.

  I’ll never forget the first moment I met André Chevalier. Relaxed and sleepy, lulled by the steady hum of the plane, my mind goes back to that time, all those months ago.

  ~~~

  I have an appointment to m
eet my counselor at the Palms Casino at 8 p.m. Travelling up the Ivory Tower elevator to the fifty-fifth level, I get off at the Ghostbar.

  When a woman moves to enter the bar, I hold the door open and stand aside to let her pass through before me. I’m a Southern gentleman, born and bred. Respect and consideration toward women is instinctive and quite honestly, a pleasure.

  “Ma’am,” I say with a nod. If I were wearing a hat, I’d tip it.

  She looks up at me with a big smile—then the smile cracks. She can’t hide her horror, her embarrassment and lastly her pity.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, quickly averting her gaze and scurrying inside as quickly as possible.

  The responses people have to the disaster that is my face are still fresh and hurtful. People try not to look at me and they avoid me. Maybe my thin skin just needs more time to toughen.

  I can’t help but feel sorry for anyone who is born butt-ugly. I never considered their plight. How do they continue to walk out into public every day of their lives? I’m just not used to that kind of rejection.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.

  My badly scarred features have certainly enlarged my experience.

  For a moment, I consider all of the crippled, damaged or ugly people who I’ve avoided in glances and in person throughout my life and I regret my ignorance.

  I know no one is trying to be mean. Mostly people are simply caught off guard and embarrassed. They can’t prevent their shocked expressions and don’t know how to react.

  What does one say to someone who has a face like mine? “Damn, that must have hurt?” or perhaps, “Shit! You frightened the crap out of me?” How about, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look at you as if you were a monster?”

  I stare up at the fourteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the color scheme of white, black and fuchsia. Wow. This ain’t no redneck sports bar, that’s for damn sure. I’m glad I dressed in quality clothes, a comfortable sophisticated dark suit with a crisp, white, open-neck button down shirt.

  I gaze across the lowered lighting to the corner of the room and immediately spot the man I’m here to see. I don’t know how I know it’s him—I just do.