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It's Not What You ThinkChapter 2 free porn video
Five weeks later
I'm not very good at this journal business. I know I'm 'supposed' to do it daily, and the counselors at the hospital encouraged me to do it, but the plain fact is it's too intense for me. It had been over a month; I guess I hadn't been writing very much lately. Too depressed.
My mom had tried to cheer me up with emails and stuffed animals and flowers and such, but it hadn't helped much. She wasn't able to come 'cause she needed to keep her job – she was the manager at three Quik-Stop convenience stores on the highway outside Waxahachie, Texas, and just couldn't get to Germany. Where I was.
Dad, as usual, was in parts unknown. He'd disappeared when I was sixteen – thirteen years ago – and hadn't been heard of since.
On my second day here, the doctors told me and mom (via a laptop hookup) that they were going to have to take both my legs. The damage was just too extensive. I'd almost died four times in the aftermath of the explosion and it was only Lt. Cmdr. Johnson's actions that had kept me alive.
She'd opened a vein in her arm and somehow managed to transfuse blood into me through a drinking straw, a couple of ball-point pens, and a pocket knife. She was type O negative, universal donor. Who does that? Who knows how to do that?
She did, apparently.
It seems that she kept me alive until the medics got me out from under the rubble and to a hospital. Then she passed out, from blood loss, but she recovered quickly enough.
Now I was in Germany and they were going to cut off my left leg above the knee and my right leg below the knee. My mother was crying. I was just numb.
Of course, I wouldn't be in the Army any more. No. I was going to be one of those Vets in a wheelchair you see on the sidewalk of major cities, wearing an old Army jacket and begging for money. I wondered if Fort Worth or Dallas residents would give more. I guess I'd wear the Purple Heart on the outside of my jacket. Should increase the take a little bit.
It was either that or let the flesh-rot continue to eat away at me until I was dead. Those were my choices. Be a homeless bum, begging for handouts, or be dead. It was a close call.
My mom was trying to cheer me up the next day, but I wouldn't be cheered up. Should I be dead and alive – or just dead and dead?
It was in between my drug shots to keep the pain down that I got an email from Cynthia.
James,I am so happy to hear that you are alive, but devastated at your injuries.
There were 17 dead and 41 injured in the explosion. Thanks to you, I was not hurt. I owe you my life, so I guess that makes you responsible for me from now on. Do not be down about how you'll come out of this. You are a strong person and you have marketable computer skills. And you are a wonderful man.
Rosie is now in charge of the combined units and is still working at his same old job. And I'm being transferred. I can't say where or what it is, or I'd have to kill you. LOL
I'm going to be in Germany soon, though and I'll be coming to see you.
Be well.
Love, Cynthia.
'Love, Cynthia'?? What was that about? We were friendly, sure. I had fantasies that it was something more, sure. She was hot looking, sure. In her two inch Navy heels she came up to my eyebrows, an almost perfect height. Well, now, I guess I'd come up to her navel, not so perfect any more. That was for sure. She'd never give me a second glance now.
She was coming to visit. Okay. So I wouldn't leave a corpse for her to visit. Wouldn't be polite.
I signed the consent forms, and the operation to remove my legs was scheduled for the next day. Yay. I sent an email to my mom telling her I'd agreed to the operation, and not to worry. Now all I had to do was not worry, myself.
When I woke up I discovered several things. It was Friday, and the last thing I remembered was on Tuesday morning counting backwards from one hundred. And, of course, I had stumps instead of legs. So, if I could have stood at all, I'd have been about two feet short. That's a unit of measure, not an anatomical description – although that was true too.
Talk about depressing. I couldn't dance – not that I knew how before, but ... I'd never be able to look a man in the eye and shake his hand. I'd be looking up from my wheelchair. They got me up and sitting in a wheelchair soon enough, and I even learned how to use the toilet. I had to have a mirror and sink cut down to my size, so I could brush my teeth and shave. After a while, I was allowed to take showers. That was a joke. I could barely reach the hot/cold controls. Move the shower head? Forget it.
Life was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.
Then, several weeks later, Cynthia Johnson showed up. She arrived just after the nurse had placed my lunch on the table at the other end of the room. It was my job to haul myself out of bed, into the accursed wheelchair and push the entire contraption over to the table. Guaranteed to take about forty-minutes and leave the mystery meat cold. Nothing more appetizing than cold mystery meat covered in thick brown liquid that could charitably be called the leavings of a dysentery patient – though the Army called it gravy.
"Captain, can I help?" she said in her soft alto.
I'm sure it was a well-intentioned question, but I was pissed off. I had neglected to set the wheel brake when I hauled myself into bed after the morning's torture session – or in Army lingo, 'therapy.' So the chair was now out of reach.
"Goddamn it. Fucking thing is always moving when I don't want it to," I grumped. I'd reached for the IV pole (now empty of bags of medical stuff) that was near the bed. I shifted and reached and barely nabbed it. When I turned around, she was standing behind the chair and the chair was bedside.
I almost clocked her on the head with the IV pole, before I noticed. Now I had a clumsy pole that could double as a lance, and couldn't really get into the wheelchair. She fumbled with the wheel brakes, got them set and took the lance from my hands. I was shaking, from anger and embarrassment.
"Let me..." she said. She set the IV pole back out of the way and left me to my own devices. She wasn't in uniform, which was strange, I thought. I couldn't complain much about her skin tight jeans and blouse. The blouse had buttons going up the front, and I thought it too bad that more of them weren't undone.
It only took me five minutes to get into the chair and get a blanket around the lower part of my 'shorty' pajamas. By that time, she was settled in at the table, on the non-eating side. At least I wouldn't have to have an adjustment to eat at a table with somebody else: the chair provided me with seating like a normal person.
"Sorry. Fucking mess getting moved around," I said.
"Nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "James, it is so good to see you alive. I didn't know for the longest time what happened to you." She reached a hand across the table and took mine.
I withdrew from the contact, and picked up my fork. I didn't want any pity. Yummy mystery meat and tepid string beans awaited! Pity was less appealing than that.
"I'm glad you made it out alive and intact," I said around the meal. "It'd be a shame to lose a pair of legs like yours." She looked surprised at the comment. "Oh yeah ... I can say it now, 'cause I'm not going to be in the Army long. What're they going to do ... kick me out for making a pass at a superior officer?"
"No," she said with a little laugh, "I don't think they'll do that. I know what you must be thinking and going through and..."
"BULLSHIT!" I erupted, talking fast. "You don't know a goddamn thing about it. You've got your own legs. You can stand and walk around. You didn't have to have someone give you training on how to use a toilet, or explain about using a shower, or how to sit in a chair, or anything else ... I don't want your fucking' pity, so you can just go and shove that stuff."
She was taken aback by my outburst. "I'm so sorry, James. I didn't think ... I'll leave if you want."
I just glared at her for the longest time. Finally she began to gather her things, getting ready to go.
"No. Stay," I said. There was a long pause, and she placed her purse on the floor near the chair she was in. "You saved my life, you know."
"What? Oh the blood thing. That's just something I picked up along the way. Something about 'an Intelligence Officer has to be ready for anything.'"
"Did they teach you brain surgery, too?" After my outburst I was calm again. " ... but I meant you saved my life later, too. That's twice. Puts you one up on me."
"How'd I do that? I only sent you the one email." She looked puzzled. "I got busy with leaving the service and all."
"That email arrived when I had to decide if they were going to cut off my legs or not. I decided to give the hacksaw crew the okay. The other option was to let you visit a corpse, and I chose not to do that. So, I guess this is your fault." I said it light-heartedly, like the decision between a gruesome death from progressive gangrene and permanent disability with no legs was nothing to be taken seriously.
Her eyes widened as she listened, but she kept her own counsel. After a while, she'd apparently decided how to carry on. "Good thing you decided as you did. I've never visited a morgue. Don't want to, either. Oh, by the way, if the nurses ask, I'm your fiancée. It's the only way they'd let me in. From what you said in Abu, you didn't have one."
That shut me up. And my cock got hard. Nice to see that it still worked.
"Well, we better tell my mom. Have we picked a date yet? You got folks you want to tell?" I joked. "At least for a little while anyway."
"Yes, but no folks ... A little while, anyway. But if you ever decide to fill that job opening, let me know, okey dokey?"
My hard cock lurched a little. How am I still attractive to someone like this? But it's probably just pity – she can't really mean it.
"Why is a Lieutenant Commander getting out of the service? You weren't wounded, I take it."
"Oh ... well, I guess you haven't been keeping up with the news," she replied. "The Admiral..." (there was never any question about which Admiral she was talking about: it was Admiral Hole) " ... submitted his resignation about two weeks ago. They've cashiered his whole staff. Seems he had an affair with some newspaper woman who was doing his biography. I can't believe he was that stupid ... laying out the plans for the entire Central Theater in pillow talk ... So, I am out of the Navy already."
Major league stupid. Make that Admiral AssHole. "So ... I'm not going to get in trouble for making suggestive comments to a superior officer, huh."
She laughed. It was a good, honest laugh. It made her eyes crinkle up and her auburn hair ripple. Come to think of it, this was the first time I'd seen her hair not up in a bun; it was shoulder length and had shimmering blonde lights – no they were darker highlights, almost brunette. Now they looked blonde again. I stared.
" ... in Dallas?" she said somewhat confusingly. "Hello? Earth to James?"
"What?! Oh. Sorry. I guess I was day dreaming. I do that sometimes. Get lost inside my own head."
"I was just asking if you were going to take your terminal leave in Dallas? That way you could be fairly close to home. I know your mom is in Waxahachie. They have a very good VA Hospital outside Dallas. You have to get some more rehab, right?"
"Uh..." I said, ever the brilliant conversationalist. "Yeah. I guess. I hadn't thought about it. Probably a good idea. Dallas. Uh huh."
"Good. Maybe I'll see ya around in Texas. I've got a job offer from Carbunkle Oil Services, Inc. They're that big oil company that likes Vets. They don't think I got cooties from being an officer on the Admiral's staff," she said with a smile.
I knew of Carbunkle. They had great government contacts. And, of course, there was the rumor that they orchestrated the whole war on Iraq. The Vice-President of the U.S. was a former Carbunkle CEO.
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