For Crying Out Loud

He was sprawled and cornered against his nightstand and tethered to the mattress by a tangle of bedclothes. Sleep anchored him, making it hard to stop his arms from thrashing. Blood and fire gagged his throat, blocking the scream. Panicked children. Mothers, naked, keening.

Sergeant screaming, “For chrissake, Bendix, shoot!”

His heart drummed against his chest. Salty sweat burned his eyes. Like a man buried alive, Tom Bendix clawed his way into the day ahead. Why? Why in god's name had he told her about the gun? Two years, ups and downs for sure, but now he'd really blown it. No way to maneuver out of this one.

“Nope,” he lied when she asked if he ever brought the gun to therapy. “Just sleep with it. Under the pillow. Have every night since I got back. No big deal, Doc,” he told her.

She'll fire questions at me today, Bendix thought as he kicked the nightstand back into place and yanked covers off his bed. What the hell made me blurt that out? Damn crybaby is what I am. Got Dr. Rose all in a knot. Pissed off pretty good too probably to boot.

“God damn it all!” he railed into the dark.

The clock's face flicked 4:08. Dream broken, nerves jarred into focus, he noted his surroundings: chest of drawers by the window, tan sofa pale in the early morning light, shirt and trousers pressed perfectly, hanging on the closet door. From where he stood, he could see his paired white washer and dryer in the alcove by the kitchen.

Perched on the bed's edge, Bendix straightened his bulk and tried Dr. Rose's relaxation exercise. Breathe deep. Release. Breathe. Release. Face squeezed tight, silently Bendix repeated her words in his mind: Inhale deep. Release. Inhale deep. Release. The clock face flicked: 4:22. He began again. Inhale deep. Release. Inhale.

Just three or four minutes is fine, he could hear the encouragement in her words. He stopped at 5:07.

Good enough is good, he knew she'd say.