-How did you hurt the person your cherished most when you hit rock bottom as an alcoholic?
I didn’t, because I had no one left to cherish. My parents are dead, I never married, never owned a dog. My squad mates were my family. The only person suffering from my alcoholism was my own damn self, and I decided that if all I had left from those departed friendships was hurting and drinking and crying, then I would rather be without friends at all. If I don’t have to care I don’t have to deal with my bullshit either.
-What moment do you remember that most convinces you to never come out of your shell?
I remember my second in command telling me about going hunting in alaska, how the wolves would howl at the moon and how the snow would crackle under your feet. I remember another soldier describing the ball games at yankee stadium in the humid New York summer and how the human masses would shift to and fro between the innings. I then remember both of them dead in my arms under a bloody sun.
-The officer–yes, that one–shows up in your dreams in the same way, but the same thing is always wrong about the scene. What is it?
The son of a bitch is everywhere. On the hill where my squad was slaughtered, at the military court, even in my own god damn bar I can’t be rid of him. But for some reason he’s always crying. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, because that bastard never cried about anything. not once. I want to hit him. I want to hit him and kick him, and rip and bite and tear at his very existence. I want to shoot him dead in the middle of the street, but he won’t stop crying, and I just can’t do it