VINDICATION (Feeding your Demons Series) P.R. Wolf Ch. 1 Rage
VINDICATION
(Feeding your Demons Series)



P.R. Wolf


Ch. 1 Rage demons/ war/ ptsd/ tbi/ soldier/ stories
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Captain Char King is brutally savaged by her CO while in Kandahar. She must come to terms with her demons while suspected of being a serial killer.

VINDICATION (Feeding your Demons Series) P.R. Wolf Ch. 1 Rage

1 RAGE 2011 I regained consciousness buried in brushwood and dirt by the side of the path. A relentless, ripped-inside kind of pain that did not bode well raged through me. gratefully. My dreams brought re-enactments and regrets of the twelve years in the CAF. Why didn’t I step up all those times I saw people, as well as our own, being bullied? Commanding Officers terrorizing cadets too intimidated to report them. Sure, as the only woman on the team I did have my own issues to deal with. But that’s no excuse. Port-au-Prince, during the earthquake effort in 2010. So much confusion amongst our own forces. Such an enormous disaster with no one clear what our orders were. All those deaths, more than a million people displaced. Over half of every structure damaged. Our soldiers sex-talking those poor women. Bartering with the food pallets that just sat at the airport while people starved. Belittling the locals even as they helped them. Were they part of those appalling rapes and degradations reported? How could anyone witness all that desperation and not want to sew hope rather than contempt? What demons reign within us during such horrific times? Over the four days it took for my body to get healthier I had lots of time to feed my fury about my attacker. I didn’t sign up for this. Bloody psycho. He’s a CO. Our ultimate authority in the field. The battles, the screams, the terror we all share when we fight the enemy. All that warmth, praise and encouragement. His voice, ‘You are a soldier! What kind of soldier you become is entirely up to you!’ Such bullshit. Not this time asshole, I’m going to fight back. Thoughts reverberated and crashed in my brain pulling me out of deep sleeps. My traitor mind looped to his ginger-blond crew cut, solemn grey eyes, lopsided grin meant just for me. The warmth of his lips, his touch that created radiant heat in my core, until his hands turned hard and punishing. What happened, what made you turn savage? Where did all that hate and rage come from? ‘You are nothing, you will always be nothing!’ Howling at me, kicking and punching my body over and over, bashing at my head until I passed out. Then covering me with brushwood and dirt, leaving me by the side of the path like garbage. You were insane. Our mission is to protect, defend, rebuild, and serve. I don’t speak up when I see so many of our own menacing the locals, and each other. I just keep my head down and do my work. I’m awake now. No more turning a blind eye. I see you Demons, feeding on the underbelly of our suffering. This is God’s wake up call to me. Well, I’m listening now. My savior spoke one of the Turkic languages, Uzbek or Turkmen. While in camp I picked up some essential phrases in the local dialects from the workers. Our shared music and laughter helped everyone forget the war for awhile. I made several attempts at communication in my poor Dari when Pashto, the main language of the area, went unacknowledged. Kandahar Province is only one of the thirty four provinces of Afghanistan, located in the southern part of the country next to Pakistan. My savior could be from Helmand in the west, Uruzgan in the north, or Zabul Province in the east. “I know you don’t understand me but I am so very grateful for your help. Thank you,” I said many times touching the woman’s gnarled hands. My obvious friendliness helped the strained relationship between us ease considerably. The surprise was that the woman seemed to live alone. My experience was that most women were invisible in this country, being closely guarded, or hidden completely by their menfolk. Perhaps her family had been killed in the war. The Taliban had spies and watchers everywhere. Their Red Units, the Taliban’s special forces, reported they had eighty-five percent of Helmand Province under their control. In that region the opium trade produced about ninety percent of the world’s opium which helped to fund the Taliban. Her accent seemed to be from that region. Maintaining a friendly silence, the woman cooked and changed my dressings diligently. Since the area was rife with terrorist cells, I noted gratefully that she made no effort to get outside help. Not only was it well known that few local doctors were medically trained, but anyone seeing me may have felt it necessary to out me to the Taliban. On the day I left the old woman said, “Yaxsi ovchilik,” and firmly closed the door behind me. I chuckled. Well, that probably means ‘see you never’! We may not have had a common spoken language, but there was no doubt the woman understood the ways of war. She knew how to stay out of trouble. It was a long haul back to camp. The Commander-in-Chief was relieved to find Captain Char King had not gone AWOL. Nope, still here. CO Major Wendall Bergman, you figured I would die. Not yet. I’m coming for you buddy. I owe you. I spent the next while recovering further from my beating. That was when the fun really started. Swamped in the fragrance of the feeding grounds, wallowing in pools of detritus, clothing itself with the red mists of the battlefield, the Demons achieved Substance. -- Pauline Wolf, CHHP, OMT Certified Colon Hydrotherapist http://pauline01.wordpress.com

'Oh God. Did he shoot me? Nope, maybe a few cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, concussion? Lots of blood, head wound. My knee, crap. I shouldn’t have fought so hard. But it’s not like I had a choice. He went berserk, punishing

me as if I were the enemy. Christ, all that time I crushed on that bastard.' Feeling myself fading again I fought to take more deep breaths. 'Still here. You haven't

killed me yet. If I can just get myself off this cold ground and find my way to that shack. I saw smoke in the chimney. Someone’s there. Owwww. Fucking, fucking war. Makes psychos out of would be heroes. '

Fighting unconsciousness I slowly forced myself towards where I thought the shack was. We had run along a faint path just outside the wire of Camp Nathan Smith, the base for Canada’s provincial reconstruction team in Kandahar.

The terrain was rugged and desolate. It was unlikely anyone would find me. Hot stabbing pains woke me, so cold that even shivering hurt. Hypothermia was setting in. I forced my breathing to slow and deep, trying to concentrate past the swirling torture that

was my chest. What’s the point when you can’t even trust your own? The warning signs were there. I ignored them. For you to go berserk like that, what set you off? Was it that demonic blapping of the Huey overhead? How did I let it happen?

‘Just a short morning run’, you said. I didn’t even take the time to grab my knives. That’s on me. Then to get a beating of such magnitude... Owww, owww, owww, fuuuuck!'

It was late afternoon when I woke next. It had been a long while since the beating. By now I was bleeding through many other scratches and tears acquired from dragging myself down the rocky path.

'How much blood have I lost? I’m weak, my skin’s cool. Class two hemorrhage is fifteen to thirty percent. My heart’s compensating. Beating faster to feed my body. That’s why I’m passing out so much. I’ve got to find that shack before nightfall. This has to be

my best attempt.' My jaw felt strangely awkward and my left arm screamed as I forced myself forward. The world faded. Wet lapping against my face and a high whining sound aroused me.

'So I made it. If this mutt doesn’t decide to eat me first. God, don’t let it be some Taliban sympathizer.' When the old woman hauled me up the steps I couldn’t speak, aware only of a thick numbness spreading throughout my body.

Some time later the sound of wood shifting and great heat woke me. Coughing and spitting I forced open my eyes. I was covered in sweat. Hot and barely able to swallow I gulped at the water being poured into my mouth.

“Endi sizning xavfsizligingizga ta’sir o’tkazmang,” came a soft murmur from the shadow leaning over me. A weathered old woman held a cup to my face while firmly restraining any motion. I settled back not understanding the language but I wasn’t going anywhere. My thoughts drifted.

'Christ! Typical. A member of the first Canadian battle group deployed to Kandahar Province, Operation Apollo, and the only injuries I get is from one of our own. God Damn it! Half a million people in Kandahar, but nope, I draw an

inside straight. Oh yeah, hilarious.' My chest and head were wrapped, I felt feverish but alive. The pain was manageable. My instincts were saying I could trust my savior. 'I’ll live,' I sighed gratefully.

My dreams brought re-enactments and regrets of the twelve years in the CAF. 'Why didn’t I step up all those times I saw people, as well as our own, being bullied? Commanding Officers terrorizing cadets too

intimidated to report them. Sure, as the only woman on the team I did have my own issues to deal with. But that’s no excuse. Port-au-Prince, during the earthquake effort in 2010. So much confusion amongst our own forces.

Such an enormous disaster with no one clear what our orders were. All those deaths, more than a million people displaced. Over half of every structure damaged. Our soldiers sex-talking those poor women.

Bartering with the food pallets that just sat at the airport, while people starved. Belittling the locals even as they helped them. Were they part of those appalling rapes and degradations reported?

How could anyone witness all that desperation and not want to sew hope rather than contempt? What demons reign within us during such horrific times?'

Over the four days it took for my body to get healthier I had lots of time to feed my fury about my attacker. 'I didn’t sign up for this. Bloody psycho. He’s a CO. Our ultimate authority in the field. The battles, the screams, the terror we all share when we

fight the enemy. All that warmth, praise and encouragement. His voice, ‘You are a soldier! What kind of soldier you become is entirely up to you!’ Such bullshit. Not this time asshole, I’m going to fight back.'

Thoughts reverberated and crashed in my brain pulling me out of deep sleeps. My traitor mind looped to his ginger-blond crew cut, solemn grey eyes, lopsided grin meant just for me.

The warmth of his lips, his touch that created radiant heat in my core, until his hands turned hard and punishing.

'What happened, what made you turn savage? Where did all that hate and rage come from? ‘You are nothing, you will always be nothing!’ Howling at me, kicking and punching my body over and over, bashing at my head until I passed out.

Then covering me with brushwood and dirt, leaving me by the side of the path like garbage. You were insane.' Our mission is to protect, defend, rebuild, and serve. I don’t speak up when I see so

many of our own menacing the locals, and each other. I just keep my head down and do my work. I’m awake now. No more turning a blind eye. I see you Demons, feeding on the underbelly of our suffering. This is God’s wake up call to me. Well, I’m listening now.'

My savior spoke one of the Turkic languages, Uzbek or Turkmen. While in camp I picked up some essential phrases in the local dialects from the workers. Our shared music and laughter helped everyone forget the war for awhile. I made several

attempts at communication in my poor Dari when Pashto, the main language of the area, went unacknowledged. Kandahar Province is only one of the thirty four provinces of Afghanistan, located in the southern part of the country next to Pakistan.

My savior could be from Helmand in the west, Uruzgan in the north, or Zabul Province in the east. “I know you don’t understand me but I am so very grateful for your help.

Thank you,”I said many times touching the woman’s gnarled hands. My obvious friendliness helped the strained relationship between us ease considerably. The surprise was that the woman seemed to live alone.

My experience was that most women were invisible in this country, being closely guarded, or hidden completely by their menfolk. Perhaps her family had been killed in the war.

The Taliban had spies and watchers everywhere. Their Red Units, the Taliban’s special forces, reported they had eighty-five percent of Helmand Province under their control. In that region the opium trade produced about ninety percent of the world’s opium which

helped to fund the Taliban. The woman's accent seemed to be from that region. Maintaining a friendly silence, my savior cooked and changed my dressings diligently.

Since the area was rife with terrorist cells, I noted gratefully that she made no effort to get outside help. Not only was it well known that few local doctors were medically trained, but anyone seeing me may have felt it necessary to out me to the Taliban.

On the day I left the old woman said, “Yaxsi ovchilik,” and firmly closed the door behind me. I chuckled. Well, that probably means ‘see you never!' We may not have had a common spoken language, but

there was no doubt the woman understood the ways of war. She knew how to stay out of trouble. It was a long haul back to camp. The Commander-in-Chief was relieved to find Captain Char King had not gone AWOL.

'Nope, still here. CO Major Wendall Bergman, you figured I would die. Not yet. I’m coming for you buddy. I owe you.' I spent the next while recovering further from my beating. Then the fun really started.

Swamped in the fragrance of the feeding grounds, wallowing in pools of detritus, clothing itself with the red mists of the battlefield, the Demons achieved Substance.

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