The Phoenix

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first story here on CHYOA. I'm writing it as a form of therapy, so a lot of it involves some very specific things. I have PTSD, and as a pansexual man, my past can get in the way of my writing sometimes. I apologize in advance for the roughness of the scripting and scenes; unlike my non-porn works, I'm writing this stream-of-consciousness to get the demons out. Please, if you like, or don't like, anything, leave me a comment. I may not change anything, since this is really about a fucked-up form of journalling, but I'd love to hear what you all think. If you really want, you can go to the CHYOA forums and post feedback or complaints under the thread 'The Phoenix: Readers Comments and Input.')

The smoke and fire from the burning Humvee are him as he drags the wounded Marine clear, the weight of the wounded man slowing him down as he lays down cover fire with his free hand. The side of his face is wet, slick with blood, and his whole left side is fucked up; he can't tell how bad it is, but the rasping cough in his lungs tastes like blood, so it's probably a punctured lung at best. I'm a dead man walking, he thinks, and is surprised to realize he doesn't care. He hears the Marine scream in pain as two more insurgents emerge from the smoke, weapons firing. Part of his mind clinically notes the thudding impact of bullets hitting him, both in his ballistic vest, and in his uncovered thigh. The rest of him is cold, analytical, snapping three rounds into the first insurgent's body, knocking the man down. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion as he and the surviving insurgent both try to get on target first, racing against . He feels...nothing.

Aden wakes from the dream the same way he always does, cold and silent, his body still, covered in cold sweat. The same as always, his heart rate is elevated, and he knows he should be feeling anxiety, or maybe fear. Same as always, there's nothing there but the emptiness, the black void where his heart used to be. When he sits up in the cramped cot, he can make out the traffic noises from outside, the scrape of an opening door somewhere else in the hallway outside the shabby flophouse room he rents cheap each week. Instinctively, Nick takes a deep breath, scenting the air, searching for threats. Someone outside is roasting meat, and he can smell exhaust gas and old oil from the street downstairs. In the hall, there are the noises of two people whispering quietly, secretively. deal, he decides, and contemplates going out to break it up, before deciding it's not his problem. And that's the real issue, isn't it? Since that day last year, nothing has been his problem. The Army doctors talked about rehabilitation at first, but once they realized the full extent of what had happened to him, just exactly how fucked up he was now, they'd gone the safe route and medically retired him. After the usual round of promises that they would "treat" him, that he'd get a full pension and benefits, they'd passed him back to his unit for processing. There, the spooks and suits made it clear to him that he was welcome to contact them if he had any questions, but that the non-disclosure agreements they bombarded him with were legally binding; any public discussion or confirmation of what he did for them was strictly forbidden. There were some awards, privately issued, and a bunch more promises about helping him "find work." His handler had gotten really pissed off when Aden told him exactly where he could put his "work."

He stands and takes the five steps from the cot to the toilet, lifts the seat, and takes a piss. In the mirror, he sees himself laid bare, all the external damage plain to see. Six feet tall, pale skin where it isn't the slickened melted scar tissue from the burns. Eyes dark as night, shark's eyes, cold and disinterested. Left side of the face a wreckage of cauterized wounds. Pits from bullet wounds on thigh and torso, pockmarked blips scattered across his skin where the shrapnel is. Muscular still, because he works out every day, not because he wants to, but because it's what he does. When he stands still, he freezes in place, like a broken machine with the engine idling. His hands are roughened, long fingers and limbs whipcord tight, abdomen and chest lean where the scars don't conceal him. His cock is long and thick enough, though he hasn't done much more than masturbate since the blast. The trouble with having little to no emotion is that it kills most desires, too. Occasionally, when he's feeling particularly "full", he'll jerk off, just to clear the pipes. It's not any more pleasurable than anything else in his life now.

His psychologists said he should continue his sessions, that this is PTSD, that the two-inch sliver of polycarbonate that lanced through the left side of his skull and into his brain may have altered his perceptions of pain, maybe even his mental state, but there's no way it could remove absolutely every trace of emotion. They call it masking, imply that he's just burying his horrors, forcing them down far enough that he doesn't have to face them. He nods whenever they say these things, not bothering to correct them. He knows there's a deeper truth there, one that started a long time before he was hurt.

He takes five more steps to the countertop and opens the micro-fridge, taking out a microwave dinner and tossing it into the machine to nuke. He doesn't feel hungry, but he's still taking care of himself well enough to know he has to eat. While he waits, he keys his password into his laptop, and checks his mail. Junk mail, spam, a note from the VA that he needs to fill out some benefits paperwork, a note from the Army-assigned primary care physician that he needs to come in for a check-up, a balance sheet from his private accountant...

Another message from Kate.

He can't ignore her forever. She's going to keep after him until he answers, just like always. Even when they were kids, when he was living in a different kind of Hell, she'd always been there, supportive, insistent, available. He clicks the message and scans it, not even sure why he does. It's not as if he cares anymore, right?

Right. "Just checking in on you, stud. You still haven't answered me about coming to visit. I know you like to turtle, but enough's enough. I'm playing my trump card, Nicki. This is a brilliant opportunity for me, and I am going to NEED your help. So pack up whatever bags you need to, and pick up the plane ticket I already bought you, and get your ass out here before I have to start turning tricks with strangers to make ends meet. Love you always and forever, Katie."

He's still digesting that when the noises in the hall change, the tones of the voices rising. The animal brain, the monster inside, wakes up, sensing trouble. Five steps from the counter to the room's door, scaring away a fat roach perched on the doorsill. Silently, he cracks the door open a half-inch, and scans the dark hallway.