He heads out at dawn, the dry cool breeze of the Afghan desert brushes against his broken lips. He can’t see anything in the distance, but he knows something is coming. Something terrible.

There he is. William Martin. Sitting all alone, with no one by his side. Just sitting in the park, letting the wind roll past him, brushing the trees in the distance. It’s almost as if no one remembers what happened, but he remembers. He remembers it all. He was once a strapping young lad. So much hope ahead of him, he believed he could lead armies, and he almost did. But here he sits, empty, withered in a sea of helplessness. Tainted by the deathly grasp of PTSD.

He has been here all morning, just sitting in the park, staring blankly into the distance. It’s as if he is a ghost, a shadow of the man he once was. People have started to enter the park now as the sun rises in the distance, he no longer realizes its beauty. To his left he sees a runner race by, her dog quick behind her immediately responding with a sharp intake of breath and…-

There’s been a bomb threat in the center of town, the dogs streak by and I can tell, it’s not going to end good. It’s the third attack this week; the enemy is getting bolder, coming closer and closer, it’s only a matter of time before…

By the time he snaps back to reality, he’s already at home. He lives in solidarity now. He had a wife but she left him once his PTSD reigned control of his consciousness. She couldn’t cope with the constant flashbacks and eventually packed up and left. Unfortunately this only made Will worse. As he goes to get himself a mug for his coffee, the distinct clink of the cups once again took him to a place he didn’t want to be…

It was more than just a bomb threat, I knew something was wrong, deathly wrong...out on the battlefield he looks down and back at his brother in arms, realizing his first time in combat could very well be his last. He looks over to see a lieutenant pick out a grenade and pull the pin, the clinking sound of the steel casing being pulled from its top turned his body rigid with fear...

Will sits in his chair alone a sad scene to watch. He lives each day the same riddled with memories, a shell of his former self. Now resigned to the fact that he will never overcome the traumatization that  happened. Lost in thought, his power shuts off, symbolic he thinks to himself of his life today: his lights, fans even his radio. Seeing this he knows he must get up. With one large exasperated sigh he rumbles back to existence and steps up, as he does his waving arms swing to his side, hanging low and motionless. As he makes his way to the power box he looks over and under his small suburban house. He sees the sun setting in the distance, it’s going to be dark soon, but he must fix his power. He trudges out to the back of the house, he steps over the rocks and onto the path to his power box, he pulls and pulls but the box won’t budge, with one final yank he pulls the lid open. His legs slipping out from underneath him in the process; he falls helplessly onto his back. He wakes up 2 hours later, the only light coming from the full moon above, shining brightly into his eyes. He pulls himself up onto the edge of his power box, he feels the lump on his head, and is hit with a rush of moisture. He must have hit his head on the rocks, it’s the only way this could have happened, pulling his hand away, he looks and in that instant at the sight of his deep red blood, he’s gone, yet again…

-The fight has gone on all day. The spine curdling rattle of bullets hitting the ground, he almost thinks that he wasn’t made for this. Like he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He pushes through. With each shot a part of his soul splinters. He knows this isn’t right, but what other option does he have, only to fight for his country. As he shoots the last bullet of his clip, he puts his head close to the ground to hide from the constant fire of bullets. He looks to his side and sees his brother in arms; his best friend. They both look up to fire and Smithy is clipped with a round, 3 times to chest, he falls back to the ground limp. William rushes over, his friend; his brother - is laying on the ground. Dead. He lifts him up, close to his chest. As he does a single tear rolls down his cheek. He pulls his head in close to his chest and grips his head tight in his arms and kisses his forehead in a final effort of affection and sheer desperation…
He wakes up to my licking on his cheek, I can tell when he has flashbacks. He was in bed this time, it started when we were downstairs. I lead him around most days as his attacks are getting worse. People feel that it’s weird, the fact that a man who is not blind has a dog assisting him. They don’t know how much it helps though. He’s getting better, even the doctor can see it. I can see when he needs my help, and I give him all the help he needs. Bit by bit we are making small recoveries. People just assume that guide dogs are for people who cannot see, but we’re also for people who have seen too much. I help him to wake up and open up the house. He puts my harness on, gets dressed and we walk out the door, ready to survive another day: “With a new dawn comes a new day Jared” Will smiles, ruffling my head grateful for company.