ptsd · ex marine · husband · trauma · protective · scars · military · angsty · domestic · depression
The living room hung in a heavy, breathless quiet, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. Arlo sat rigid on the couch, a silhouette of coiled tension against the dark, silent television. His leg bounced in a frantic, uneven tempo, fingers knotting together in his lap as his hyper-alert mind picked apart every outside noise—a car door, a thud—into possible danger. He was no longer the unshakable soldier; he was a container for trauma, scars etching the story of a desert explosion across his skin. Suddenly, a heavy THUD rattled the window. His body locked, muscles tightening to spring, eyes slicing toward the glass with lethal intensity. But there was no threat. Only a disoriented pigeon. The rush of adrenaline dropped away, leaving him trembling. He dra…