Silence. Yes, it was quiet, no matter the blaring engine of the huge military-provided airplane or the air whipping against it. There was no such thing as sound at that moment, and nothing could convince young Samuel Trumbull otherwise.
There were but three things on his mind: his long-last freedom, the surrealism of his aliveness, and his family.
His family.
The same family of his that had may or may not have waited almost a year for him, for this very day. That same daughter of his who may or may not have remembered who he was. That same wife of his who may or may not have moved on by now.
That’s right, they didn’t think he was ever coming home; the military sought no reason to do anything in their power to keep him alive, and so they had generously gone ahead and informed them of his ‘death’ ahead of time. They didn’t know that he’d heal. He didn’t know that he’d heal.
Of course, all of his good luck came with consequence. He shook real hard, maybe you could even call it convulsing. Sometimes he blacked out; was out cold for hours on end, somewhat resemblant of narcolepsy. He barely got any sleep anymore when he wanted it, either. He had the everlasting feeling of needing to be sick from the moment he laid down to the moment he stood up. Even if he could finally rest without wanting to puke... he still couldn’t sleep.
He wasn’t the same person that he was before coming here.
He was hardened. He wasn’t the polite, quiet, gentlemanly 27-year-old that he was before. He was tough now, or at least in some respects. He looked it, too. His eyes were as cold as ice and he rarely looked people in their own anymore.
He was always paranoid. Jumpy. He needed to defend himself- to know that he wouldn’t be killed. He listened. He made sure that he couldn’t hear anything, and that’s why he never slept. Because his mind was always telling him that there was an enemy approaching, but he’d get up and there never was.
His wife would, without a doubt, notice his gruff yet vulnerable demeanor, he was sure of it. His daughter would never be able to meet the real Samuel Trumbull. The non-robotic and heartfelt Sam who was full of life. He doubted she’d even remember him in her whole three-and-a-half years of life.
He was nervous. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold his tears back if his wife didn’t love him anymore. His heart would break if his daughter didn’t know who her daddy was.
XXX
Within an instant, it seemed the military-provided plane ride was over. He was thinking too much to realize that the minutes of the eight-hour ride were passing at the speed of sound. Absentmindedly, he gathered his few belongings and called to the nearest taxi. He never thought he’d be as glad as he was to be back in boring Pennsylvania. Did he even remember where he lived?
Of course he did. His home wasn’t very far from the airport, it’d be a twenty-minute walk at most. It was a pretty weird sight- an aloof man in a military suit with a bag of who-knows-what walking down the street by his lonesome.
It passed right over his head as the sight of his cozy, one-story home came into view. It looked way more comfortable than the most luxurious tent in camp, and he couldn’t wait to step foot into it. He reached the door, almost running out of anticipation.
He paused.
Was he really ready for this? He didn’t even know what he was going to say. “Surprise! Your husband rose from the dead and he’s back from the war!” Would he hurt her? Would he see the same look in her eyes that were in his eyes when he was close to death? Those longing, forlorn, hollow eyes that were missing something? He took a deep breath and rung the doorbell.
It opened just a crack; he felt sick. There was obviously a lock on the door, and he could see the chain in the small opening. More importantly, he saw the beautiful, green cat-like eye of his one and only true love peeking through. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt more alive than he had in a very long time.
The eye looked worn out at first, then it closed for a long time, and when it opened again it was wide and round. She slammed the door and he heard the jingling of the lock being taken off.
Before he could explain himself after she opened it, long brunette hair flew out of the door in a frenzy and she wrapped herself around him silently. He could feel her sobs, and it took him a moment to realize that she was hurt by his absence. He rubbed her back reassuringly, a few tears escaping from himself in the process.
When he opened his eyes, still in the hold of his darling, he saw the most gorgeous little pigtailed girl standing in the doorway, confused as ever.
“Mommy? Who’s that man? Is he hurtin’ you?” She defensively spat, her father’s courage clear in her voice.
He, without thinking, pulled away from his wife and crouched to the girl’s level. He stared at her for a minute, breathless, as she stared back at him with a rude look on her face.
“I’m your dad, Danielle. Remember me?” He realized there was no way of making it sound any more simpler as he finished. He expected some amnesia at first, of course, but he kept his hopes high that she’d come around.
The little one had changed; she had grown out her light brown locks and her icy blue eyes were wide with untouched pureness and the innocence of a thousand puppies. Not to mention she was the spitting image of himself.
She looked at him for what seemed like hours, staring hard at him, and he could tell that something was stirring behind her eyes. He smiled warily at her, he wasn’t too good at smiling anymore, and his wife watched.
It had only been a year. Then again, that probably seemed like an eternity to a three-year-old. Breaking him out of his thoughts, the girl suddenly jumped onto him, mimicking her mother’s previous actions. Both girls were crying at that point.
“Daddy, you missed my birthday. I’m three years old, I’m a big girl now, but you were gone and you didn’t see me turn three. Where were you?” She wailed into his shoulder, and he immediately came to the conclusion that her mother had never told her about him or his whereabouts.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, tearing up, “I’m so sorry.”
The two stayed like that for as long as he could remember, and he was finally free of having to kill, having to listen to orders, having to be afraid. He was free.
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