imo pectore

I wasn't sure how to begin my letter. "Dear" seemed too formal. "Hello" just seemed too awkward. The blank paper in front of me glared up, the edges stained with coffee I'd managed to obtain, the middle: a barren canvas just waiting to be nicked on. I'd seemed to have written many of these letters lately, ones for home, ones for friends. I always told the same stories: I was glad training was over, the sounds of guns and drones kept me awake, the things I missed about the USA, a few antics here and there of my buddies in my squad. It seemed so trivial to me nowadays, but the responses I got were always a bit amusing. "Oh my, how did you survive?" or "I could never handle that, good luck." Sometimes they were more of amazement, sometimes more of sympathy, but I always told them what I told myself: It's going to be hard, but I'll go through it. Before I knew it, training had been over, and now I was a United States Marine. A fitting title for such an army kid, and my father, a former First Class Sergeant, had been quite proud of me for feating such a goal.

The dangling of my grandfather's old dogtags on my neck brought my attention away from the paper, thankfully, but even that was only for so long. There was one thing I missed about boot camp: the lack of thinking. Often, you would be so tired, so pushed, hearing yelling and screaming and moving, that you would never even think about anything other than living and the task at hand. In the marines, I'd found, there was never a moment's peace. You were always doing something whether you liked it or not. Luckily, I'd gotten a chance at an off hour today.

Back to my writing. What do you say to a person you knew for such little time, yet felt like you knew them forever? To someone you love mo- No, it wasn't love. Love was different than what I'd ever known. Infatuation, that I'd had. Those old puppylove feelings of wanting someone more than anything, like a selfish little dog over its master. Love? A whole different story. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever know exactly what it was. Time could only tell.

Screw it. Throwing caution to the wind, I picked up the pencil I'd set down moments ago, taking it in the long fingers of my hand and pressing the tip on the material of the paper. Here went nothing...

Anna,

It's been a while. Too long, you could say. I don't even know if you remember who I am at this point, whether you're still angry with me, whether you're sick of any thought or connotation of my very being. Either way, if you couldn't tell already from the army stamp..., it's Ryan. You know, Ryan Wheatley? That army brat. That piano nerd. That person you hated at day one. That douche. Yep, it's me.

I don't know whether you want to talk to me or not. Whether you want to read this piece of crap I'm scribbling out now. I understand if you don't; you have your reasons. I still stand by what I said, but I... won't hold it against you. It's your decision to make, not mine. I suppose I just can't understand everything. It's over my head. I'm sorry for ever putting the blame on you the way that I did. My arrogance caught the better of me, and that's why I didn't try to make any sort of contact with you until now. I regret it, for sure, but... You know. Teenagers.

Life itself has been a ride since we last talked. As you're probably well-aware by now, I went in through training to become a United States Marine. It was... strange. I won't bore you with all the details, but it was quite a different world, to be sure. Do you remember me talking about training for football? You may have heard it from Night about Noah a few times, as he was also one of my fellow team-mates at the time. Anyway, it's about fiftey times harder than that. The first thing greeting you as you sit on the bus there is this drill sergeant. He is... intimidating, to say the least. Screaming in your face, so close you can practically feel your eardrums tremble with each tremor of his voice. It was amazingly difficult to not reach out and punch the damn guy in the face. So irritating! Luckily, all the rookies held their composure and the sergeant seemed impressed. I was somewhat pleased with myself, too. I had stood there the whole time, calm as a clam, my face showing no emotion as I filled out my paperwork, got on my uniform, and got my medical screening. Inside, however, it was nervewracking. You talk about horrifying! I knew training would be hard, but... Good lord!

There were more training exercises than that. Many stages, firing guns, obstacle courses. One in particular I would like to share is what we Marines call The Crucible. It's basically three days of normal Marine combat scenerios. They give you three meals that are to last over 3 days. Some ate all of it at the beginning, some waited as long as they could. I just rationed mine: one a day. You're in a team with other recruits, and the basic principle of the task is to get everyone working together like a team, which is needed on the battlefield. The thing that killed me the most: 8 hours of sleep for three days. I can go without food, but sleep? Argh. There was also a march we had to do for miles with all our gear on... It was difficult. Very tiring; I found myself dizzy a few times towards the end. Of course, I held on and kept going. Physical pains weren't going to stop me.

But I graduated from Recruit Training and became a Marine. Schooling didn't stop there: I was sent to North Carolina for, unfortunately, more training. Almost two months of getting trained in infantry. It was just as tough, but I came out of that as well. It's such a blur that sometimes I forget all the details of what happened there.

Now, I am stationed in the Middle East. A little town in Afghanistan that I can't even attempt to spell. Our base is nice, but I don't spend a lot of time there. When one of the sergeants came up to me asking "How committed are you?" and I said "I'll do anything and everything you want me to, so long as it serves my country," he took it pretty seriously. I'm usually on patrol, and currently I'm protecting, along with many other Marines, a prison. It's... different, I will say. Someone is always awake because we do get a lot of people trying to come bust in the prison and break out their buddies. I feel bad, sometimes, because they look like normal people for this area. Some are very young and poor, so they don't really know what they're doing. You could say it's a bit... cult-ish? I think many of them are brainwashed by the Taliban.

Anyway, enough about working, training, and all that nonsense. I often wonder what is going on on your side of the world. How are things, who's with who, who has what problems... Admittedly, when I think of America... you come to mind. It's strange. You're from Russia, yet you remind me of a country I'd left.

I don't know when I'll be back. I'll have four years of active duty, so... it will be a
while before I am back permanently. I do get a 30 days leave per year, but I haven't attempted to use it so far. I might just work all year then get my month off. I'm thinking of using it around Christmas since everyone will be gathering, so I'll get to see all the folks at one time. Perhaps we could meet...? If you're up to it, anyway. If not, I understand. I can understand if you hate me still, but I do not hate you. I hold no grudges. I actually do miss you. Think of you kindly from time to time. Sometimes I wonder what you would say to me if you knew half the things I go through on a daily basis.

You told me war changes people. I'm not sure if it does. I do not see any difference in how I am. Perhaps a bit more confident and maybe arrogant (is that possible?!), but overall I'm still Ryan. I still have those twitches in my fingers when I want to play a piano, which seem nearly constant these days. I haven't played in... months. Almost a year. Someone even told me my hands twitch when I sleep, and once they thought I was having a seizure. Not so. I woke up a moment later and was fine! I guess I'm just weird.

I suppose I'll end this. You're probably bored as hell with me by now, if you managed to read this far. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I hope to get a response from you. If not, I will respect your choice. Perhaps I will be able to send you photographs along with my letters in time. If you want any psychology stories, since I know you're interested in things like that, I could include those as well.

Good luck. I will (hopefully) talk to you again. Till next time.

imo pectore,
Ryan Wheatley