Abuse: The Complete Trilogy Read Online Free Page A

reconsidered
this aggressive attitude when, at sixteen years old, Eli Matthews unexpectedly
attacked me from behind with a baseball bat, putting me in the hospital with a
well-deserved case of concussion.
    Matthews did me a
favor. Until then, I don’t think I was aware of what a scary asshole I was to
my more emotionally stable classmates.
    The main thing is
that no man gets to the position I held in the Army without working out his
testosterone issues. A sniper prone to pissing contests is a really bad idea. Back
then, a baseball bat to the head was just what I needed. It knocked some sense
into me.
    “Grant
Wilkinson,” he says cheerfully, in a melodic voice that is thick with a French
accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am André Chevalier. Please come with
me, where we sit privately and be comfortable.”
    “OK,” I say.
    The guy walks
with self-assurance. Is he a boxer? Perhaps he’s experienced in martial arts?
He absolutely oozes top dog, alpha male confidence.
    I can still take
him, I reassure myself.
    Damned if I know
why that’s important to me, but it is.
    The counselor’s
clothes are pure style; he’s dressed in casual elegance—better than one of my
father’s buddies. Like a US Senator or the CEO of some big company. Silk suit
for sure. Those garments certainly weren’t bought off the rack.
    I follow him to a
booth where we have an incredible view of the night sky and the Las Vegas strip
below. It’s intimate and it feels somewhat sensual, kind of like a date. Why
the hell did he meet me here?
    André and I sit
down across from each other. I have the view. Usually I try to sit in a corner
so people don’t have to see my scars. The way the lounge is set up, the
counselor’s just going to have to deal.
    “You have been
here before?” he asks.
    “No.”
    He grins. “ Trés
bien. I thought you may like it.” He turns and gazes out at the
night-lights of Vegas . “Quelle belle vue. What a beautiful view. It is
pretty, no?”
    “Sure.” The
outlook over the city is amazing.
    I know “ trés bien” is French for very good. It’s similar to the Spanish, ¡Muy bien! Thanks to Maria, the mothering Mexican housekeeper I had as I grew up, I’m
fluent in Spanish. When I have a suntan, I easily pass as Mexican.
    This hot shot
place isn’t busy at the moment. I suspect it’s too early in the evening for
partygoers, but will heat up later.
    A pert redhead
with a great rack and a top that reveals a significant amount of cleavage,
brings us menus. “Can I get you gentleman anything?” she inquires.
    “For me, mademoiselle, I will have whisky, I think,” André says. “For you my friend?”
    “Whisky sounds
about right for me, too.”
    When he orders a
bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch, I raise my eyebrows.
    “It is a
celebration,” he explains.
    This is a weird
way to meet my therapist—not that I’ve met any therapists before now. Why I’m
not in some ritzy office is anybody’s guess.
    “ Mon ami ,”
André says. “You have left the Armed Forces, yes?”
    “Yes,” I say and
I steel myself for what comes next.
    “Thank you for
your service” is usually the subsequent comment. It’s nice sentiment with good
intentions, I guess. When they thank me, I always answer, “You’re welcome.” But
that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation.
    I mean, where can
I go from there?
    When a soldier
first returns to the States, they feel isolated and out of place. They don’t
know how to talk to people or even what to talk about. They feel uncomfortable
around noncombatants and I was no exception.
    It would be good
if the civilian population made up for the deficit. ‘Thank you for your
service,’ goes nowhere toward a real exchange of dialogue. From my experience,
people don’t know how to talk to a newly returned soldier. But who can blame
them? What can they talk about?
    Sometimes people
get up the nerve and ask if I killed anyone. Unfortunately, that’s also a
conversation