Loving London E-Book

Ellie Wade

• Herausgeber: Ellie Wade, LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

FLAWED
I left.
I followed my dream—
To write, to feel, to live.
But my life has no meaning without Loïc.
I’m fading.
I'm not whole, not me,
Without him.
Loving Loïc is how I breathe.
FLAWED
She's gone.
I'm a hollow waste of space.
I can't feel, can't breathe, can't fight
Without London.
She's who I am—
What I am supposed to be.
Loving London
Is how I live.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2016 by Ellie WadeAll rights reserved. Visit my website at www.elliewade.comCover Designer: Regina Wamba, Mae-I-DesignEditor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.comNo part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To all the soldiers who have served in the military and to the families that love them. Thank you.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Epilogue: London

Epilogue: Loïc

Dear Readers

Resources

Other Titles by Ellie Wade

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Loïc

“The utter horror of it all comes back in agonizing clarity. Cooper’s gone.”

—Loïc Berkeley

Heaviness weighs on me, pressing my lungs flat. I can’t breathe. Panic rises within as a war with fear begins.

It’s so dark.

Where am I?

It smells but not of earth and sweat. It reeks of chemicals and sanitation—rubbing alcohol maybe.

My chest expands as I pull in air, and it brings torture, a shooting sharp pain to my ribs. I stop inhaling deeply and focus on taking short and shallow breaths.

What’s happening to me?

Where am I?

I try to open my eyes, but it becomes way more difficult than it should be. Why won’t they open? I mentally instruct my brain to make my eyes open, and I wait.

Open.

Open.

Open.

Nothing happens.

Fuck.

A stabbing agony shoots through my body, starting at my head and spreading downward. The ache in my leg burns so fiercely that I know I’m dying. A pain this great can’t be sustained. I scream a hollow, tortured cry, but no sound explodes from me. In fact, I can’t hear anything at all.

And the pain…it’s just too much.

It’s more than I can stand.

I’m dying.

I clench my teeth together and bear down, trying to hold on, to sustain through the anguish.

But I can’t.

I’m not strong enough.

I know it’s over—life is leaving me—but as darkness pulls me under, I’m grateful for the release.

“Lieutenant Berkeley, can you hear me?” a male voice asks.

It takes me a moment to register the words. I sluggishly open my eyes but force them closed again. The intrusive light hurts.

“Sir?” he questions again.

Breathing deep, I open my eyes again, even more cautiously, allowing them to acclimate to the brightness that surrounds me.

I blink and then blink again.

Scanning the room, I realize I’m in a hospital. What happened?

When the man is in my line of vision, I stop my assessment of the room. He looks to be in his forties with kind brown eyes, but if I’m not mistaken, I see pity in them.

Do I? That thought causes bile to rise in my throat. Why is he looking at me that way?

Opening my mouth, I try to question him; nothing but a raspy croak comes out.

The man raises a hand. “Your throat’s going to be dry. Let me get you some water.”

He exits the room, leaving me to myself, as I wade hopelessly through a sea of questions. Closing my eyes, I try to remember what happened. The crazy thing is, I can’t remember much of anything. My mind is so clouded, so saturated, with a heavy mud of nothingness.

The man returns, holding a white Styrofoam cup with a straw. He pushes a button on the side of my bed, and the section behind my back starts to slowly move up.

“Is that okay? It doesn’t hurt?” he asks.

I shake my head, answering his second question.

He continues moving the back of the bed up until I’m in a seated position. He then holds the cup of water in front of my face, and the bent straw presses against my lips. Opening my lips, I take a sip. The water feels like shards of glass sliding down my throat. I take another sip and then indicate with a nod that I’m finished.

The man places the cup on my side table. “I’m Sergeant Hannigan, your current nurse. Though Private Taylor will be replacing me”—his eyes dart to the clock on the wall—“in about an hour, and she’s much sweeter than I am. Everyone loves her. She’s a hell of a lot easier on the eyes, too.” He smiles, amused with himself.

“What…” I try to ask.

“Your throat’s going to be sore for a bit. Try to keep it hydrated as best as you can. You were intubated for a while. Then, you were in a medically induced coma until the swelling in your brain went down and your major injuries healed some. Do you remember what happened?”

I shake my head.

“Well, you’re at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany,” he says.

Immediately, I recognize that as the military hospital where soldiers injured overseas are sent for medical attention.

He continues, “You were in Afghanistan. On a mission to Sarowbi, you were hit by shrapnel caused by a grenade, and the explosion propelled you into a wall, which you hit pretty hard. You were evacuated and flown here. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Injuries?” I manage to say.

“You had some head trauma and many lacerations that needed stitches. You took some shrapnel in the side of your abdomen, but luckily, it missed all your major organs.”

I catch him swiftly looking down before his gaze returns to mine.

“A large piece of shrapnel struck your left leg, causing a significant amount of damage. The surgeon had to amputate part of your leg, starting right above the knee.”

My eyes bulge as I take in his words. Amputate?

Warily, I peer down toward the bedding that covers me. Sure enough, the thin white sheet drops down to the mattress where my lower left leg should be.

I lift my arm to move the covers from me but gasp as an acute pain hits, radiating from my rib area. I press my arm below my chest until the ache recedes.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you about your broken ribs. Your body’s still pretty bruised up. It will be a while before you’re healed.”

I nod toward my leg. “Can I see it?” My voice cracks.

“Sure.” Sergeant Hannigan pulls back the sheet.

From beneath the hospital gown I’m wearing, my right leg lays in shades of bruises against the mattress. It’s like a messed up tie-dye of purples, yellows, and browns with some cuts thrown in the mix for variety. It’s almost nauseating in appearance.

Then, I steel the nerve to take in my left leg, and…it’s gone.

Just gone.

My gaze returns to the bruised up appendage and then to the spot beside it where its counterpart should be, and nothing is there. Nothing. No matching mangled up leg is protruding from beneath the thin gown.

As I stare at the spot where my leg should be, Sergeant Hannigan pulls up the gown a few inches to reveal the bandaged up stump of my left leg. There’s really nothing to see, except a gauzed up nub, the pathetic remnant of a leg.

Letting out a sigh, I lean my head back against the pillow. The sergeant fixes my bedding back around me.

I close my eyes and think about my legs, and the crazy thing is, I can still feel the left one. I can actually feel it. I move my foot around in a circle, taking in the way my ankle cracks with the motion. Yet, when I open my eyes and peer down, there’s no left foot to move. I simply stare at the spot where it should be.

“Are you okay, Lieutenant?” Hannigan asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie. How can I be okay? I’m banged up as hell, in a hospital in Germany, without a fucking leg. No, I’m not fine.

“I know this is a lot to take in. We have doctors you can talk to. It helps.”

“No, I’m okay, really.” I turn my head to the side and notice the window for the first time. Unfortunately, my view is of brown bricks, more than likely the exterior from another part of the hospital.

“All right, well, I’m going to finish up your chart. Private Taylor will be here soon, and she’ll order some soft foods for you, so your body can get used to eating solids again. Nothing says dinner like Jell-O, right?” Hannigan’s question is rhetorical, so I ignore it. “The doctor will be here sometime within the next hour to go over everything with you as well. I paged him when you started to wake up. Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No,” I answer quietly.

“Okay, if you need anything, just press this call light right here.” He shows me the red button on the railing. “I just pushed some pain meds through your IV right before you woke up, but if the pain becomes too much, we can give you some more.”

“Oh, Sergeant Hannigan?” I say before he leaves.

He turns to look at me. “Yeah?”

“How long have I been here?”

“About two weeks.”

“How long do you think I’ll stay here?” I ask.

“You can talk to the doctor when he gets in, but I’m guessing you’ll be here for another two weeks before you’re well enough to fly to Walter Reed, the big military hospital in Washington DC. There, you’ll probably have intense PT for about a month before they clear you to go home and get the rest of your treatment at the nearest VA hospital to you. So, that will put you home sometime in May. Things can vary, of course, but given an injury like yours, that’s my guess,” he says cheerfully.

“Thanks.” I nod.

He smiles warmly and exits the room.

Feeling tired, I close my eyes. I can figure this all out later—reconstruct the pieces of my life, regain my memories, discover how to do all the things I love with one leg. Right now though, I just need to sleep.

Whether from the pain meds or the sheer exhaustion of my battered body, sleep takes me almost instantly. I’m on the precipice of blissful deep slumber—in that moment right before the entire world fades away but where I’m still subconsciously aware of where my physical body lies—when it happens.

I see him.

I watch in a panic as he jumps, throwing his body over the grenade.

I try to stop him, but I can’t. I can’t reach him in time.

I stare in horror as his body explodes. Pieces of his body hit me as they fly through the air, and I scream out in pain—an unrelenting, intense agony so deep that it burns clear through to my soul.

The utter horror of it all comes back in agonizing clarity.

Cooper’s gone.

He’s gone.

I bolt up in bed, immune to the screeching protests of my body, and I yell, a wild cry from the worst pain I’ve ever known.

I can’t stop screaming. The heartache is killing me. It’s so tangible that it manifests as physical pain, ripping through me, breaking my mind, body, and soul into thousands of empty pieces.

I vaguely register the presence of others. Somewhere in the distance, I hear my name being called, but I can’t get back there.

I’m drowning in a sea of suffering. Visions of Cooper’s tattered body hit me with the force of massive rocks, carved out from a mountain of torment. I can feel the weight of it crushing me to the ground. The earth beneath me shakes with anger. It’s taking me with it. I’m going to be buried alive in my own misery, and I deserve it.

It shouldn’t have been him.

Not him.

Never him.

Suddenly, the yelling stops, and I’m enveloped in blackness. My mind is foggy, and I can’t focus on the images of Cooper. I’m losing him.

I can’t…

I’ve already…

Lost.

Him.

Loïc

“I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I’ve been living in déjà vu hell for the past week.

I wake. I remember Cooper. I freak out. I’m drugged. I sleep.

And repeat.

In the few lucid moments before said freak-outs occur, I remember everything. All my memories, for good or bad, have returned.

The shitty thing is, most of my memories fucking suck. I’ve had a miserable life. I lose everything that I love. Everything. A constant nightmare reel is playing in my mind—to torment me, I suppose. I’ve been lying in this bed, unable to escape, and forced to relive all my horrific experiences…over and over and over again.

Fleeting visions of London try to break through all the ugly, but I don’t let her. In fact, thinking about her just pisses me off because I know I can never have her. I will lose her, just like everyone else. I’m not going to wait around for that torturous experience to happen. It all ends now.

I was wrong to let Cooper in. I should have known.

But I won’t take London down with me.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve been in contact with London. Who knows? She might have already moved on. It’s for the best if she has.

Another week has passed. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Each moment passes by like a gray fog, enveloping me in its nothingness.

And that’s what I feel—absolutely nothing. I’m a hollow waste of space.

I no longer jolt awake from my nightmares to find myself screaming in agony until a nurse rushes in with sedatives to calm my cries. Then again, I’ve been finding it difficult to experience any feelings at all. The medical staff has thrown around terms like depressionand post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I’ve been taking more pills daily than is probably healthy, but I can’t find it in me to care about that either.

The truth of it is, I’ve lost all my desire—to live, to feel, to love, to care. It’s just gone. Whether from a high dose of medications or as a result of my circumstances and mental state, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t want to feel, care, or love. Why would I? It causes nothing but heartbreak. I’ve had enough hurt for multiple lifetimes.

I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.

I couldn’t physically sustain any more. I’d crumble. Another blow that causes me emotional pain would end me. It’d be over. I know it. I’ve lost all my fight. Simply existing is enough of a struggle. It’s all I can manage.

Blinking, I escape from my thoughts and focus again on what the doctor sitting beside my bed is saying. All right, so I don’t focus on her words per se. I watch as her lips move, noticing the wrinkles beside her mouth shift and bend with each word. She must be at least fifty, maybe even sixty. Her face wears the wrinkles of life well. They’re not deep and weathered, like someone who’s suffered. They’re fine and delicate, like someone who’s lived and aged gracefully. I would bet that she’s had a good life. Her eyes are dark brown, and they shine with happiness. They remind me of another’s eyes, of a beautiful girl I used to love, but I push that thought down deep, where I won’t have to confront it.

What’s her name again?

Dr. W-something. Maybe Wayne? Washington? White?

I can’t remember even though she’s come to see me every day for the past week. My gaze drops to the badge she wears. Squinting, I read, Dr. Olivia Warner.

That’s it.

Dr. Warner has been more than patient with me. Frankly, I’m not sure why she keeps coming. It has to be clear that I’m not really listening to her. I barely speak in our sessions. I don’t want to participate in this psychoanalytical shit that she’s attempting. I have no desire to break down my walls, face my fears, or anything of the sort. I certainly don’t want to talk about any of it. I’m content to remain in my state of empty existence.

“Loïc?” Her voice is louder than normal with a persistent tone.

It startles me enough to break my stare that was analyzing her pink silk blouse. I snap my eyes up to meet her expectant gaze.

“I said, have you contacted any of your loved ones, like we spoke about?”

I simply gape at her.

“Loïc, it’s important for your recovery. You need to feel that connection with people who care about you. There’s a life waiting for you back home. It’s crucial that you remind yourself of that. Can you please try to contact someone from home? A call would be best, but you can start with an email if that makes you more comfortable. Would you like me to help you?”

I shake my head. “I can do it.”

Dr. Warner lets out a breath of relief. It isn’t often that I respond to one of her questions. I suppose it’s only fair that I give her this small victory.

“That’s great, Loïc. I promise you, it will help you heal. It’s so important for you to realize that you have so much to live for.” She smiles, and a warm kindness exudes from her. I know she means well. “As you know, this is our last session. My colleague, Dr. Benjamin, will be continuing your therapy while you’re at Walter Reed. He’s a wonderful man.”

I nod even though I couldn’t care less who’ll be taking her place.

Dr. Warner talks for a while longer, little of which I actually hear, before she smiles at me one last time and exits my room.

Tomorrow, I will be flying back to the States. I’ll be getting a prosthetic leg, several new doctors, and a new regimen of therapies, both physical and psychological. I don’t know how to feel about it all, so I suppose I’ll continue feeling nothing.

Loïc

“I feel nothing.”

—Loïc Berkeley

“There you go, Berk! You’re kicking ass today,” Lieutenant Dixon, my physical therapist, cheers.

“I’m kicking a ball, Dick, not fighting in an MMA competition,” I say in a grumpy tone with an immature roll of my eyes.

Truth is, Dixon—whom I’ve called Dick for the past month—is my favorite person here. I’ve been an asshole to him from day one, and he’s been nothing but supportive. He held a one-sided conversation with me for the first week of physical therapy until I finally started to respond. He’s upbeat, crude, and funny, and damn it if he doesn’t remind me so much of Cooper. I hate that as much as I love that about him. Regardless, I can’t help but like him.

“And you’re kicking the shit out of that ball. If it weren’t for the obvious metal appendage, I might mistake you for David Beckham.”

“You’re an ass.” I manage a small grin as I kick the large ball with a force equivalent to a five-year-old and certainly not a world-class soccer player.

Dixon says that I’m physically bouncing back quicker than most soldiers do. I spend the majority of my time working out, completing the regimen that Dixon has prescribed me. I always do at least double the repetitions or twice the amount of time he suggests. If he wants me to do ten lunges, I do twenty, minimum. If he tells me to walk for thirty minutes, I walk for an hour.

My body hurts all the time, but I welcome the pain. It takes my mind off the other hurt, which is much more difficult to bear. I don’t have control over a lot anymore. Mentally, I’m weak. My nightmares are debilitating, and my broken heart refuses to heal. But for the most part, I can manage my body. I can strengthen my muscles and improve my coordination. It helps me when I see positive changes in my physical abilities, as it’s the only aspect of my life that I seem to have any real control over.

After an hour, I’m drenched in sweat, my muscles are quivering in agony, and I feel better than I have in a long time. I wouldn’t say that I’m happy, but I feel a sliver of accomplishment, and that’s something to hold on to.

“I have a little over an hour before my next session. You want to meet me in the cafeteria for lunch?” Dixon asks.

I fight my urge to say no. “Yeah. Let me go take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you down there.”

Dixon nods nonchalantly in approval, but I know he’s happy that I accepted. Everyone here is always trying to get me to open up, but I’m a master at keeping people out. I’ve had a lifetime of practice.

Twenty minutes later, I enter the cafeteria and spot Dixon sitting at a table in the corner of the room. I walk through the food line and grab a large Italian sub, an apple, and a bottle of water. As I walk toward Dixon, carrying my tray of food, I can’t help but take note of how far I’ve come. Two weeks ago, I didn’t have the balance to complete a task as simple as walking while holding a tray. I can walk without a cane now, and yes, while it’s more of a hobble than a smooth gait, it’s impressive because I know how much work it took me to get here.

Placing my tray down, I take a seat across from Dixon as he shovels a forkful of food into his mouth.

“Dude, this meatloaf is on point,” Dixon utters through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah, you seem to be thoroughly enjoying it,” I state as I lower my gaze to my sub.

“So, how’s life, my man? Any news to report?” Dixon asks happily.

“You know I don’t have a life.”

“Have you spoken with anyone from home?” he inquires casually.

“Come on, Dick. Is lunch going to be a therapy session? Because, if it is, I think I’ll pass.”

Dixon shrugs his shoulder. “I’m just making small talk.”

“Riiight,” I say sarcastically, drawing out the word.

“You’re heading home in a couple of weeks. I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to let anyone back home know.”

“You haven’t talked to Benjamin by any chance, have you?” I accuse.

My therapist, Dr. Benjamin, has been trying to get me to call home for a month now but to no avail. I know I should. I realize that I have to face that part of my life. But I just feel so mentally and physically broken and hopeless. I haven’t been able to find the courage to make a call, let alone check my email.

“Why would you say that?” Dixon asks innocently.

I exhale. “Don’t fuck with me, Dick.”

Dixon holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I might have spoken with Benjamin. He’s worried about you, Berk. Frankly, I am, too. If you think you’re in a dark place here, wait till you get home. It’s worse. The mental shit that comes with PTSD is no joke. That shit can drag you down. Do you know how many brothers’ funerals I’ve attended because they couldn’t take it in the real world?”

Dixon’s eyes widen with a sadness that pounds me in the gut, almost knocking the wind out of me. He’s never been this serious with me, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit of a reality check.

“I get that you don’t like to let people in. You’d prefer to handle everything on your own. But, Berk, man…you need someone, even just one person. I’m telling you, there might be a time when the darkness is too great. It will try to suck you down, to annihilate you. It’s crucial that you have someone to help you up when you’re too weak to care. I’ve seen it. This beast has beaten even the strongest of men. You are not immune. And…fuck it. I refuse to attend your funeral, Berkeley. Do you hear me?”

Dixon’s words steal my breath, like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my bare skin. His speech, in the corner of this hospital cafeteria, falls somewhere between a scolding and a plea, and it’s completely sobering.

“All right, I got it.”

“Do you?” he questions with an accusing stare.

I nod. “I do. I’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay.” He seems relieved. “Also, when you’re home, you’ll need to keep up with your doctor appointments, PT, therapy, and your medications. Don’t let anything falter because, sometimes, it’s impossible to get back.”

“I. Got. It.” I pin him with a warning stare.

“You’d better,” he scoffs. “I’m not going to be there to coax you through your exercises.”

I know this is his way of lightening the mood because, if anything, he’s had to urge me to hold back during physical therapy.

“I know. How will I ever kick a ball without you?”

“Exactly my point,” he huffs out.

“It will be rough, but I’ll find a way,” I kid with an exaggerated sigh.

He grins. “I know you will. You’re a fighter, man.”

Two hours later, I find myself sitting in the cramped computer lab. My hand physically shakes as I type in my Gmail username and password. My heart is thrumming wildly in my chest, and I’m terrified to open my email. Ignoring my life back home has been a coward move, I admit. But the past two months since that grenade took my best friend have been a sort of hell. The first month, I had to fight to hold on to my sanity. The past thirty days, I’ve immersed myself into healing my physical form so that I wouldn’t have to confront the rest.

Honestly, it’s much easier to learn to walk with a metal leg than it is to face internal demons. In a battle of strength, a weak mind loses every time. I don’t need Dr. Benjamin or anyone else pyschoanalyzing me. I know, inside—where it matters the most—I’m broken.

Closing my eyes, I pull air into my lungs. Releasing the air in a controlled breath, I open my eyes to confront my inbox.

And there they are…

Message after message.

Most are from London. Some are from Maggie. Others are from Sarah. As I scroll down the screen, there’s a random email here or there from a brother in my unit. I’m sure, they’re checking in on me.

But…the majority is from London.

I start at the bottom, opening the oldest message, which happens to be from London.

To: Loïc Berkeley