PTSD

"You can't possibly trying to forget everything by getting drunk, can you?"

- Nein Auler

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Among all the phases of his life, the young man felt that this was the lowest phase for him.

He didn't know if he should be grateful of his life or to curse it. Grateful for still breathing, cursing for not having anyone else to lean on. Jet had sacrificed his life to protect him. Therefore, as a reminder of his respectable senior, he chose to stay alive. But at the same time, everything has became more bitter because his other comrade, Wolfran, left him alone. "Well, how lucky he is, to have a wife and children to go to," murmured Free. Of course, if one could imagine, his blonde friend must be having fun chatting with his family, while Free himself is still stuck in a misery.

That bastard, he thought.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Free kept returning to the same bar. Sipping cups of liquors he didn't event count how much. He hoped that, like before the war waged, the liquor would heal him from the mental wounds he had suffered.

Strangely enough, no matter how many days he passed on, or what kind of liquor he drank, the pain just don't want to heal. Before he realized it, all of his money had run out and he couldn't buy any liquor anymore.

Where did it go wrong?

I've been drinking co much I don't even get drunk anymore!

What are you doing to me, mighty God?

Why are You destroying my life?

Why don't You let me heal, or at least die on the battlefield?!

The thought continued to rage in his mind. Free felt that he was no longer able to hold it all, until he felt something wet dropped from his eyes. "Tears?" he asked himself. "Shit I shouldn't cry here."

Crying is not so manly, that's what crossed his mind. He thought that crying was not the right thing to do to reduce his sadness. Free preferred to go berserk and destroy whatever he saw rather than cry.

Without realizing it, that kind of thought had made the young man's life even more catastrophic.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There wasn't much in the following day that changed from Free's previous routine: get drunk, sleep, get drunk again, go back to sleep - at least trying to go as close as sleeping because after the war he never actually had a quality slept. Free only eat once a day, and even with a little amount of it. He didn't care much about his digestive system, although recently his stomach repeatedly rumble because its owner didn't pay much attention to it. Only when he felt that his body began to seriously become ill did the young man return to his normal routine with enough food to eat and reduce his drinking habit. God knows what he did when he finally recovered.

At least Free was lucky enough to find a job which made him earned a fair amount of money. Renting a house or even an apartment can not be covered by the money he got, but his priority is to drank his medicine (i.e., alcohol). He could rest anywhere and he was satisfied with that.

Speaking of the unhealthy lifestyle he ran, Free was starting to feel its fatal effects at that time. His body became thinner, his eyes sunken, skin as pale as white can be, and there was absolutely no sign of happiness on his face. The young man was well aware of the change on his body, but did not give a damn about it. For him, being healthly or not, it's not going to make any difference for his bitter past is still there up to that day. Everything that happened in the war was too painful he felt that there was nothing he could consider as heroic deed at that time. No, not even on his side.