Chapter Text
What a perfect day it was, for rain. Drowning the world in a biting chill, in a cacophony of downpour. It was almost enough—if you strained your ears, or maybe plugged them with your fingers—to muffle and obscure the screams. Wounded men, cradling holes in their sides or where limbs used to be, they lay scattered along the ground in unfathomable droves. Crying, calling out for mothers or lovers.
Shouts for help, for ammunition, that there was another man down cut through the pouring rain. The ground was slick, a muddy sludge comprised of blood and gunpowder, and it drenched into his uniform. One arm after another, a push of boot sunken into the earth, he crawled his way forward. A man lay next to him, his face locked in an expression of acceptance. Half his chest was missing. Heart displaced who knows how far, lost in the mud.
The odds looked bleak, when presented with such a sight. Of the injured and fearful. Flashes of light illuminated the skies and the battlefield alike, lightning mixing with mortars, silencing the rain if only by overpowering it in deafening bursts.
This battle wasn’t done yet. Not if he had anything to say about it. Dunking down into the water, he slipping beneath the barbed wire and stacked sandbags, weaving through the fallen. They may not make it home, but they were still doing their part in this fight. If it was providing physical cover, well, that was something he could have to let haunt him some other time.
As he moved his way through the carnage, he gathered what he could. Ammunition, jammed pistols, every grenade he could stuff into his pockets, his shirt, his uniform. It was like fate herself had intervened, guided him, had chosen him on this day to turn the tide of this battle, and rewrite their story.
Wedged between bodies, sticking out like it was reaching for the heavens, the rain-slick metal glinting in each flash of an explosion. A rocket launcher.
“I strapped that sucker to my back, and I dug my way through the muck! I found myself a fortified position, and those Nazi bastards never saw me comin’! I used my ingenuity and good ol’ fashion American grit, and I pushed them back. Our troops were able to push forward, and turn the tide in our favor! We won the battle that day, and you know why?”
The man looked around the small crowd he had gathered around the small, rounded table. Several wide and captivated eyes stared back at him, youthful and innocent. One of the children raised her hand, hopping slightly in her wheelchair out of sheer enthusiasm.
“Because! Because you never gave up!”
“That’s right!” The man praised, offering her a high-five, which he found kids were always eager to participate, “Atta girl. We won that fight—that whole damn war! Because we never gave up, no matter how hard things got. Even when it seems like there’s no hope, you can always overcome any obstacle in your way, so long as you don’t give up!”
“Language, Mr. Dillons,” A woman admonished as she approached the little group, a clipboard held neatly to her chest.
“Ah, come on, doc, they can handle it!” He laughed, reaching down and turning his wheelchair to greet her, “Gotta keep ‘em tough! You know what to say, kids!”
“Never give up! Never surrender!” Their little voices declared in unison, hands raised that could be, and bright smiles on their faces.
They were a good crowd, those kids. Honestly, visiting them, sharing some admittedly watered down versions of his exploits in the war, it filled him with just as much hope for the future as he was trying to instill in the lot of them. They were all facing some pretty heavy burdens. Some of them were born the way they were, with legs that didn’t work, or bodies that were slowly deteriorating. Some lost something, a foot, arm, leg, in some sort of accident, and that was difficult to adjust to. Something he knew was a struggle to come to terms with.
“We’re ready to see you, now,” The woman informed, an exasperated yet still warmingly fond air to her voice.
“Yessir!” He saluted, then turned back to the kids, “Good seein’ you again, soldiers! Dismissed!”
The group laughed at his antics, and slowly dispersed. He reached out to ruffle some heads, and their voices overlapped as they bid him farewell. Pushing himself forward, he followed alongside the nurse, guided through the halls.
Lots of history, between him and these walls. He was brought to a familiar little room, a set of parallel bars on the far end, an examination bed, chairs beside the door, a small counter space for storage and medical utensils, such as gloves and swabs and other things he was not studied enough to know about.
Today was another standard visit. The way things were going, these were more progress updates than anything else. A routine check-up, testing his range of motion, if the sensation in his left leg had improved any, a walk through the parallel bars to see how his gait was, how his strength had improved, what exercises he should be focusing on moving forward.
It was still a struggle. Most days weren’t so bad, but there was always some amount of pain, enough so that he maintained a regular necessity for painkillers. He could hobble around the house with a good four tip cane, but it got strenuous pretty quickly. A trip back and forth to the bathroom in the middle of the night usually left him hurting, his heart rate elevated, and sweating if it was especially bad. But, otherwise, his quality of life wasn’t terrible. He was eating well, working out plenty, and his legs did walk.
Sure, his left leg had a bit of a kick every now and again—both of them could if he’d overdone things—but it was manageable. That’s what mattered, right? He was able to get around well enough. He’d be able to work just fine! If anyone was willing to hire him…
He stood from his wheelchair, and grabbed hold of the parallel bars, while the physical therapist sat in front of him in a chair on wheels, slowly moving backwards while he moved forwards. One after another, he took a step, the doc’s hands hovering nearby just in case he required any assistance, but he was determined to make it the whole way on his own. A band was tucked around his back, providing both stability and resistance, forcing him to fight a little harder to keep upright.
The doctor had to remind him a few times not to put so much of his weight on his hands, to let his feet do the walking. His upper body strength had always been good, but it was particularly practiced as of the last few years, hauling himself around when his legs didn’t have the oomph he needed.
They made it to the other side, and turned him around. By the time he returned to his wheelchair, he was about ready for a nap, plopping down with a winded huff.
“You’ve come a long way,” The doctor praised, taking a moment to write a few things down on his clipboard, “But it also seems as though your progress had been stagnant for some time. Tell me John, have you been following your home exercise program?”
“Yessir, doc, to the letter!”
The doctor let out a low hum at that, and jotting another scribble down in his notes, “Has the pain improved or changed at all?”
“Negative. I’ve tried both the painkillers you prescribed, and they worked about the same.”
“In that case, I believe it may be best to stick to the original. Though, the persistence of this inflammation is concerning. I think I would like for you to take it easy for the time being. Keep up the exercises, focus on retraining those connections, but don’t overdo it. Then I want you to come see me again in a few months for a follow-up, alright?”
John rest his arms on the aptly named arm rests of his wheelchair as a nurse pushed him through the halls. They did that a lot, around here. Took the reigns to get you from here to there. While he did appreciate the reprieve, they never typically asked before doing so. He’d caught a finger a time or two thanks to that, but far be it for him to complain about the people helping him get his legs and his life back.
He was released back into the lobby, and regained control of his wheels. On his way towards the door, he made sure to stop by and check on the kids one last time. He ruffled some heads, made some strategic suggestions to the board games laid out on the little round table, and reminded everyone to keep fighting. Never give up, and never surrender. A motto he’d inadvertently established in this facility.
With well wishes and waves of farewell, he made for the exit. He had to pause and dig around for his sunglasses. Unfolding them in his hands, a nurse called out to him, her heels clicking as she hurried to catch him before he parted from the premises.
“Mr. Dillons?”
“That’s me,” John responded, plopping his sunglasses on top of his head and turning his wheels to face the woman.
“I just needed to talk to you about payment…”
Slotting a dime into the payphone, John dialed in a familiar set of numbers, the order drilled in his mind after all these years. The rotary ticked between each number, resetting to zero then inputting the next. He rolled himself a little closer, holding the phone to his ear as it hummed to him. Once. Twice. Thrice.
“Hello?” A familiar, sweet and comforting voice murmured through the line, and John’s shoulders relaxed.
“Hey, mom.”
“Oh, Johnny! It’s good to hear your voice, sweetie, how’ve you been?” His mother brightened right up, and it warmed his heart.
“Things are going good. They’re good. How are you and dad?”
“We’re doing just fine, thank you. Your father is as grumpy as ever,” She laughed, and John smiled to himself, “Oh, you remember Julia? Betty’s little girl—she just had a beautiful little boy of her own!”
For a while, John just let his mother yammer on, happy to be an ear for her, happy to hear her familiar voice and forget about the world at large, if just for a little bit. Unfortunately, payphones had a time limit. At the moment, he wasn’t keen on losing any more change than necessary.
“Listen, mom…” He started, rubbing the back of his neck as he struggled to find a way to broach the topic he called for, “I’m… gonna need a bit of help, again…”
“Oh, honey…” She responded softly, the understanding like honey in her voice, “Of course, Johnny. We might not be able to spare much right now, though, sweetie…”
“I understand, mom. Anything helps. And I’ve got a job lined up, I’ll be back on my feet any day now! So to speak, anyway.”
They laughed together, and the guilt of such an ask was eased, if only just enough to accept it. He hated having to ask for money, but the compensation he was received had been cut in half twice over with the new laws, and his physical improvements. Between groceries, physical therapy, bills, rent, prescriptions…
Hands on rims, John pushed himself through the door to his little apartment. He’d managed to find a fairly cheep place on the first floor of on a building. It wasn’t exactly high class, but it was something he could afford. For now, anyway… He locked up behind himself, and tossed his keys in their usual bowl.
With assistance from his cane and door-side table, he hauled himself out of his wheelchair and set about folding it up and storing it in the coat closet. It was a bit too narrow in here for rolling around, but walking around with the cane was good exercise!
He made his way down the short hall, and into the kitchen, where a stool waited for him in front of the stove. He dragged it over to a span of open counter, and set about gathering up some grub. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he had a diet plan to follow, and he was anything if not dutiful.
With a plate in one hand and cane in the other, he carefully made his way to the adjacent living room, slumping onto the couch with a long sigh. Dinner was accompanied by an old favorite of his—war movies! The action, the orders, the gunfire, ahh it reminded him of the good ol’ days. And all of that washed down with a nice cold beer.
Getting ready for bed was, possibly, one of the most difficult parts of any day. He was exhausted, his back was killing him, his legs were jerking and uncoordinated from pushing himself too hard, and yet he still had to change out of his clothes, brush his teeth, take his painkillers, get himself into bed, and find a position that was comfortable enough to sleep in, although waking up with some new pain from staying still for too long was inevitable. It was a gauntlet, and one he was nearly ready to skip altogether.
But no good soldier gave up so easily! So he pushed on, and when the time finally came, he set his cane aside, resting within reach, and collapsed into his, admittedly cheap and sunken mattress. The weight of it all seemed to rest atop his chest, sinking him deeper into that familiar dip that contoured his shoulders and back.
Waiting on the pain to be killed, he found himself staring off into space. The ceiling, or the corner, or perhaps out the window, he wasn’t paying attention. Bills due crossed his mind, mounting medical debt, the guilt of asking for so much from his parents, the very real prospect of having to move back home and ask even more of them. Everything he’d done for his country, and he was struggling to enjoy the fruits of their victory.
In moments like these, so often laying there late into the night, his mind drifted off towards memories too often thought about, repeated over and over, strengthening them in his mind with each pass, keeping them there longer than he’d’ve liked. He thought of himself. His life. Growing up as civilians on military bases, in the towns they made for the families of soldiers. Foreign countries, school uniforms, American pride, the rigid schedules and reputations to uphold… He thought of his dad. Someone he’d looked up to for so long, tried to emulate and aspire to, yet never truly understood…