After the Masquerade

AFTER THE MASQUERADE

A soldier returns from war, but the war follows him home.

The flashbacks began less than a month after Iraq.

I couldn’t drive half a mile without losing my mind. I avoided narrow streets and never parked in any lot without a clear exit. Snipers crouched behind every parapet. Whenever a car honked, I was suddenly there again, where everything was smoke and blood.

I went to a psychiatrist because that’s what a good soldier does. I told him what was going on, more or less.

“You have PTSD,” he said. “Combat-related. I’ll start you on Paxil. It’ll take a few weeks to work, but it should help with your symptoms. Have you been having any suicidal thoughts?”

“No,” I lied. “Nothing like that.”

“Good. Let me know if that changes.”

I filled the Paxil on the way home and took it dutifully. I wasn’t expecting it to do any good, but after a few weeks it actually started to help. I was able to drive again without shitting my pants every time I heard a siren.

But then came the nightmares.

###

            Every night I dreamt of a desert landscape, though there were no shouts or explosions or gunfire. It was not the war but its aftermath that haunted me.

            Thousands of bodies lay scattered across the sand, their faces fixed in expressions of terror. I had a shovel and I’d dig for hours, carefully placing one person after another in the grave.

            No matter how long I dug, the bodies never ended.

###

  A few days after the dreams began there was a knock at my door. I tensed then crept to the window and peeked outside where a young man with dark hair was standing on my porch. He saw me looking and waved. I started to panic, but I knew it was too late to not open the door, so I did. 

            “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m Asif. Just moved in across the street.”

“I’m Matt.”

“I’m having some of the neighbors over on Saturday for a barbecue. You should join if you’re free.”

“OK.”

“Great,” he said. “Starts at three. See you there.”

I shut the door and raced into my bedroom, my head spinning. The entire world felt distant and unreal. I turned the dial on my gun safe then unlocked the handle. My pistol rested on a rack near the top and just as I reached for it I regained control.

I slammed the safe shut and collapsed on the bed and just started weeping, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.

I didn’t come up with any answers.

###

            I called the psychiatrist the next day and told him about the dreams.

            “Sound like trauma-related nightmares,” he said. “But bad dreams are also a common side effect of Paxil. We could stop it.”

            “The Paxil’s been working pretty good,” I told him.

            “In that case, let’s add Minipress. I hate to treat a potential side effect with another medication, but Minipress targets nightmares specifically. I’ll call it in.”

            “That’s fine.”

            But the dreams didn’t stop.

###

            On Saturday, I walked across the street just before three, hoping to beat the crowd. I was so anxious I didn’t sleep the night before, and I spent most of the night staring at my pistol, wondering if it had come to that. I didn’t want to go to the barbecue, but my shame overwhelmed me.

            “You’re not a bad person,” I told myself. “What happened the other day was ridiculous. You’re not racist. You can do this. It’s just a barbecue.”

            Asif answered almost immediately when I knocked.

            “Hey, you’re early. I was about to fire up the grill. Can I get you anything?”

            “No, thanks.”

            “Cool. If you change your mind, there’s drinks on the porch.”

            As I watched him grill, I struggled to make small talk. It was a relief when the other neighbors started to arrive. They chatted about their kids and their jobs, and I smiled and nodded, like a normal human being.

            The barbecue wasn’t fun because nothing was anymore, but it was going alright.

            Then came the explosion.

            I spun and saw Asif standing in a cloud of smoke. I tackled him into the ground and yanked his arms behind his back.

            “I’ve got him,” I shouted. “I’ve got the fucking Arab.”

            A woman screamed behind me.

It took two men to wrestle me off of him, and by the time they did, I’d started to regain control.

            “What the hell’s wrong with you?” one of them shouted.

            “The bomb…” I stammered as I looked around. “I heard it…”

            “It was just a kid with his bang snaps,” said the other. He grabbed one of the toys and popped it against the driveway. “I’m calling the police.”

            “No,” Asif said as he looked at me in disgust. “Just get out of here.”

###

            I ran back into my house and grabbed my pistol from the nightstand. Tears were rushing down my cheeks, and my breaths couldn’t come fast enough. I paced in the living room for an hour, trying to figure out what to do and how to kill whatever I’d become, but I could only think of one solution.

I sat on the couch and stuck the pistol in my mouth and screamed. I cried until my face was red and snot poured out my nose. I hated myself for my brokenness and my weakness and my lack of control. But most of all, in that moment, I hated myself for not having the strength to pull the trigger.

            Through the window I could see Asif alone in his yard, cleaning up from the barbecue.

            “I have to do this first,” I whispered.

            I tucked the pistol into the back of my waistband then tightened my belt and crossed the street.

###

            Asif was walking into his house when I reached his porch.

            “Asif, can we talk?”

            He looked down at me and frowned.

            “I don’t think so.”

            He started to shut the door, but I stuck out my hand to stop him.

            “Please.”

            “Look, asshole. I’ve dealt with this shit my whole life. I’ve never even been to the Middle East. I was born in Boston.”

            “I know,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t know you were from Boston, but I know the war doesn’t have anything to do with you. My mind knows it, but sometimes my mind goes blank and…”

            My voice started to crack, but I kept going.

            “I’m not racist, but, shit, look at what happened today. Maybe I am. But after the war I don’t know how to control it, and when I start doing things I can’t control, I hate myself and there’s so much goddam guilt that follows…”

            Asif put his hand on my shoulder.

            “Hey, you want to come inside? I have beer.”

            “If I start drinking feeling like this I’m worried I’ll never stop.”

            “How about coffee? Decaf?”

            “OK.”

            We walked into his house and sat at the kitchen table for the next three hours, just two men talking honestly about our feelings. In this modern world that almost sounds absurd, though perhaps it shouldn’t.

I told him about my guilt and my anger. When I said I’ve felt like a misfit since I’ve returned, he nodded and said he understood because he’s been a misfit for most of his life. I cried then he cried then we both laughed and cried some more. I begged for his forgiveness, though he said there was nothing to forgive. He told me forgiveness is a decision, but it’s also a process, and we must forgive ourselves anew each day.

“How do I forgive myself?” I asked.

“Even when your heart condemns you, remember that there are truths greater than your heart.”

            When I got home that night, I put the gun back in my safe and turned the combination dial past zero before using the key to lock the handle. I walked back across the street and knocked on Asif’s door.

            “Could you hang onto this for a while?” I said, handing him the key.

            He looked down and frowned for a moment but then slowly nodded his head.

            “Sure,” he said. “I can do that. If you need anything, please let me know.”

            “I will,” I said, and I meant it.           

###

            It’s been three months since then, and the dreams haven’t stopped, but they’ve changed because now I’m not alone. There are others digging with me. Politicians and pastors and neighbors and misfits. There are so many graves left to dig. We are all responsible for everything that has happened, but in my dreams we’re making our penance together.

            Not far away there are children watching our every move. I’m ashamed for them to see what we’ve done, but they are also a blessing. They are our hope.  

            “You can be better than we were,” I tell them. “I believe in you. Pay attention and learn from our mistakes, so someday you won’t have to dig.”