Anger Depression

Anger Depression

Mike woke up to find himself maneuvering through his small apartment. He knew immediately what was going on, it had happened a thousand times or more since Bosnia. He was clearing a house a house to track down and kill a sniper. A sniper that had just put a bullet through his engine and his Field Training Officer, Jurgen Sankt.

Jurgen survived that day, the sniper, a kid did not. It was debatable, sometimes breath by breath whether or not Mike would live past that day, or any of countless others from Kuwait, Kosovo, Liberia, Sudan, Somalia, or some other forsaken shithole as Mike would put it.

The clock said it was just aft 1:00 am. “Damn it!” Mike yelled. The dreams were a nightly catastrophe. “Jurgen, you dumb shit, if you hadn't decided to take a stroll down memory lane you'd still be able to walk and that kid … “ Mike's fist clenched so hard they shook, his jaw tightened, his eyes shut tight. He did not want to go through this again, not tonight. The tears seared out from the corners of his eyes and burned down the sides of his cheeks.

Mike spun and punched his heavy bag as hard as he could. He punched it as if he were beating the life out of his ghosts. Tears ran down his face and quickly became lost in the sweat. He jabbed, jabbed again, stepped and spun threw up an elbow to smash an unseen face to a pulp. He moved again and kicked. How long he kept this up only his neighbor, who had become accustomed to and heartbroken by these outbursts, really knew.

Even though he could still see the sniper, a 12 year old boy, lying there dead Mike had nothing left, he collapsed on the floor. His lungs ached like they did after his runs, he was still sobbing when Margaret, his neighbor, let herself in.

She knew the drill, go to the bathroom to start the shower, get out some towels, wait until Mike tries to get up, and help him into the shower. He'd be alright after that. He'd stay in the shower until he could feel his arms and legs again and then he;d get out and clean up. As a thank you she could expect a couple of fresh bagels and two large coffees on her door step. But, that would be about the last she'd see of him until his next outburst.

Sitting on the couch, towels in her hands, Margaret had to wipe her own tears back as she waited fo Mike to stop sobbing. This was bad, but the depression that followed, hid isolating and withdrawal from everyone and everything but his job was worse.

Mike, a strong man by anyone's measure, twice Margaret's age lay reduced to a sweaty, crying, fearful puddle on the floor. She, and everyone who knew him, prayed for Mike to heal.