Mark sat in the dark smoke-filled room, the only light came from the red glow of his cigarettes.
Silent nights were his worst companions but he couldn’t stand the meaningless drone of the TV, where everyone looked cheerful and conversed with the ease of those who led normal lives. He hated the silent nights.
PTSD. That was what the doc said. PTSD. An easy blanket name used to describe his postwar struggles, and a handful of prescription that didn’t take away the recurring booms of explosives, the pungent stench of charred human bodies, the severed limbs, and the blood; so much blood.
The heroes welcome had been short-lived, for in the land fit for heroes there’s hardly any jobs for those like him and he wished he was back in Afghanistan, where he knew his place.
Now, he just didn’t know himself anymore.