Read Online Healing Melody by Priya Grey, Ozlo Grey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Priya Grey, Ozlo Grey
Tags: Contemporary Romance
Ads: Link
kiss my lips and touch his picture.
“Tigers need their rest, son.”
I turn off the bathroom light and walk out.
Tomorrow will be the nine-month anniversary of his death.
C HAPTER T WELVE
Fortunately, there isn’t much traffic on the 110. So, I can probably make it up to the Hills in forty-five minutes. I roll down the window of my piece-of-shit Corolla and let the night breeze blow in. It’s unusually hot in LA for February.
Fuckin’ climate change.
I listen to some hip-hop to divert my mind. But that doesn’t work. I turn off the radio.
As usual, I think about Max.
Tomorrow will mark nine months since I buried my son.
It all happened so fast.
After Shane offered to pay Max’s medical bills, I immediately told the doctor to enroll him in the experimental procedure. We flew Max to Denver, Colorado for his treatment – that’s where the premier doctor that dealt with Max’s rare illness worked. Max and I spent two months there. At first, it looked like he was responding well to the treatment. But then suddenly, things took a turn for the worse.
I’m still amazed by how tough my son was until the end.
I miss him so much. He was such a good kid. He didn’t deserve to go through what he did. My heart bleeds every time I think of him. It’s a pain – an emotion – I can’t put into words.
Suddenly, I stop thinking about Max when – to my right – about a mile ahead, I notice a car pulled over on the highway. Instantly, the muscles in my neck tense. I grip the steering wheel for dear life. My heart races.
Here we go again.
My fight or flight responses kick into high alert. Is that car a decoy? Could it contain an explosive device – just like the car in Iraq that blew up my Humvee and killed two of my men. I was lucky; I escaped with only a few bruises.
A cold sweat pours down my face, as I get closer to the car parked on the shoulder. My instinct is to find an alternate route, a way out. My eyes swiftly scan the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors. I’m blocked by another car to my left. I can’t stop, or swerve into another lane.
I’m getting closer.
I imagine the car exploding.
I ease off the accelerator, wanting to avoid passing the car altogether. The car behind me honks me out of my daze.
I have no way out of this. I have to drive past this car.
It’s getting closer.
I grip the steering wheel so tight that I’m afraid it might snap off.
I’m about to pass it.
I tightly shut my eyes and wait for the explosion.
Suddenly, the car to my left honks. I open my eyes wide.
Shit! I’m about to hit the car!
I swerve back into my lane. I quickly look in my rear view mirror. The car on the shoulder is now a safe distance away. It looks like it had a flat tire.
I try reminding myself I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m in LA. But my body can’t tell the difference. It’s on high alert now and I feel a sense of rage flood through me. I bang my steering wheel with frustration. Fuck this PTSD.
I take several deep breaths but it does nothing to calm me.
I’m so angry. Angry at a million different things all at once. I’m angry at the war and what it did to me. I’m angry at God for putting my son through so much pain and then robbing him of his life at such a young age.
I was the one who went to war. I should be the dead one, not my little boy.
I’m angry at life itself and how unfair it can be to some.
Then, a sense of guilt overwhelms me.
My anger slowly turns to regret.
I was a terrible father.
I should have spent more time with Max when he was alive.
Monique got pregnant right before I was shipped out on my first tour of Iraq. We were never a couple. We just had sex after a party one night and she got pregnant.
I was in the Middle East when Max was born. And when I came home between tours, I wasn’t very involved in either one of their lives. Honestly, I was a bit of a zombie. Acclimating to civilian life was
“Tigers need their rest, son.”
I turn off the bathroom light and walk out.
Tomorrow will be the nine-month anniversary of his death.
C HAPTER T WELVE
Fortunately, there isn’t much traffic on the 110. So, I can probably make it up to the Hills in forty-five minutes. I roll down the window of my piece-of-shit Corolla and let the night breeze blow in. It’s unusually hot in LA for February.
Fuckin’ climate change.
I listen to some hip-hop to divert my mind. But that doesn’t work. I turn off the radio.
As usual, I think about Max.
Tomorrow will mark nine months since I buried my son.
It all happened so fast.
After Shane offered to pay Max’s medical bills, I immediately told the doctor to enroll him in the experimental procedure. We flew Max to Denver, Colorado for his treatment – that’s where the premier doctor that dealt with Max’s rare illness worked. Max and I spent two months there. At first, it looked like he was responding well to the treatment. But then suddenly, things took a turn for the worse.
I’m still amazed by how tough my son was until the end.
I miss him so much. He was such a good kid. He didn’t deserve to go through what he did. My heart bleeds every time I think of him. It’s a pain – an emotion – I can’t put into words.
Suddenly, I stop thinking about Max when – to my right – about a mile ahead, I notice a car pulled over on the highway. Instantly, the muscles in my neck tense. I grip the steering wheel for dear life. My heart races.
Here we go again.
My fight or flight responses kick into high alert. Is that car a decoy? Could it contain an explosive device – just like the car in Iraq that blew up my Humvee and killed two of my men. I was lucky; I escaped with only a few bruises.
A cold sweat pours down my face, as I get closer to the car parked on the shoulder. My instinct is to find an alternate route, a way out. My eyes swiftly scan the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors. I’m blocked by another car to my left. I can’t stop, or swerve into another lane.
I’m getting closer.
I imagine the car exploding.
I ease off the accelerator, wanting to avoid passing the car altogether. The car behind me honks me out of my daze.
I have no way out of this. I have to drive past this car.
It’s getting closer.
I grip the steering wheel so tight that I’m afraid it might snap off.
I’m about to pass it.
I tightly shut my eyes and wait for the explosion.
Suddenly, the car to my left honks. I open my eyes wide.
Shit! I’m about to hit the car!
I swerve back into my lane. I quickly look in my rear view mirror. The car on the shoulder is now a safe distance away. It looks like it had a flat tire.
I try reminding myself I’m not in Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m in LA. But my body can’t tell the difference. It’s on high alert now and I feel a sense of rage flood through me. I bang my steering wheel with frustration. Fuck this PTSD.
I take several deep breaths but it does nothing to calm me.
I’m so angry. Angry at a million different things all at once. I’m angry at the war and what it did to me. I’m angry at God for putting my son through so much pain and then robbing him of his life at such a young age.
I was the one who went to war. I should be the dead one, not my little boy.
I’m angry at life itself and how unfair it can be to some.
Then, a sense of guilt overwhelms me.
My anger slowly turns to regret.
I was a terrible father.
I should have spent more time with Max when he was alive.
Monique got pregnant right before I was shipped out on my first tour of Iraq. We were never a couple. We just had sex after a party one night and she got pregnant.
I was in the Middle East when Max was born. And when I came home between tours, I wasn’t very involved in either one of their lives. Honestly, I was a bit of a zombie. Acclimating to civilian life was
Similar Books
