No Man Left Behind: A Veteran Inspired Charity Anthology by Elizabeth Knox (black authors fiction TXT) 📕

bit and I notice how he’s no longer looking at the man who I’m being held by. He’s looking at me, and it’s crazy how in one moment I know this could go one of two ways.

I just hope I’m still breathing by the end of it.

His Rage

M. Merin

Chapter One

Owen

A Couple years back

Lying in bed, I can only hope that whoever the fuck is pounding on the door gets a clue and leaves.

“Come on, asshole,” Keith’s deep voice carries easily through the flimsy door. “Get the fuck up.”

“I’m going to call the cops!” I hear the old lady across the hall scream.

Across the hall—that’s a fucking joke. The walls here are so flimsy, I hear every fucking phone conversation she has, then she gets pissed at me for blasting my music to drown her out. I got enough shit rolling around in my head without hearing her jabber away all evening.

“Let’s get rolling. Duncan will have my ass if you miss your appointment again,” Keith’s voice cuts through the thin door and I know he’d only have to shove his shoulder into it to be standing in my entryway/kitchenette.

Groaning, I pull myself to my feet and cross the small room to let Keith in. I’m in briefs and probably haven’t showered in a couple of days but that isn’t what bothers him.

“Fuck, Owen, you know you can’t bring a dog back here,” he says looking around, and it isn’t what he says, but how he stands before me in a couple thousand dollars’ worth of clothes and his only concern in the world is the service dog I’ve been contemplating getting.

“No, shit,” I mutter. “That’s why I missed the last appointment. Should have fucking known that Duncan’s the reason I got a first, second, and third chance with that group anyway.”

“Look, there’s room . . .”

“No. I ain’t moving to that complex of his,” I say, cutting him off as I try to find the words to explain how badly I need my own space—just as Agnes turns her TV on, and he raises an eyebrow at me like he knows what I am going to say. “Listening to her daytime shows ain’t the same as, well, as conversations and other shit.”

“You signed up for a service dog, so you must have had something in mind?” Keith asks, eyeing my packed bags lined up near the door.

“They’ll want to inspect where I live,” I say, trying to buy time to work up to my ask.

“Here.” Keith reaches into his pocket and comes out with a set of keys. “Duncan got a three-month lease on a cabin where you can get your shit together, then figure out what your next move is.”

Suddenly there’s a rock or something blocking any words from coming out of my throat. I was a fucking green-ass kid when I first got assigned to Duncan’s unit, and while I ended up staying in the military when the chance for sniper school came up, he and half the unit went private sector but we’ve always stayed in touch. Especially since my honorable discharge.

I haven’t actually gotten a look at my file recently, but I’m pretty sure ‘Fucked-up Mess’ is in there somewhere. Oh, the therapists down at the VA Hospital just keep prescribing more sessions or sedatives, whatever the fuck they think they can get me to agree to. It was when they mentioned a service animal that I just kind of shrugged.

I always wanted a dog, but I don’t have the first fucking clue how they think an animal is going to change my life. I signed up for the program, sure, why the fuck not? The waiting list can be years long, depending on where you are.

Then I’d look around and see women in restaurants feeding their tiny dogs, peeking out of Louis Vuitton purses that cost more than I made most months, pieces of meat and I feel rage flowing through my veins again.

Killing targets halfway around the world, that made sense to me. Get an order and go out to do my own recon until it came down to the quiet in the time leading up to the kill; with no one but my spotter watching my back or occasionally making a noise.

I enjoyed the quiet until that day, walking to our extraction point and Kinney triggered the landmine. I was barely able to stumble back the rest of the way, soaked in some of my spotter’s remains, ears ringing like a motherfucker.

The next morning I woke up in Germany and to the reality that the hearing in my left ear would never fully return.

“Owen, man,” Keith snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Focus.”

“Yeah. I’m good. I really appreciate . . .”

“Stow that shit, man—we’re brothers,” he grunts out and I notice him fiddling with the phone in his left hand.

“Give me five minutes,” I say, turning to the bathroom after smelling my pit. That won’t do, not if I’m trying to impress a dog.

I can hear the muffled sound of voices as I get cleaned up and dressed, exiting within the promised five minutes, I notice my bags are missing.

“Carlos was with me, he’s going to take your things out to the cabin in my truck, so I’m riding with you,” Keith informs me, holding the door open while I take one last look around. Three steps bring me to the dresser and I pull an envelope out of the top drawer and exit the room. “Hope your panties are clean ‘cause he’s gonna unpack your shit so it looks like you live there.”

Heading across town, my palms break out in a sweat as I start to worry about the questions they’ll ask me and how the hell I’ll be able to care for my new companion.

“Come on,” Keith says as I pull into a spot and hesitate before putting my truck into park. “It’s a dog that’s been trained to