“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” I snap, voice raising to a decibel I haven’t used since I was on the frontlines with my men. It shocks even me, feeling the vibrations through my chest, nearly sending me into another panic attack.

I shouldn’t have yelled. I know that I shouldn’t have yelled. But, nowadays, I can’t seem to help myself.

It’s been 6 months since I got back from the war. 6 months and I’m still not feeling any improvement. The doctors say they see a change in me, but I don’t believe it. I still have nightmares every night. I still get sent back to the battlefield when I hear any sort of loud noise. And I still have this crushing, hollow feeling in my chest.

But, yeah, I’m getting better.

I didn’t expect it to be this bad. When the war first ended, life couldn’t have seemed better. I had survived, somewhat unscathed, and we had won. I was going to be able to live the rest of my life, painted and respected as a veteran. It was over, and I made it out.

But going home didn’t end up being what I’d dreamt about every night in the camps.

When I came home, reality had its fun with me. I didn’t have a place to go to anymore. My apartment had been leased out during the year and half I was gone. My parents, well…they were gone. I couldn’t even have anyone waiting on me at the ship dock. It was just me and my baggage—physical and emotional. I had nowhere to go and no one to run to. Sure, the army had some recourses for me, but they weren’t enough.

That was, until, one recruiter mentioned something off the record. Something he brought up after our official meeting when we were having a smoke out in the back alley.

An arranged marriage.

It’s a concept I thought died with the Victorian age. Something that only happened within certain cultures, and not the one I was apart of. I never thought of it as a saving grace. But the way he was describing it, it seemed like my only hope.

I’d find a young lady who came from wealth, meet with her father and discuss the proposition. Being a war veteran and all, I knew he’d be up for it. Do a good deed and get his daughter married off all in one. It was easy. Too easy.

The next thing I knew, I was at a courthouse parroting vows to you. My new wife. My bank account.

You weren’t too keen on this marriage, but you didn’t put up a fight. I’m still not exactly sure why. All I know is that when we had our first meeting a week before the scheduled wedding, you didn’t run out screaming. You sized me up, adjusted your pearls, and signed the contract to be filed away.

And now here we are. 5 months into this sham of a marriage, and I’m starting to think that being homeless and alone might’ve been the better option.

You’re a sweet girl, don’t get me wrong. You stay on your side of the house and you always make sure I’m fed, but… You’re a curious woman. You’re always trying to pry, asking me questions about the war or even what my life was like before. You’re always butting in where you belong, coming to my aid during a panic attack and pressing my uniform when I don’t even need it done. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve woken up from a nightmare with you standing at the end of my bed.

And I’ve had enough of it. Of the prying and the coddling and the fake care. Because that’s what this is—this whole thing—it’s all fake. You just feel obligated to fill the empath role since you’ve got that ring on your finger. You don’t need me, but I need you, and I just know that you love that fact.

So that’s why I yelled. And I might be regretting it just a tiny bit, but I sure as hell won’t take it back.

“Just stop acting like you give a shit! Go back to cleaning or whatever the fuck you do all day, okay?!”