A Cold Barrel Kiss
“The Nephilim were on the earth in those days… When the sons of God went in to the daughters of men.” — Genesis 6:4
“So the Lord said, ‘I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the land…’” — Genesis 6:7
“For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into hell… — 2 Peter 2:4-5
Marcus set his M16 and ammo on the bunk with the familiarity of habit, barrel angled toward the distant enemy line. He shrugged off his gear one piece at a time: his helmet and vest. His hands still smelled like gunpowder and desert sand. His ears still rang with the echoes of shouts, gunfire, and explosions.
He dug into the side pocket of his ruck, found his CD Walkman, and thumbed the dusty lid open. Fine sand covered everything. The silver of the R.E.M. compact disc flashed in the dim light. He placed it inside, blowing as he did to clear the dust there too. He snapped the lid closed, pulled on his foam-padded headphones to shut everything out, and opened the mail stacked on his bunk from weeks of running missions.
The current hit song played in his ears: Oh, life… it’s bigger…
He sank onto his space, leaning against his rolled up sleeping bag, the canvas bed groaning under his weight, and began sorting the stack of accumulated mail.
He lay back and read a letter from his wife. She wrote of love and celebration upon his return home, as well as an intensely needed, lustful reunion. After finishing with a kiss, he noticed the next envelope felt different. Heavier.
Sara had written the address in a cold, formal handwriting on the outside.
Instinctively, his body began to shift to autopilot. Something inside braced for impact. He sat up, moving his weapon off his lap onto the floor, barrel up leaning against his legs.
The music played on in his ears. I thought that I heard you laughing…
He slid his thumb under the letter flap and tore it open.
The thick packet inside felt wrong. Not pages of love and family news, too stiff and too cold and dust-free. His stomach dipped before his brain caught up. He unfolded the top page and saw the first line.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Everything else smeared.
The words dissolved into black rivers running into each other. His eyes stung, but nothing fell. His right hand tightened on the rifle grip until his knuckles whitened. He became aware of the weight of it, the way the barrel angled toward the top of the brown tent, the way a tiny flick of his thumb could flip the safety off.
It was the same feeling as when a child loses interest in a video game and presses the power button with indifference.
Left hand: divorce papers.
Right hand: loaded weapon.
Losing my religion poured straight into his skull.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. Long enough for the song to roll into the chorus again. Long enough for his face to reflect the intent.
“Corporal?”
The voice cut through the music like a snapped cable. Marcus didn’t look up right away. He knew that voice. Sgt Henson -his squad leader.
“Corporal Rourke.” It fell perfectly between lyrics.
Marcus dragged his gaze up. Sgt. Henson stood a few feet away, with a look of concern and unease.
“Let me see your weapon,” he called out. Not a bark. Not a command. Just… softer than usual.
Marcus remained motionless.
The music continued in his ears. That’s me in the corner…
He handed it over without really deciding to.
Sgt. Henson took it, flipped it sideways, cleared the chamber in three professional motions, then slung it over his own shoulder. The movement was smooth and casual, but the way his eyes stayed locked on Marcus’s face ruined the illusion.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
Marcus glanced down at the papers in his lap. He handed the divorce papers to him without a word.
His gaze flicked to the header on the page, then back. This was bad news in a traumatic situation. He didn’t whistle or swear. War was horrific enough, but what soldiers feared most was bad news from home. For some, it’s the very fuel for their service.
“Damn,” he whispered. Trying to contain the emotional upheaval about to break loose.
Something in Marcus began to focus.
“Who does that?” Marcus said. He could hear the edge in his own voice, raw and too loud inside his head. “Couldn’t wait till I got home. Had to tell me here, while I’m still… while I’m here?”
His breath stopped. He shook his head, a dry, humorless laugh escaping. Tears streamed down his face, cutting through the grime on his cheeks and turning into muddy rivers of trauma.
Sgt. Henson shifted his stance, handing the papers back. “You’re not the first to go through this. It happens sometimes.”
Marcus stared past him at the tent wall. “Yeah, I’m done.”
The words surprised him. They came out flat and as cold as the dessert nights had been.
“Done?”
Marcus pulled the headphones off. Looking at Sgt. Henson.
He looked at his empty right hand, at the space where the rifle had been, then at the divorce papers. “I’m just… done. With this. With all of it. Give me back my weapon.”
“No.” It wasn’t loud, but it was firm. He then called out to one of the other squad members, who was watching in horror. “Go get First Sergeant Glenn.”
Henson stepped closer. “Just wait,” he said. “We got help coming.”
“Fuck your help,” Marcus grumbled
“Corporal Marcus Rourke,” Henson’s jaw worked. “Hold your military bearing!”
The directness hit harder than any gentle words could have.
Marcus’s shoulders sagged. Years of military training began to wobble. Then, very quietly: “I don’t care anymore, I just wanna die. I’m tired.”
Henson nodded once, as Marcus had just confirmed something he already suspected. “I know, buddy. I know.”
The next days blurred into fluorescent lights, locked doors, and bouts of awareness through medicated eyes.
The Army mental health ward in Germany smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee. The windows were thick and didn’t open. Group therapy meant a circle of plastic chairs and a whiteboard on which someone had halfheartedly written 'COPING SKILLS'.
Some were combat vets. Some had never served in combat. Some cried. Some stared at the floor. Marcus sat with his hands folded, speaking only when it was his turn.
Marcus had wanted to scream, No one really cares. Instead, he just sat.
He did the bare minimum, saying only what was necessary to achieve the goal of being released from the hospital ward. The new mission: Get out, get home.
The Army machine moved faster when it wanted someone gone. One morning, they handed him orders stamped RETURN TO CONUS and a checklist for out-processing.
Finally, a flight to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, de-briefings, signatures, and medical evaluations slapped together like a shitty sandwich. He was medically cleared, mentally “stabilized” for re-entry into American society.
Seven days later, he walked out the gate with a duffel bag, a plastic bag of VA prescriptions, and a manila envelope that said his time in uniform was complete.
“Marcus!”
The voice came from a beat-up pickup truck idling at the curb. His cousin Eric leaned out the window, grinning.
“Get your sorry ass in the truck before they change their mind,” Eric hollered. “You know the Army loses paperwork.”
Marcus grabbed his bags. “Thanks for gettin me cuz.”
Marcus tossed his duffel in the back and climbed in. The seat springs squeaked; the cab smelled like fast food and coffee as they drove into the twilight.
“You look like shit,” Eric said cheerfully, pulling away from the curb. He had no idea what had happened, only divorce and a return from overseas in the Army. “How you feeling, man? You alright?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “I’m just tired from everything. Stop by the store, I wanna grab some beer and sleep for about a month.”
Eric kept up a steady stream of commentary about the traffic, about some girl at the gas station who’d stared at him like he was a leper because he still paid with cash, about how North Carolina humidity felt like walking through soup.
Marcus mostly listened. Let the noise wash over him. Now and then, he chimed in with a dry comment that made Eric snort.
By the time they pulled up in front of the small house that was technically Marcus’s but didn’t feel like anything yet, the sun was low, and the sky was that bruised purple.
“I stocked the fridge a little for ya,” Eric said, helping haul the duffel to the porch. “But be prepared. She emptied the house.”
“Thank you, Eric. I appreciate it,” Marcus said. The words felt inadequate.
Eric clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, cuz, I’m sorry what happened to you with Sara. That was just wrong, dude. Are you sure you don’t wanna just stay with me? Or I could stay? We can do board games or something.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ve been sleeping in the desert on Army cots. I’m good. I need some time alone. I hadn’t had that in a long time.”
Ok. Well, I’m bringing a TV tomorrow since she took it. Call me later if the walls start talking. Or if you run out of beer. I respond to either emergency.”
And just like that, he was gone, taillights disappearing down the street, leaving quiet in his wake.
The house creaked as if it were getting used to him again. Marcus wandered through the rooms, each one now filled only with the echo of his life with Sara.
He sat in the living room on the floor, the only sound the occasional hiss as he cracked a new can. On the kitchen counter, a white paper bag with the VA logo sat.
He grabbed the bag and emptied it onto the floor in front of him. Orange bottles rolled and bumped against each other.
Sertraline. Bupropion. Lithium. Something for sleep. Something “as needed” for panic. His name was printed on every label in black block letters, like a reminder. This is you. This is who you are now.
He left them lying on the floor as he began to collect his photos and letters from Sara. Calmly going through the house, he collected everything with her essence, anything that was a reminder of her, she had left behind, and went outside.
It was a miniature campfire in his driveway, and with enough gasoline, anything will burn. He watched pictures of her face melt in the heat and felt an unexpected surge of disgust at her twisted, dark form, becoming demonic before turning to ash and embers. One beer followed another until they lay crushed and scattered around him. Grabbing one of the last, he staggered back inside the empty semi-dark house smelling of campfire, beer, and suicidal intention.
The house was a loud reminder of a young love shared with Sara.
He needed a cup, and while fumbling blindly in the kitchen cabinet, he found a cheap, white cereal bowl instead. Sara must have missed it in her haste to empty everything.
He carried the bowl back to the living room.
You don’t find a love like that twice. He told himself. I can be done.
The alcohol was hitting him hard, but he maintained enough semi-controlled landing with a quiet, careful thud. He lay there for a long moment, the room swaying slightly as he stared at the ceiling through drunk haze.
Sitting up reached out and, with clumsy effort, picked up the bottles. He focused on the mechanical motion of removing the caps, then poured the contents of the prescription bottles into the bowl. They clinked softly, a sound echoing in the empty house. He lifted the bowl with his right hand, feeling its cold weight. His left hand open and hopeless beside him. A distant, slurred, deadly thought reemerged. The medicine looked harmless and clean, a quiet, controlled end to a life consumed by ugliness and chaos.
Just Marcus alone on the floor of an empty house, the memory of music, Losing My Religion still playing in his head, and a bowl full of silence between him and the power button.
