Fort Bragg
Ortega tried to turn on his side, but someone was holding him in that position already.
He was indoors, lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back.
In front of his face there was a little pool made by the blood that had come out from his mouth while he was conscious.
As he regained consciousness, the man immediately released him.
Ortega's mouth was filled with the nauseating taste of blood and the pain was hallucinating.
He would have cried aloud in pain, if it wasn't for the greater pain doing that would have caused to him.
“You are awake, at last” said a voice from above him.
The light in the room was unbearable.
The pain was strong, but the thing he was more worried about at that moment was the feeling that his dream had just given him: inside his chest, his heart was pumping in anguish as if he had just heard about Kennedy's death for the first time. He could feel the same freezing grip inside his chest as that day, the same sense of void, of anguish, as if he was holding an unbearable weight.
The dream had been too clear, too real: in all of his life, he had never experienced any illusion like that before.
Someone told him that the selection process could push you out of your mind: eating on the ground, with no dishes, sleeping an hour each night and 'suicide' daily with too much fatigue... Many had told him, but until then, he had never had any idea about what it really meant.
That dream he had was a real delirium.
'When you have done that selection... You have done everything' someone told him.
'Take care not to end up in one of Trautman's units... That man is ravenous. He's not a man, he's a beast”
And remembering those words, for some reason Ortega calmed down.
“Do you want to quit, Ortega?”
The young man recognized Trautman from his pants: he was the only one that never wore the combat uniform but always the dress one. Ortega almost made the mistake of replying – had he done so, his tongue's pain would have killed him – so he just shook his head.
“You need stitches, Ortega. Stitches we are not going to give you”
Ortega remained silent.
“You could suffer permanent damage, you know... Problems in tasting things taste or articulating some words”
Silence again.
“Your military career could come to an end, because of that. Listen... I have read your file: you are bright. You are not just anybody. You shouldn't let a stupid injury put your whole career at risk. It's not worth it”
Silence.
“Also because this wasn't an accident. It's not your fault. You are now injured only because another fucking recruit went off his head, and you don't deserve this. But in this condition...”
Trautman stooped.
He moved his head near Ortega's and whispered:
“No... You don't deserve this. You are a good soldier. You don't deserve to pay all of your life because of someone else's fault”
Then the colonel got up.
“He will be court martialed, for that. But only if you quit. 'Cause if you don't, obviously it's as he had never done anything to you. We can't put him on trial if you don't quit. And you don't deserve it, Ortega”
But Ortega, who had almost come to his senses by then, didn't fall for it. It was too obvious a trap from someone as smart as Trautman was. Almost ridiculous.
And Trautman, who was smart for real, noticed that barely visible smile on Ortega's face.
“Shit, boy” he said
“You really are in deep shit, now”