A Soldier’s Guilt

They don’t tell you how quiet the battlefield is after the gunfire stops. In the movies, war is all chaos and explosions, but in real life, it’s the silence that haunts you. The moment after the dust settles, when you take stock of who’s still standing—and who isn’t.

I remember every detail of that night. The way the air smelled of burnt rubber and blood. The sound of my own breath, ragged and uneven. The weight of my rifle in my hands, useless now. And I remember Jackson’s face—his eyes open but unseeing, the shock still frozen there, like he hadn’t even registered that he was gone.

I should have been the one.

That thought stayed with me long after I left the desert behind. It followed me home, curled up beside me in bed, whispered to me when I was alone. I replayed the moment over and over, searching for a way I could have changed it. Maybe if I had stepped left instead of right. Maybe if I had seen the sniper a second earlier. Maybe if I had been faster, smarter, better. Maybe if I had died instead.

People called me a hero when I got home. Patted me on the back, bought me drinks, thanked me for my service. They didn’t know I spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for the ghosts to settle. They didn’t know I couldn’t step into a grocery store without scanning for threats, that fireworks made my pulse skyrocket, that I saw Jackson’s face every time I closed my eyes. They didn’t know that every day, I wished I had stayed behind with him.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment that saved me. No intervention, no grand epiphany. Just a dog.

Charlie wasn’t even mine—he was my neighbor’s. A scrappy mutt with one floppy ear who decided that my front porch was his new favorite spot. At first, I ignored him. Then, one day, he followed me inside. Just trotted in like he belonged there, curled up on my couch, and fell asleep. I watched him breathe. Steady, calm, alive. And for the first time in years, I realized I wanted to feel that way too.

I didn’t know where to start. Therapy felt pointless at first. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to unpack it. But the VA counselor sat across from me, patient, waiting, giving me space to sit in silence if that’s all I could manage.

For weeks, I barely spoke. Then, one day, she asked me something that cut through the numbness: “Do you think Jackson would want you to live like this?”

The question burned. I hated it. I wanted to tell her she didn’t understand, that it wasn’t that simple. But I couldn’t ignore it. The truth was, Jackson wouldn’t want this for me. And that was the first crack in the wall I had built around myself.

We started EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy—something I had never heard of but was willing to try. It was strange at first, following her moving fingers while recounting memories I had spent years avoiding. But something about it worked. The nightmares didn’t stop overnight, but they became less suffocating. The memories felt less like open wounds and more like scars I could live with. She helped me see that I wasn’t responsible for Jackson’s death. That war isn’t fair, that bullets don’t care who deserves to live. That guilt isn’t proof of love—it’s just another form of pain.

Still, healing wasn’t a straight path. Some nights, I still drank too much. Some days, I avoided the world entirely. But I had small victories, too.

I learned to recognize my triggers. The sound of fireworks? Headphones and deep breathing. Crowded spaces? Stand near an exit, take a moment to ground myself. The panic attacks didn’t own me anymore—I learned how to ride them out, how to remind myself I wasn’t back there.

Charlie helped, too. He gave me a reason to get up in the morning, to step outside, to interact with something alive. He sat with me on the bad days, licked my hands when they trembled. He didn’t ask me to explain myself. He just was. And sometimes, that was enough.

The veterans’ group was another turning point. At first, I resisted—what could talking to other guys like me really do? But sitting in a room with men who carried the same ghosts, who didn’t flinch at the stories, who nodded when I spoke instead of looking uncomfortable… it made a difference. I wasn’t alone in this.

And then, there was painting.

I hadn’t picked up a brush since high school, but one day, when the memories were too heavy, I grabbed some cheap acrylics and started throwing color onto canvas. It wasn’t about skill. It was about movement, about getting something out instead of letting it fester inside me. Over time, the paintings became less chaotic, more intentional. And for the first time in years, I felt like I had something to offer the world outside of war.

It took years before I could say Jackson’s name without choking on it. Longer before I could believe that living wasn’t the same as betrayal.

I still carry the weight of that night. I always will. But now, I carry other things too—Charlie’s leash in one hand, a paint-streaked brush in the other, and the understanding that the best way to honor the dead is to keep living. For them. For me.