He felt like a ghost haunting his own life. When he closed his eyes, he wasn't in his suburban home; he was back in a narrow alley in Fallujah, the air tasting of copper and exhaust. He was "home," but the person who lived in this house before the wars—the man who laughed at bad puns and loved Sunday mornings—was gone.
He walked to the mirror and looked at his reflection. He didn't see a soldier or a civilian. He saw a man standing in the middle of a bridge that was burning at both ends. He wasn't a demon, but he certainly didn't feel like an angel. He was just a man tired of the "righteous" justification for the scars he carried. He felt like a ghost haunting his own life
Setting the gun down, he picked up his phone and called a number he’d kept in his wallet for months: a veterans' support line. As the dial tone rang, he looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long, dark shadows, but for the first time in years, he wasn't afraid of the dark. He was ready to stop fighting the world and start fighting for himself. He walked to the mirror and looked at his reflection
The lyrics of a song he’d heard on the radio—something about being on the —looped in his mind like a broken record. He wasn't a demon, but he certainly didn't