Name: Christopher Dean Jackson
Age: 26
Height: 6’2″
Weight: 187lbs
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Green
Race: Caucasian
Nationality: American
Branch: Army
“Chris?”
Chris looked up. He’d been staring off at the blue papered wall in the psychiatrist’s office as his mind drifted. He blinked a few times and refocused on the psychiatrist.
“Sorry.”
“Lost you there for a minute.” Dr. Rosenberg said. “Where did you go?”
Chris sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Nothing special. I was just remembering some stuff from high school, is all.”
“Such as?”
“Football. Wondering if maybe I should have tried for a scholarship, instead of joining the Army.”
“You joined fresh out of high school?”
“Yeah.”
“How long did you serve?”
“Two tours.” he said, holding up two fingers.
“How long is that, exactly?”
“About eight years – give or take. I was discharged six months ago.”
“How have you been adjusting?”
Chris shrugged. “Okay I guess. Except…I can’t sleep. I have dreams…they’ve been getting worse. Some nights its bad enough it scares my fiancee.”
“I might be able to help with the sleep problem. I assume the nightmares have to do with things you saw while you were in Afghanistan?”
Chris nodded. “Yeah.”
Dr. Rosenberg decided to switch topics to see if she could get him to open up more. “So you’re engaged?”
“Yeah.” he said with a smile. “My girl, Ashley…we dated in high school, kept in contact over the years. I’d see her when I had leave. I proposed four months ago – she’s been planning the wedding.”
“That’s a good thing to focus on. Chris, I want you to remember things like that when the negative feelings threaten to overwhelm you. What other positive things could you focus on? Do you have a support network?”
“Well yeah, I guess. I got a few buddies, my parents and my sister are there for me, and Ashley, of course.”
Dr. Rosenberg glances at her watch. “That’s all we have time for this session. If you’re still having problems sleeping next time, I’ll prescribe you something that should help. See you next time?”
“Sure.” Chris said, getting up and shaking the doctor’s hand before leaving the office and heading to the front desk, where he made the next appointment. From there he drove over to his parent’s place – he was supposed to pack up some of his things to take over to Ashley’s apartment, since she’d asked him to move in with her.
A couple hours later, and Chris sighed. “Mom, if you keep reminiscing over everything, we’ll never get this done.”
“I know, I know.” she said, putting his track and football awards into a box that would go to the basement for storage.
“I get your room now, right?” his sister teased. She was twelve years younger than he was, a surprise kid on his parents – they thought they couldn’t have any more.
“Yeah kiddo.” he said, reaching over and mussing up her hair. She stuck her tongue out at him in response, but smiled.
“Are you sure you don’t want any of these?” his mom asked.
“I’m sure. Just keep them here for me, ok?”
“Alright.”
For the most part, he was just taking his clothes, computer and books, so once they really got going it didn’t take long. They carried the boxes out and put them in the back of his pickup. He honked and waved as he pulled out of the driveway, and headed toward his girlfriend’s apartment.
True to her word, at his next appointment, Dr. Rosenberg prescribed him the sleeping pills. He tried taking them for a few nights, but they just made him feel trapped in the nightmares, so he stopped taking them, and did the best he could by other methods.
Over the next few months he worked on trying to find a job, but he was finding it a little difficult. Ashley kept reassuring him, and told them they would be fine just living on her income, and not to worry. Still, he couldn’t help it. He felt restless with nothing to do. To fill in the gaps between interviews, he would go running, then take care of chores back at the apartment. It still didn’t feel like enough, so he took advantage of his Army scholarship and attended classes at the university.
It wasn’t much longer before the stress of trying to find a job, studying, the upcoming wedding, and the general readjustment to civilian life was getting to be too much. He tried talking to the psychiatrist about it, and took her advice – but it didn’t help. He was still stressed, and he was still having nightmares. More and more, the thought of doing himself in was becoming more and more appealing.
He didn’t do it right away. He thought about how he wanted to die first. He rejected using a gun and hanging himself. Then he remembered the pills. Slowly, he got up and went to the bathroom, and pulled the pill bottle out of the medicine cabinet, and filled the glass at the sink halfway with water. Walking back to the bedroom he shared with Ashley, he sat on the edge, wondering if he should leave a suicide note. Eventually, he decided to leave a simple one; one that simply said ‘I’m sorry’ – he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The pill bottle was half full. A quick twist of the cap opened it, and he poured the contents into his hand, then downed them all, chasing it with the water. Then he waited. Gradually, his body began to feel heavier, and he felt tired – so tired. ‘I’m sorry’, he thought again, then seemed amazed that the old cliche was true – your life did flash before your eyes as you died. He was unaware of what was going on outside his body – he was only aware of the images flooding his mind.
He remembered riding a bike for the first time; of playing little league for a few years until he got to middle school, where he joined the football and track teams. He’d always liked running. He saw him take his team to victory again and again through the years, and the happiness that brought his peers had made him happy. The good feelings that came as he felt the love in his memories – from his family, friends, and fiancee. And finally, finally the stress was gone. There was nothing. He was gone.
Zadael opened his eyes, and took a look around. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position as he continued to survey his surroundings. Had he really made it out of his prison? He held out his hands, studying them. I’ve anchored myself into a human. he thought. He took his time processing things, and picked through his host’s memories – finding himself a little relieved that he wasn’t the direct cause of death.
This body’s name is Chris. he told himself, until he could remember it well enough that he ought to respond to it. Curiosity gave him the motivation to walk to the bathroom and look into the mirror. He took a long time studying the face of his host before walking back, and cleaning up the empty pill bottle, burying it into the trash.
Further contemplation led way to a horrific discovery – he couldn’t sense his Maker. He was most assuredly out of his prison – so why couldn’t he feel Him? Panic overtook him for a moment as he got on his knees and begged his Father’s forgiveness. But still nothing. Just what was going on? What was he to do next?