01 Feb My Organization Takes Care of Everything Paranormal Trauma
Although this story did start in Siberia, my story started the moment that helicopter picked us up from the godforsaken West Texas clearing. I have mentioned before how I struggle with mental demons, and perhaps even that they were due to this moment. The more medically, or more accurately psychologically astute among you may have gathered as much from the flashbacks, from what they contained and what triggered them. PTSD is not an easy thing to get into any modern military with, primarily due to the fact that if you are already scrambled before you get in, they don’t want to pay the costs, both financially and morally, of bringing you back as an intellectual vegetable. So, it was all the more difficult for me to try and join up at the age of 17.
The helicopter’s interior lights were dim enough that from a distance, you would never have been able to see it’s occupants.
The days after our hasty evacuation were a blur to me. I felt so much that the best I could do was close myself off. Totally and completely isolate myself the rest of the world. It was not an easy existence, and it was incredibly painful even so, however it kept me from going over the edge. The guilt I felt from running told me that could never be a good person because of my past actions. Some I even lied to myself to make the pain go away, forget things that I would rather not remember, making myself the victim in all of it. In was in this tortured existence that I looked for an out. Something to make me feel better. Usually, it was a girlfriend. I make a relationship last maybe a few months before being crushed, again and again until I finally told myself it was no longer worth looking. Until I met Lana, I still firmly held that belief. T
The only person that I felt like I could truly count on then was my sister. Although I didn’t know it then, I also had a force of nature watching over me: Robert “Bob” Sullivan.
She was only 10 when it all went down, and after that she didn’t speak for two years. She was placed in a special school afterwards for three years, mainly to cope with the fact that she refused to speak to anyone. At least, that’s what everyone else though. She did talk, and often, but only when we were alone. Even a therapist they brought in to try and counsel us together was able to do nothing. I wasn’t trying to help the counselor, however. I blame myself for that too. For thinking that she could handle it. She was just a kid, I shouldn’t have trusted her with that, with taking care of herself.
We bounced around for the next two years, the foster system giving us all it could to take care of us, but after everything that had happened, there was no quick and easy. Most of the people we lived with understood that. One much more than most, because with them I lost the rest of my known living family.
The foster family was nice, and it surely wasn’t their fault, or at least not their intention to cause her any pain. No, she did it because of what happened before. She knew she would never see her parents again. Even if I was there, I was not enough. I know because I tried, for six months after it all I did my best to take care of her, but she rejected my efforts like a body rejects a poor organ donor match. She drove me away, said some things that I never want to hear of think about again. I am now, but I feel like writing them would somehow make it all worse.
Well, over these few paragraphs, the anticipation must be killing those of you who have seen this coming. I’m not using it as a tool to build anticipation, that would disrespectful. It has just taken me some time to prepare myself to say it again. I think I’m ready now, as ready as I’ll ever be.
My sister killed herself at age 11. She was found hanging in a closet the day before the first birthday she shared with a foster family. The cake was all set days before, in fact the mother baked it herself. She was a great cook. I walked into her room on her birthday morning to fetch her for breakfast. The house was furnished very sparsely, decorated in a very modern way, little in the form of decoration but a few meaningful artifacts from long ago. The same was true in our rooms. I pushed open the door, and there she was. Hanging from the ceiling fan, a rope tied in a proper noose around her neck. Even the dining room had so little in it that if any guests had missed the expensive luxury cars our front,they would have wondered if the homeowners were simply too poor to afford it. I pushed the door open, and inside I saw her standing there, the only thought that went through my head was “I am alone.” She had done some things that I am grateful for. She had covered her head with a black hood, I assume to spare us the sight of her face. For her age, she was very considerate.
For a while, I just stood there. Just stared. I had to come to terms with the fact that it was real. That in this world I was alone. After my prolonged absence, the father came to check on me. He saw what happened, and after his own bout of sitting and staring, walked slowly back to the kitchen to call 911 on their home phone. He was a tall man, gaunt, with a thin body, despite the fact that he could bench press well over 200 pounds. He had brown hair and eyes, and was the kind of guy that knew how to do everything DIY, and would help you learn regardless of the circumstances. Always eager to help. He built his wealth on a contracting business, and after his first wife divorced him he remarried to the mother.
Where his first wife was all looks and no heart, she was the exact opposite. Short and, let’s not mince words here, fat, with shoulder length blond hair and a pudgy face. Not the prettiest thing to look at, but she had, as they say, a heart of gold. When she heard him make the call, she rushed to me, standing there still. She tried to comfort me, and for her sake I partook in the actions, meaningless as they were to me. After all. What would it matter? I was thinking then “Maybe i should end myself. Then i might be able to be with them, in whatever follows death.” But, then something rose inside of me. A fire which burnt and raged from my chest, spreading throughout my entire body. I immediately scolded myself. I had to keep going. I had to keep living. For my family. For everybody that helped us. The words of Agent Sullivan, telling me to live, echoed in my head. Every time my sister had smiled at me when we were alone together, every word she said to me rang in my mind. “Live”, the fire said. In my head, i told myself “You have to live. You have to keep going. If for no other reason than to keep your bloodline alive. To remember them.” Images of my father and I, working around our house. Snapshots of my mother making dinner, it was always simple but delicious. Then the night it all ended. Rage filled me. An undying hatred for that thing. I knew it was out there, waiting for me to return. It knew I would. I’m sure it thought that it would finish the job. It was wrong. I had secluded myself in my room, laying down on my bed like a plank.
It had been thirty minutes, and the police had brought an ambulance to take her away. I stood as i heard the gurney being wheeled in, and opened my door to watch her leave. I would see her again at the funeral, but I had to tell her what I would do now.
I walked down the hallway and turned into her room. The paramedics had already placed her in a bodybag. And transferred her onto the gurney. Upon my entrance, one looked up at me from the lowered gurney. He slapped the other on the shoulder, and he also looked up.
The first one asked quietly “You the brother?” I replied with a nod. They looked at each other for a moment before standing up in unison, the second saying “We’ll be right back, just need to get something ready in the ambulance.” I was staring at the bag that contained her body. They waited a second for me to respond, and when I nodded they walked around me and left the room, as unobtrusively as possible. I took the few steps over to the gurney, then knelt down to her side. I tried to speak, but in my throat something caught. I couldn’t speak. I felt it coming, but it still hit me hard. A flood of emotions washed over me, pain and sorrow venting out of my heart and flowing into the rest of my body. I gasped for air as sobs quietly wracked my body. The tears flowed freely, and although I wanted it to stop, I realized that this was necessary. Through the tears, I hysterically told her “I’m sorry that we weren’t enough to replace them, but who could?” I cried silently for a moment, then said “Don’t worry, Lauren. I will make sure that that thing can never hurt anyone again. I’m going to kill it.”More tears, but they were beginning to slow. My previous hysteria was gone entirely from my voice when I said “I can’t bring you back. I can’t bring them back. But, I sure as hell am going to make that thing pay for what it did to us.”
Then I sat there for a moment, tears drying on my face, which had contorted itself into a mask of anger, hatred, and vengeance in a twisted show of morality. I heard the paramedics enter the house again, and that was my cue to leave.
In the following months, I was full of many things, but also empty of others. Rage boiled my blood and hatred engulfed my soul, but deep inside the very thing I craved was not revenge. Although that was a large part of it, and eventually did amount to something, revenge is not what I wanted. I wanted my family back. I wanted it to go back to the way it was before. But even I in my stupor of angst fueled burning rage could see that they were never coming back. I tried everything, but that pain would never go away.
The day I turned 18, I tried to get into the army. However, based on my previous psychological counseling, they rejected me. I was devastated. So, I did everything I could to prepare, remembering those words “You’ll know when you’re ready.”. So, after two years of living comfortably on my own, hard nights spent alone in the wilderness with nothing but a gun and my wits, and a hell of a lot of thinking, I came to the epic realization of what he truly meant by “You will know.”
I was sitting in a tree. Well, sitting is kind of a strange term, because if I told you I was laying down in a tree, you may not quite understand without also knowing that I was in a sleeping bag, which was suspended by ropes in between the branches. I had been staring out at the stars, contemplating that phrase. “What is ready?” I asked myself. I raised my arm towards the stars, flexing my well-toned arm as I formed my hand into a fist. “Is it combat preparedness?”. I opened my hand, relaxing my arm as I whispered out loud “No, it can’t be that. How could he hope for me to get that far on my own?”
Then, it clicked. My eyes opened wide, and my face fell neutral. At least, neutral is how it felt. You see, after a long time of being naturally angry, you start to develop a case of what the kids call “resting bitch face”, or RBF for short. My “RBF” makes me unapproachable most of the time. Even when the expression i feel is a smile, i could very well appear to be irritated to the people around me. So, maybe if someone was watching, they may have noticed me being slightly less irritated than I was before.
He had not been talking about my body or my skills. He meant mentally. I had been so screwed up then that he knew I would have been incapable of being trained properly. Not to mention the fact that I was just a kid. Even now, I still question whether I am ready, but in that moment, I decided I was ready.
I opened my phone, dialing the number on a business card long neglected, but not forgotten. It took a few tries, as signal was pretty bad, but I figured out that if I climbed up on the tree, I would get enough to place the call. It rang twice, then was picked up by a familiar voice. He said, without hesitation, without even asking who I was, “So, You’re ready?”
From that night on, my life changed. I no longer dedicated myself to vengeance, but to a higher goal: to ensure that I would be there, like Bob was for me. I would save every life I could. I would protect humanity, with my life if need be. A few days later, I met an agent of the organization in a local airport, where a private jet took me directly to the training course that made me a soldier. From there, things grew exponentially, to where I am now. I stand (figuratively, of course) before you. Trained well, Motivated well, and as experienced as any agent in the org.
Well, that’s all for now, but look for the next and final part soon. Baba Yaga’s story is coming to a close, and I have a feeling you guys will like (or hate) the twist that is coming.