Every night I dream the same dream. My brother-in-arms, Tyler, bleeding from a gaping hole in his chest after being shot, in my arms slowly bleeding to death on the Iraqi plains. Every morning when I wake up my shirt and arms are covered in blood. It’s like he was here again only to die again and again. This has been going on ever since I returned from Iraq. Every time I fall asleep it happens. It starts off as us returning fire on a bunch of opponents. Then Tyler gets shot. He falls down yelling my name. I run up to him, find the bullet hole on his stomach. I press on the wound to stop the bleeding when he yells “Harry, it’s okay, I’m not gonna make it, its ok, its ok.” Then I take him into my arms and hug him. By this point, his heart has stopped and medics are rushing to take him from me. I cry out his name one last time and then I wake up. Every time when I wake up from that horrid dream, blood is everywhere. Even when I moved to Chelsea, NY the same dream still haunts me.
Last week I flew to Arlington to visit his grave. I searched for hours before asking one of the guards. “And what is the name?” “Tyler Johnson.” “And you are?” “Harry Mitchell. We were in Iraq together.” “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one here with that name.” “Are you sure? Check again.” “There’s really no one here with that name, especially an Iraq veteran.” I thanked the guard and walked away. But he was here, his father told me. I pull out my phone to call his father. The number is invalid. Weird. I get a taxi to his house. I knock on the door. “Hello, do I know you?” asked the lady at the door. “Does Larry Johnson still live here?” “Honey, we built this house here 30 years ago. This was plot of sand before us.” “Thanks, wrong address.” I can’t believe it. Tyler was never real. The man who died in my arms in Iraq was never real. I start walking back to my hotel. Who the hell did I go on tours with then? I go back to the hotel and pack up my things. As I’m changing me shirt I notice something. A scar. On my chest. Two inches below the heart. Was I the one shot? But what about the blood?
On the plane back I fell asleep. The dream is different. Tyler’s still there. Sitting on a bench. “Who are you?” I call out. No answer. Tyler just smiles. “Who the hell are you?” “You.” He gets up and hits me hard on the face. He pulls out a knife and stabs me in the wrist. Then he shoots me.
I wake up to the plane landing and blood spilling out my chest slowly. People around me start to panic. I black out and wake up in a hospital. The light are shining brightly and burning my eyes. My brother’s there. “Harry, you’ve been shot. One of the enemy soldiers shot you.” I look around. I’m in a hospital. “You were flown here from Iraq. You were yelling and they had to sedate you. You hit your head on the plane. Do you remember any of it?” “No.” “Do you remember me?” “Yes. You’re Trevor. My brother.” “Do you remember your middle name?” “Tyler.” “Your last name?” “Johnson. I think.” “Good. Wait, who stabbed you in the wrist? You weren’t stabbed when you came here?” I look at my hand. A stab wound on the wrist. Fresh. Still bleeding. On the same spot where Tyler stabbed me.