Bottom Feeder

  Bottom Feeder

  Maria G. Cope

  Copyright © 2013 by Maria G. Cope

  Create Space Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1494893965

  ISBN-10: 1494893967

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Photograph and Design by

  Lady Bird Photography

  Great Falls, MT 59405

  United States

  To my heroes and villains.

  Without you,

  I would not be

  the person I am today.

  Foreword

  Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command

  Author’s Note: When I asked if he would write a Foreword for this book, I wasn’t expecting this type of response. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t something that reads like a journal, like a sneak peek into his unfiltered mind. He wrote something more than I could have ever asked for. Thank you, Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command. The floor is all yours.

  It's Thanksgiving Day. Yesterday, I arrived to Fort Bragg, NC, an 18 year-old kid 3,000 miles away from home. Needless to say I won't be partaking in any annual turkey with my kinfolk. It's okay, though. This guy everyone calls Sergeant Major has invited myself and another guy to his house for the celebration.

  I'm a little quiet. I have a lot on my mind. Before I left the building I will be working in, my boss alerted me not to unpack my gear because I would be leaving to support the invasion of Iraq in three days. The next few days were spent eating leftovers and calling friends and family.

  Hey, what else can I do?

  Six months later and I'm back home. You really learn a lot about yourself and others when placed in that situation. Coming from Compton, California I wasn't too worried about a war zone; I mean, I kinda lived in one.

  But this was different.

  This was like being the Away Team, trying to hold on for four quarters and still keep enough in the tank to get back to the bus after the game. But I was one of the lucky ones to make it back in one piece. Some made it back. Others, not so much. Good people, too. I'm going to miss them a lot.

  But I can't dwell on that just yet. I gotta get my mind right, because I just found out I have 16 days off, then I start training for a rapid push again. Apparently, I impressed someone last time around. Check me out: Two combat missions and I can't legally have a drink yet. I'm a bad ass.

  Wow. That was a rough one. A constant wave of rockets and bombs come my way. Stranded on top of a building for 3 or 4 days fighting sleep and the enemy at the same time. Trying to explain to a woman who doesn't understand English or Spanish that her daughter's death was the result of her husband's road side bombs.

  Yeah, we had our release valves. We caught up on the many bad days of Jack Bauer on 24, educated ourselves to the mystical workings of women with Sex in the City. We even had the time to figure out why so many guys in the USA hate The Sound of Music. Personally, I think it's because they will never get a woman that hot who can sing. Not all of us are Jay-Z.

  Finding things to take your mind off the bad stuff is easy when you are around guys who suffer the suck with you. We typically didn't address our struggles with each other. It was an unwritten rule that you weren't allowed to bitch and moan to another guy who went through the same thing as you, and he's not bitching and moaning.

  So we just drove on.

  We go out, spend some bullets, win some hearts and minds (that's what they call it now). We come back, shower and eat, turn on a movie, get bombed, run outside, come back and go to sleep. It becomes routine; you knew what to expect, so it became easy to deal with.

  I am now the proud owner of more Combat Service Stripes than Time in Service Stripes. Three Combat Stripes. Eighteen months of combat service and I receive my First Time in Service Stripe at three years.

  But enough of that.

  I'm home now. Still not allowed to drink, but I can finally flaunt this war badge to the ladies in non-military towns. Awesome! They are going to love me . . . love me as much as they want. Yes!

  Tomorrow, I leave for the airport. That is, if tomorrow ever gets here.

  I can't seem to fall asleep. My mind is racing. I'm thinking that something is wrong. Something isn't secure. Something is vulnerable. I don't know what it is. I thought it was jet lag at first, but it's been almost 2 weeks.

  Nah, this is something different. Something weird.

  I feel really relaxed now, though. Only if I could go to sleep.

  What was that?

  Okay, I know I heard that. Let me check it out. Okay, it was nothing. Check the windows, check the doors, check every room, every corner. Nothing. Good. Safe and secure. Let me lay back down.

  What was that . . .

  My mom and dad are happy to see me. They missed my 19th birthday, so along with all my favorite foods, they have a cheesecake with candles; I prefer cheesecake to regular cake.

  I see my uncles, aunts, cousins and siblings. I also see a few people I don't know. My First Sergeant said, “A coming home party from war has a way of bringing new family members out." I guess he was right; I didn't think I had Mexicans in my family. Let me watch them for a little while, make sure they don't try anything.

  Yeah, I know. But you never know.

  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yeah, that's the official name for it. You find this prominent in individuals returning home from a combat zone. More recently, from the War on Terror.

  The docs told me I have it.

  Thankfully we were under doctor-patient privilege when I told him about my constant drinking and partying, my newfound knack for anger and my short temper. He asked me about my hyper vigilance—I’m always on alert and prepared for the worst. I told him it's a precaution to make sure things are in order.

  He asked, "How many times?" Six or seven throughout the night.

  He asked, "How do you sleep?" I'm now accustomed to about 4 hours of sleep each night.

  "What brought this on?"

  I can't answer that.

  Maybe it was watching my buddy take one while he slept. Maybe it was getting news over the wire about my boss getting halved by shrapnel. Oh, did I mention all that happened after the President declared, “Mission accomplished”?

  Yeah, that made me mad. Mad enough to want to go out and end the mission myself. End it all.

  Next came a friend who died in a helo crash getting back to the main base to have a severe sprain looked at because we didn't have X-Ray techs on our camp.

  Oftentimes, people who don't understand, won't understand. That's why it's so hard to treat PTSD on an individual level. Everyone is different. Everyone has their own demons and experience. But one thing I can tell you: This—whatever it is going on in my head—it doesn't do anything to me. It takes away from me.

  I never knew what it took away until I began to miss it.

  I miss having a good night's sleep. I miss being able to relax. I miss the sound of the 4th of July. I miss dreams; all I have these days are nightmares. I miss being able to conduct myself in a crowd. I miss having a drink just for fun; my mind has linked drinking to memory. So I drink. And I think about the guys I'm drinking to—the ones who should be drinking with me, the ones who should be drinking instead of me. I miss the way morning
used to make me feel so alive. Now I question if today is my day. You know, The Day. I miss action movies; gun fire makes me a little jumpy. I miss being able to eat steak. Had a little incident where a bunch of people were hurt by some really hot stuff and, well . . . never mind. I miss how making friends used to make me feel. Nowadays, if you haven't lived in my boots in some way, shape, or form, you don't belong.

  But hey, it's not so bad.

  I've had countless missions and one failed marriage—I think me dragging her outside to the MedEvac helo had something to do with it. Yeah, I was dreaming. The heavy drinking, screaming names in my sleep, and waking up to faces of baddies that got it from me . . . yeah, I think I made out good on this end. Better than most.

  Once the docs figure out how to treat this thing, though, I'll be good as new. But for now, good enough is as good as it gets. I still got a job to do. Yeah, I may see some things that may make it worse, but remember: if a 44 year-old man can do it, I damn sure can.

  I'm 19 years old and not yet in my prime. I still have a long way to go.

  PROLOGUE

  Maddy

  My time is limited so I will make this quick. My name is Madelyn Faith Carrington, but you can call me Maddy. I am seventeen years old. My skills include running in flip-flops and eating my weight in fried okra; sometimes together, but not always in that order.

  I lie sometimes. Don't look at me like that. Please. It's only to protect the ones I love from the ones who hate me. Because of the scars on my wrists, people think I tried to end my life. Between us, and only us: I did not put those scars there.

  My best friend, Dixon, means the world and everything in it to me. He's the only person I trust, and even he doesn't know everything. Tybee Island is my home, but not for much longer. Daddy is forcing guiding me with the best of intentions to attend school in New York. My mama died when I was eleven. And Daddy? Well, he might have killed her.

  I need to confess everything before the same happens to me.

  PROLOGUE

  Jackson

  My name is Jackson Benton Monroe. I am an Explosive Ordinance Disposal soldier in the United States Army.

  They want me to talk about why I am angry. They say I should tell you about the guilt of coming out of war without so much as a scratch, while others went home without body parts or in a box with a United States flag draped across the top.

  But let me tell you something, I do not want to tell anyone about my twelve months in the mountains of Afghanistan. So, no, I am not going to talk about anger or guilt. Besides, if I told you an untied bootlace saved my life you will probably call me a coward for not dying. I don’t blame you.

  I will say this once: a war is not only fought by countries of soldiers across oceans and deserts and mountains. No. After combat, the battles at home begin. Our mind, our family, our trust is never the same. I thought the worst was over as soon as my size twelve boots hit American soil.

  I was wrong.

  I learned about a different kind of battle; a backdoor assault where one person will take hits so others don't have to suffer. Some of us wish we could be that honorable. Instead, we bunker down and cower away from anything that might hurt.

  I will tell you my story on the single term that this will all be said with strict confidentiality. There are others whose lives depend on your guarantee, so please consider carefully.

  Maddy

  February

  Dixon roars his 1966 fluorescent orange Bronco across the cobblestone pavers, coming to a screeching stop thisclose to the UPS truck’s rear bumper.

  “Doo-doo brown Bermuda shorts,” Dixon remarks in awe of the driver’s uniform. “With a matching button-down and, oh God, boots to match? She is the epitome of my future ex-wife.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you had this thing called a job, you might understand the concept of a uniform.”

  Dixon runs fingers through his iridescent-blonde locks. “Pretty people do not work for pennies.”

  “Which is exactly why you work at your dad’s construction company for free.” I jump down from the jacked-up Bronco and grab my backpack. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Can I help you ma’am?” I say to the driver. “I am authorized to sign for Mr. Carrington’s deliveries.”

  “Package for Madelyn Carrington.”

  Oh. “That’s me.”

  “Do you have identification? No one else is allowed to sign.”

  The woman shifts from foot-to-foot like maybe her pants are too tight. Or she has a massive wedgie. After examining my ID closely she hands over a large padded envelope. She turns and enters the cab of the truck without another word.

  “Do I need to sign?” I yell. The delivery truck slams into reverse and the driver backs down the long driveway that leads to the main road.

  Wow. Rude, much? Maybe she had to pee. Or pull out her wedgie.

  Once inside the empty house, I toss my backpack aside and carefully open the package. The content consists of a small envelope with three numbered disks, packaged in individual paper sleeves.

  I pop the disk labeled #1 into my laptop and gather ingredients for jambalaya, Daddy’s favorite. This meal usually puts him in a good, relaxed mood. I’m going to need all the help I can get tonight. He’s going to be little angry when I tell him I was accepted to Duke. He thought I only applied to in-state schools.

  Actually, Daddy does not know how to do a little angry so I decide add a praline cheesecake to the menu.

  While the onions and green peppers sweat out their flavors in a sauté pan I methodically peel, devein, and toss pieces of fresh shrimp on a bed of ice. The cold, firm texture against my fingertips, along with the sounds of a KitchenAid mixer whirring in the background diverts my attention away from thoughts of telling Daddy about Duke University.

  The step-by-step process of cooking distracts me. Helps me think. Most of all, it clears my head. Cooking is the way I remember my mama without recalling the bad stuff. She died a few years ago. I don’t like to talk about it.

  I wash my hands and press PLAY on the laptop, then walk to the pantry to grab some honey.

  A surge of panic rushes over me when Daddy’s voice—the one reserved for when too much liquor is consumed in too little time—rumbles throughout the kitchen.

  I glance around. Alone. My eyes move hesitantly to the laptop.

  A single shiver courses its way through my body, starting at my toes and ending with a quiet squeak exiting my throat.

  A man, maybe twenty-five, with chocolate red hair and a lanky build sits hunched in a chair. I run my eyes over every inch of him that I can see through the dark lighting and the massive amount of blood covering his face and clothing. Each leg is tied separately to the bottom of a metal fold-up chair, his arms bound at the wrists with plastic zip-ties.

  The air is sucked out of the room as the familiarity of this kind of entrapment sets in. I rub the scars on my wrists instinctively.

  The guy sags further in the chair, his bowed head rocking slowly from left to right. A large man with tight brown curls appears with his back to the camera. He lifts a meaty right hand and punches the man once. Twice. Three times.

  Blood gushes from his nasal cavity. When the man turns around, I instantly recognize him as one of Daddy’s employees who I only know by nickname, Twitch.

  Daddy walks in view of the camera. “Simon, my boy,” he says to the guy in the chair. “How’re things?”

  I cannot look away. It is as if a metal device is keeping my eyes pried open, like one of the nauseating scenes from A Clockwork Orange. The room is empty aside from the single chair the man is sitting on. A stream of sunlight illuminates behind his head from a short window in the back of the room, like he’s partially underground. The gray concrete floors are waxed to a glossy sheen.

  Daddy grabs the back of Simon’s head, jerking it back swiftly. Blood sprays from a wound on Simon’s face.

  “You ruined my suit!” Daddy roars as a few drops of the thick liquid land on his lapel.r />
  “For hell’s sake, Cordell, just do it,” a bored-sounding man says off screen. I would recognize that disgusting voice anywhere. Larry Duvall, my father’s oldest friend and business associate continues, “Twitch, now. I’ve got reservations.”

  “Look at the lens, boy,” Daddy says.

  Simon slowly lifts his head to reveal his face to the camera. Through misshapen features, his icy blue eyes show determination mixed with fear. His lips are moving, but no words resonate from his mouth.

  Daddy leans closer. “What’d you say, boy? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

  Several chuckles are heard in the background. Simon’s eyes close, his lips continue moving.

  Praying. Oh God, he is praying.

  “I said, ‘Speak . . .”

  “Maddy!” The front door slams.

  Oh no! I try shutting down the computer and ripping the DVD out of the drive. Simon’s screams pour out of the speaker.

  Panic sets in. With my rapid thinking skills, instead of muting the sound and closing the laptop, I slam the stupid thing on the floor. The drive pops open. I scoop up the disk as Daddy enters the kitchen.

  While he examines the broken laptop like an alien species, I covertly stuff the disks in my backpack.

  “Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s all right, sugar,” he replies evenly. “We’ll order a new one tonight.”

  He bends to help me pick up the pieces. My body shakes at his closeness. The scent of bourbon and Clive Christian cologne, mixed with the blinding polished gleam of his D&G loafers flip my stomach until I can no longer hold down its contents.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” Daddy growls when I pull my head out of the garbage can. And just like that, he’s angry.

  “May I be excused?”

  “If my supper isn’t finished, finish it.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “And make sure the damned rice is on the bottom of the bowl instead of mixed in. Think you can handle that?”