Page 81 of The Man I Hate

I couldn’t imagine one 24-hour day of war. An entire day—1,440 minutes—of being shot at, shooting back, and trying to stay clear of the roadside bombs that littered the roadways. From my count, Braxton endured that living hell for just shy of 4,000 days.

Ten horrific years.

His devotion was nothing short of unimaginable.

It was time for me to be devoted to him. To pay him back for what he’d done for the men and women of the country.

My days ran into my nights. My nights were sleepless. I realized Braxton had no days or nights, only the passing of time. When I became frustrated or felt like I couldn’t stay awake a moment longer, I told myself at least no one is shooting at me.

It seemed to help.

I was convinced Braxton would overcome his illness in time. I wanted to make him as comfortable as I was able. Providing comfort from afar forced me to be creative.

“Wentz!” he bellowed. “Two o’clock. Second window from the left, third from the top. Pop that motherfucker!”

I nearly spilled my coffee. He’s been silent for the past hour and a half, which was enough time for me to make a pot of coffee and scramble some eggs.

“Zebra, this is Echo-six,” he said in a muffled tone. “We’re taking fire. Repeat, taking fire. Two KIA, three wounded. Need an air strike, over.”

A few seconds of silence followed. Then, he began pleading for help.

“Zebra, we are under heavy fire,” he said, his voice etched with emotion. “Again, this is Echo-six, and we are under fire. Two KIA, four wounded. If no airstrike, we’re requesting extraction, over.”

I finished my coffee and walked to the living room. I desperately needed some sleep. Braxton did, too. Hoping to put us both to sleep, I rocked back and forth against the back of the couch and began to sing.

“Hush, little Braxton, don't you scream

Anna's gonna take you to a fishing stream

And if that stream don’t have no fish

Anna’s gonna let you make a wish

And if that wish don’t make you grin

Anna’s gonna let you try again

And if that wish is to hold her tight

Anna’s gonna hold you with all her might

She’ll hold you close and sing you songs

So you can sleep all night long…”

I paused.

A light snoring sound was his response to my lullaby.

I did a mental fist pump and closed my eyes.

Sleep well, my Dear.

Anna

Day eleven

Braxton’s nightmares continued on and off for four days. During his lulls from shouting I prayed that God would be gracious enough to release him from the disease’s grasp long before it was too late.