Lack of Experience

                     Tonight’s just another night filled with misery and defeat, along with the ongoing attempt with trying to drown myself in whiskey.  Ever since I got back, I haven’t been able to find a job.  It might be the hardest struggle I’ve ever faced, and now I was on the brink of becoming homeless.  They told us that we would be heroes when we got back and life would be better.  They told us that we were fighting for a better life for the common man and we would be set when we got back.  I think they were a bunch of fucking liars.

                    We risked our lives countless times, and we got nothing in return.  I’m not delusional enough to think that we were going to get parades or anything of the sorts, not that I would want one after everything that happened.  But I thought there would be jobs for us when we got back; but the market is just as tough as it was before I left.  I have been to more interviews in the last month than I can count, and they all tell me the same thing;

“Thank you for your service, but you don’t have the experience we’re looking for; I’m sorry.”

                    It’s always the same sorry excuse, not enough fucking experience.  Oh, but I have experience, more experience than most people; it’s just not useful in civilian life.  My experience is… well it’s redacted, heavily redacted.  I was proficient in every type of weapon, although I preferred knives.  Guns were always too quick, and any idiot could use a gun.  It took finesse to use a knife, and a strong will to look into a person’s eyes as they took their last breaths and look deep into who they truly are.  I became an expert in gathering information, whether it was taken or found.  I was a lead interrogator for some time because I was the best at it; I never went for the head, as that’s when the information got foggy.  Covert missions, full warfare; you name it, I had been a part of it.; but you can’t put that on a resume.

                    I would have stayed over there, but the last mission I was a part of went sideways and my team was ambushed.  There were seven of us, all men that I served with for over a decade.  These men were my brothers that I was closer with than any friend or family, and in an instant, they were all gone.  I was the only survivor, and I was instantly captured by the enemy.  They tortured me for… well I’m not quite sure, but oh boy dud they torture me.  They cut, stabbed, torched, flayed, electrocuted, drowned and did pretty much anything you could imagine.  One day, after slicing my face open, one of them got sloppy and left one of my wrists loose.  That’s all I needed to escape and exact my brutal revenge on that entire installation.  By the time my guys found me, I was held together my strips of cloth and home stitching.  I was under an operating table for several days, and even though they lost me once or twice, I survived, but I was a little off after that.

After all, what doesn’t kill you, simply makes you stranger.

                    The discharged me after that.  I came home, and immediately I was approached by some ex-military folks who worked for some… less than reputable people in the city.  They offered to keep me housed for my services, but as my piece of shit father used to say, if you’re good at something, never do it for free.  I walked away from that offer, but after the last month, I’m starting to think it may be the only option I have.  Still, I really can’t stomach working for people like that.

“Holy fuck, what happened to your face?!”

                    This is the other thing that I’ve had to deal with since I’ve been back, the slack-jawed jeers of people when they see me and the consequences of my time served.  That torture I endured left me physically broken for months, and if you believe those quacks they made me see, mentally as well; I thought I was fine though.  I my injuries healed over time, turning from hard scabs to soft scar tissue.  While I was lucky enough that those fuckers didn’t cut anything off of me, they did screw my face up pretty bad.

“Hey man, I just want to enjoy my drink in peace.”

“Yeah, and I want to have a good time tonight without wanting to barf.”

                    There was laughter at the end of his rude musing, and there were two voices in the laughter.  I glanced behind me to look at them, and wasn’t surprised by what I saw.  Two men in their forties who peaked in high school, who dressed like what they thought cool was twenty years ago.  These punks were laughing at me, but they wouldn’t be laughing if they knew what I had done over seas.  They especially wouldn’t be laughing if they knew what I did to the men who did this to me.

“Well you don’t need to look at me.”

                    I finished my drink before I fully turned around, looking them square in their cocky, disrespectful eyes.  Once they got a good look at my face, and the scars that hold my mouth together, that cockiness turned into superiority and horror.  The one who had done the talking finished his beer before slamming the glass on the bar behind me.  He put his hand on my shoulder, gripping it tightly in an attempt at intimidating me.  Not only does it fail, but it only fills me with rage.

“It’s pretty damned hard not to look at you with that fucked up grin on your face.  Come on man; tell me a story on how your face got so fucked up.”

“You want a story?  Oh, I’ve got a story for ya.”

                    It’s over in a moment; the piece of shit’s face looked so surprised that I just couldn’t help but laugh in his stupid face.  I ripped his hand off my shoulder, breaking his thumb as I wretched it back, swiveling around in my stool.  The schmuck looked wordlessly at his broken hand, not paying any attention to me anymore; although even if he was, it wouldn’t have made a difference.  A quick jab to his diaphragm stopped the breath in his throat, and a kick to the knee buckled him.  He attempted to grab onto the bar rail, but he reached with his broken hand.  Damned near reminded me of the Three Stooges; it was fucking hilarious.

                    The guy’s friend stood in shock as I dispatched his friend.  It took him a moment to register what happened, and another moment of hesitation on whether he should come to his friend’s aide; something that would have never happened with my brothers-in-arms overseas.  There was a noise I was hearing, one that I didn’t recognize at first, a sound that made this thug enraged.  I looked at the bar as he seethes across from me, taking note of a butter knife from someone’s beans ’n toast.  When the man finally gathered his courage enough to charge me, he already signed his death certificate.  With a swift sweep of the leg he was speeding to the ground and with the guidance of my hand as I grabbed the butter knife with my other, his eye was pierced and his brain impaled.

                    As the bloody body fell to the floor, the noise only got louder, and as the patrons of the bar fled out the door, I realized that it came from me.  My laugh had become a cackle in their utter incompetence, and as I made that knife disappear like magic.  Maybe I should give that mobster a call, or maybe I should take another piece of garbage off of the street.  This is what I was good at, killing the enemy.  I was good at it, and I enjoyed it.

                    Even as the first fool sputtered in pain, a grimace crossed his face, one that I found insulting.  It needed to leave my sight; grabbing his ear and smashing his head into the railing seemed to do the trick.  He slumped down, blood dripping from his head onto the sticky floor.  I was a man of my word, and as he struggled to keep conscious, I knew I needed to tell my tale quickly.  I crouched down so I was finally at his level.  Grabbing a handful of his hair, I pulled his head back; his eyes widened in fear as they met mine.  They expanded even more when I pulled my switchblade out of my pocket, flinging the blade out against his cheek with a soft click of the button.

“Ok, how about this one; you wanna know how I got these scars?”

-  Cody S