Yesterday, I wrote a piece about Dr. Cara Williams, the Central State University (CSU) psychology research program Director, regarding the subtle hints of chemistry between her and Russell Carter, a 5-year senior and former Marine. In the first of four books in the “Dreamscape Conspiracy” series, there’s little doubt that the attraction is cautiously mutual and natural with all the earmarks of a relationship in the making. That sounds lovely, like puppies and unicorns, all fodder for writing in a sappy romantic relationship. Neither Cara nor Russ felt there could be a future that held the promise of romance or relationship because of the personal demons stalking both.
The violence of action at the hands of external threats forced them together as the conspiracy reveals itself in book #1. Both of their characters are pressed internally by dark histories: Cara’s from molestation as a young teen and Russ’s from taking the life of a 12-year-old girl in Afghanistan. Neither dared think anything could overcome their demons and allow being pulled into a relationship despite the seeds of attraction that nipped at their heels. Deep down, they both felt teased by possibilities but felt their pasts forever marked them as damaged goods. In Cara’s case, she wrestled with the pressing weight of feeling unworthy. In Russ’s case, he wrestled with owning success as one of the best snipers to feel the constant pressing of guilt to be unredeemable.
Symptoms of PTSD afflicted both but for two very different reasons. Cara had two sources pressing her angst forward: the molestations plus the terrorizing memory of all-consuming rage that gave her permission to pull the trigger on the Glock 19 her father gave her before he died. He taught her how to care for and how to shoot the weapon. They practiced on paper targets at the range when she was almost 13, then prayed together that she would never have to pull the trigger on a real human target.
Yeah, well…she did pull it. She pulled it on Uncle Frank the night of her 16th birthday when she finally, after two years, had had enough of his abuse, and she pulled that goddam trigger. She pulled it 15 times and continued to dry fire as she screamed her rage into shock and to the point of unconsciousness. How does one hide from memories like that?
Sure, she had her nightmares, nothing like Russ’s, but she owned the deep feelings of anxiety and fought borderline depression. She’d tried drug therapy, but the drug side effects soon required other drugs to counter the effects, and a descending circle began to take shape, spiraling into a place she swore she’d never go, and drug therapy ceased. That was another level of hell for her and anyone within her blast radius.
To keep herself grounded, the best therapy came from her faith, relying upon it to guide her head and heart into a different game. Her research in the Dream Weaver project became that new game, and that therapy would work as long as it remained her sole purpose. Distractions were not an option, and her little research team knew to duck and cover whenever Cara sensed losing control of everything and everybody in her proximity. The velocity of her work life barely left room for the only man in her life – Ezekial, a big black tomcat who preferred to be called Zeke and required many treats. Russell Carter’s appearance in her world threatened her control of a fragile peace.
Russell Carter, on the other hand, had at least 88 sources pressing his angst forward, with the last one haunting him in nightmares that crashed into deep sleep several times a week. He, like Cara, also had a strong background of faith that grounded him and pulled him through. Despite being saved, he doubted if the promise of being forgiven had kept pace with every sanctioned murder he caused by pressing his goddam trigger.
Yeah, it was one-shot-one-kill, and it only happened 87 times over an 18-month assignment in Afghanistan. Additionally, he had to deal with the curse of time between kills, time enough to simmer in guilt and remember every one of them. Then, #88 showed up in his scope. He peered into the face of a terrified little girl barely 12 years old, tears leaving streaks down dirty cheeks. From her black chador, she did not see Russ; she couldn’t. He was in a hilltop sniper hide over 300 yards away.
If she could have seen him, there would not be enough time for either to share the individual terrors assailing them. It didn’t matter. There was not enough time because she disappeared into a fireball just after Russ pressed his goddam trigger. Did his round arrive and save her from the terror of being blown up, or did his round cause her to flinch and depress the plunger on the detonator super-glued to her hand? Maybe she pushed that plunger down before his round arrived. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t kill a 12-year-old little girl. It didn’t matter. But it did to Russ because he knew the most important thing – he knew whose finger pressed that goddam trigger.
#88 was his last kill as an active Marine Scout Sniper after stray AK47 rounds shattered his shoulder and killed his spotter. In many ways, it was not his last kill because it repeated in every visit of his nightmare. All of it haunted him, from the tears streaming down her dirty face to his decision to adhere to his duty to murder a child.
At least two times every week, he fell into the clutches of the same nightmare that pressed into his head and heart with no relief. He had tried drug therapy, too, but felt it took away his prized edges and the sharpness necessary to maintain his strict discipline as a Marine, especially as he considered the prospects of early-onset civilian life.
He had to fight back to sobriety as well from an addiction to pain-relieving opiates after his shoulder reconstruction. His upper chest had the injury scars that remained as reminders. The shoulder had been repaired but was no longer original equipment. What had not been reconstructed was the place in his memories where guilt seemed like it was waist-deep, deep enough to remind him that he was unredeemable.
Was he lucky to be alive? Or was it a miss? It must have been a miss because he was still there, considering a hopeful thought that God was not done with him yet.
***
Hey, it’s me. I’ve been here all along…sharing strange thoughts today and taking you down another layer deeper into the personas of Cara and Russ, my favorite characters. On rare occasions, I manage to write something that evokes an eruption of laughter, shared with no one, but sudden enough to cause a sleeping Boo to launch off my lap to find cover. Boo is feral, loves me only, and survives live as a hair-trigger feral rescued from life on the street. Some days, it doesn’t take much to set her off. I get triggered like that too, most of it self-inflicted. I do not run. I laugh out loud. It’s most often a hoot or maybe a hah that leaves my lips with the added risk of blowing a snot bubble or peeing a little, and what I just wrote triggered me, “Early-onset civilian life.” That descriptor hit me as funny as shit…and now for the amazing part…I hooted after I wrote it. That’s what I mean by self-inflicted. Now that’s funny as shit, too. Maybe not so funny to a former Marine like Russell Carter heading down that very path in Dreamscape Conspiracy.
I had to laugh when the words came to me, though, and I suppose this is where I should confess something that many of my readers already suspect – There’s a secret voice in my mind. For those of you who do not know me or my writing, I could attempt to hide my little secret behind poorly faked shock and ask something like, “Where does this shit come from?” to distract you, but, you see, I already know the answer. It’s not from where…but from whom, and some of you know her by the name, the Relentless Wench Muse.
She’s beautiful beyond measure on any scale because…well…mainly because I’ve never seen the Wench. I think She’s called a figment of my imagination. I couldn’t give a rip what She is or isn’t called. She’s my Wench, and She’s in my head. I know I’ve been blessed because I have internal ears to hear Her sweet Western Australian accent. I have an image of Her that I cannot see as much as imagine. Regardless, if Her face matches that sweet voice, I’m good with that.
Hearing Her share storyline thoughts is a blessing with benefits. Occasionally, we wrestle over a word or two when we arrive at a point where telling a story would no longer be authentic – like improperly using an action description like press, not pull. Believe it or not, those words came to me in a dream, too, and per Relentless Wench Muse protocol, I entered them into my iPhone Notepad and sent them down to the printer in my office to feed Her pleasure as appropriate in the new day.
This may be a closing point to argue (for some), but I’ve read that a sniper never pulls a trigger on his long gun; he presses it, just like when Russell Carter ended #88. He pressed his goddam trigger. Now put a Glock in his hand or one in a raging Cara Williams’s hand as she’s standing astride good ol’ Uncle Frank’s corpse long enough to empty a full magazine in her rage.
She pulled that goddam trigger because she had been pressed with enough hatred for what that man did to her and her little brother—yeah, pressed as hell. Pressed hard enough…to pull back hard enough and keep pulling until the rage took her out.
Breathe out…Return to your homes. Sanity may be restored…at some point
Peace! G.
Book #1 – Dreamscape Conspiracy – https://bit.ly/3qjKNjd
Video Trailer for Book #1 – https://learningbyliving.blog/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/WhatsApp-Video-2024-03-13-Dream-1.mp4
Jill Rey Review of Dreamscape Conspiracy | Goodreads