Sweet Hatred
Chapter 132: the end (II)

Chapter 132: the end (II)

The next few hours were a blur. A doctor gave me words that meant nothing. A soldier came to deliver Ivan’s tags. I don’t remember taking them, but when I opened my palm, they were there. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

He was supposed to be here. Complaining about the food. Smirking through a busted lip. Telling me I worried too much.

He wasn’t supposed to be reduced to metal and silence.

They told me I was lucky to survive.

I didn’t feel lucky. I didn’t feel anything.

The first few weeks after the surgery were spent in a blur of painkillers, tubes, and therapists trying too hard. I couldn’t walk. Could barely sit up. I stared at the ceiling until I started seeing Ivan’s face in the flicker of the fluorescent lights. He was always smiling. That stupid, lopsided grin he’d wear whenever I scolded him for something reckless.

But this time, the smile never reached his eyes.

The nurses came and went. Machines beeped. Time passed. My legs were held together by pins and wires and God-knows-what else. The scars itched like they were trying to remind me that I’d lived through hell—but I didn’t care. I wanted the pain. It was the only proof I hadn’t died with him.

And then the burial, it came too fast. Too soon. I hadn’t said enough. I hadn’t held him long enough. I hadn’t begged hard enough.

The coffin was closed. Burn scars, they said. Not fit for viewing.

He was beautiful, I wanted to scream. He was beautiful even when he was bleeding in my arms.

They draped the flag over his casket. Played the music. Fired the shots.

I sat there in a wheelchair like a ghost—uniform pristine, heart in ruins. My hands and knees trembled. No one dared to speak to me.

Not even his mother.

She was crying. I watched her from the corner of my eye. And for a second, I hated her. Because she got to cry. She got to scream. I didn’t.

I was Kael Roman. Colonel. Cold. Composed.

And dead inside.

The days after were worse.

I was returned to the hospital. They said recovery would be long.

They didn’t mention the part where I’d lose my humanity.

By the third month, I stopped talking unless absolutely necessary. The doctors gave me looks—worried, gentle, fake. I ignored them. I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want hope. I wanted to be numb, because the moment I tried to feel, I could still hear him whispering, I don’t want to die... I’m sorry, Kael... I love you.

By the sixth month, the nightmares began. Sometimes I’d wake up screaming. Other times I’d wake up not breathing at all. It was my punishment.

My father visited twice.

The first time, he stood at the foot of my bed like I was a disappointment on life support. Told me I needed to "get my shit together" and "stop wallowing." The second time, he brought me a suit, said when I was ready, the company would still take me in.

I stared at the suit in the corner for weeks. Never touched it.

I didn’t want to be a Roman. I didn’t want to be a soldier. I didn’t want to be anything.

All I wanted was him.

A year passed like fog.

I learned to walk again. Slowly. Painfully. With crutches at first, then a cane. But the physical therapy couldn’t touch the hole inside me. Nothing could. I was just going through the motions. Wake. Move. Eat. Breathe. Repeat.

I didn’t laugh. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.

The second year, they moved me.

Not because I was better.

Because they didn’t know what else to do with me.

Too many incidents. Too many outbursts. Too much silence. Too many nights where I was found on the floor, curled around nothing, whispering to a ghost.

The mental hospital was quieter than the base, but not in a good way. Not clean quiet. Dead quiet.

The walls were padded. The lights dim. The staff wore white, like they were trying to blend into the emptiness. Everyone walked slow. Talked soft. Smiled like they were afraid I’d bite.

I didn’t.

I didn’t even speak.

The first time they strapped me down was because I wouldn’t eat. The second time, I punched a mirror because I thought I saw Ivan’s reflection instead of mine. The third... I don’t remember. I think I screamed. For hours.

I got used to the drugs. The numbness. The fog.

Waking up in a sweat with the taste of blood in my mouth and no memory of how it got there. That was normal.

They said I had trauma. Delusions. Severe survivor’s guilt. Depression. PTSD. Borderline psychosis. A whole fucking alphabet of things wrong with me.

I said nothing.

Because what was the point?

No pill could bring Ivan back. No therapy could make me forget the way he’d died in my arms, trembling and apologizing and trying to be brave even when his body gave up.

I stopped counting days. There were no windows. No clocks. Just the same voices, the same beeping monitors, the same soft shoes on tile.

One nurse started sitting with me. Every night. She didn’t talk. She just brought tea. Warm, bitter, bland. She never pushed me to drink it.

Sometimes I did.

Sometimes I just stared at it and pretended it was coffee Ivan and I used to drink after long missions, spiked with whatever shitty liquor we had stashed.

She trimmed my beard once. Gently. Slowly. Like I was some wild animal that might bite.

"Mr. Kael," she whispered once, not looking me in the eye, "you don’t have to come back all at once. Just come back a little."

I didn’t answer her. But I didn’t fight her either.

The nightmares stopped. Eventually. But sleep didn’t return. I’d lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible scars on my arm, listening to the sound of the broken inside me.

I wasn’t better.

I was just... quieter.

One day, the nurse wheeled in an old TV. Turned it to a news channel. Left the room.

I didn’t care. I didn’t watch.

Until I heard his voice.

My father.

The headline read "Colonel Kael Roman’s return to active duty,"

He spoke, smiling like a politician at a funeral. "We are proud of his bravery, his commitment to our country, and his strength."

I stared at the screen. At the tailored suit. The cold eyes. The lie.

Returned to active duty.

I was sitting in a fucking hospital gown, surrounded by people who thought I might bite through my tongue, and my father was telling the world I was a goddamn hero.

I laughed.

For the first time in years, I laughed. Hysterical. Hollow. Unhinged.

It took three nurses to sedate me.

When I woke up, there was a suit folded neatly at the foot of my bed. Expensive. Hand-stitched. Black as sin.

A note tucked into the pocket.

When you’re ready. —E.R.

I stared at it for a long time.

And then I got up.