From Night On: Sacred Grounds

Chapters 17-18

Chapter 17:

Local Hospitality

As soon as Lucifer was gone, the flies returned to their swarming as the others rushed to pull Mike to his feet and flee the cavern. Terry rushed ahead, leaving Shei and Mike wondering where he was going, but, once they reached the entrance, they knew what was so important to him. The man who had been impaled to the ground was gone.

Nearly two hours passed as they waited for him to return. The two of them moved far from the stench of rotting flesh, drawing arrows in the dirt along their way, so Terry could follow and find them. "What do you think is taking him so long?" Shei asked.

"Well," Mike answered, not worried at all, "knowing my son, he's probably there with the man, explaining to doctors where he was found, how he was found, and sticking by the guy's side until he knows he's stable."

Shei looked at him and gave a soft, short chuckle. "You really are good people, aren't you?" she asked rhetorically.

Mike laughed at her disbelief. "No," he answered sarcastically, "we're the biggest assholes you'll ever meet."

"Obviously," Shei laughed. "I'm sorry," she said after a quiet moment of reflection. "It's just so hard for me to accept that. I mean, white people have been screwing us over for generations. What am I supposed to believe?" she asked, betraying her own emotions.

With a quick glance to her, Mike knew that she was in an internal conflict. "It sounds like you've had some personal experiences with this," he said. Shei's eyes shifted from gazing toward the horizon to down to the ground as some memories flashed through her mind."It's okay," Mike continued. "I'll tell you what I heard someone say to a veteran who was suffering from PTSD: 'You're having a very normal reaction to some abnormal situations.'"

Shei furrowed her brow and looked at Mike suspiciously. "How can you relate this to PTSD?" she asked. "I wasn't beaten. I didn't see my people get murdered. I haven't seen anything so horrible that I would consider this PTSD."

"That's not the only way that works," Mike said as he searched his memory for the talk he had been present for. "What he called it...."

"Who?" Shei asked softly.

"I don't remember the guy's name," Mike answered, "but what I think he called it was 'compounded trauma.' Wait, no, it was 'complex trauma.' It's a whole bunch of smaller instances: stories passed down, minor struggles and trespasses that stack up over time, just repeated garbage without time in between to heal or process. It creates a knee-jerk reaction of paranoia, fear, anxiety, or whatnot to similar situations that remind us of the past, and you and your people have a long past to draw from, so I don't blame you for needing time or for never feeling comfortable. I don't like that it happened," he said with an obvious sadness in his voice. "I don't like that it's still happening, which is why my son and I are trying to make a difference, but, until those fences are mended, I have to accept the damages as what they are and take responsibility."

"What were you doing at a talk about PTSD?" Shei asked, already knowing the answer.

"I served in Vietnam," he replied with a heavy heart. "You see, back then, we were told not to talk about anything, which was a horrible bit of advice. They still try to push that bullshit on returning troops and then wonder why the suicide rate is so high. That being said, tell me a little of your experiences. When someone says, 'white man,' what's the first thought that goes through your head?"

Like a home video, she remembered her childhood in clips and moments with her and her mother. They struggled to make ends meet and, if it wasn't for the support of her tribe, they wouldn't have survived. "I guess," she began, "I'm angry at my father."