CNF: Blood Money

by Bree Pye

Permanent damage. The disability check I receive from the Veteran’s Administration every month has a rate attached to it, the value of damage incurred while performing my duties as a Soldier. One by one, every ailment suffered during active duty is assigned a percentage rate. Thirty percent for a twice-broken jaw, thirty percent for two traumatic-brain-injuries, ten percent for hearing loss, and so on — a carefully calculated formula for just how much the government thinks my body and mind are worth. I just wanted to go to college, see the world. The price of dreaming is steep in the land of the free and the home of the brave. The check is a matter of permanent public record. The stain of blood-money will follow me for the rest of my life. But hey, at least my tuition is paid. “You’re lucky,” some kid said to me on my first day of college. The real damage is invisible – I can’t wash it out.

True or false? Honestly, it’s hard to tell these days. My last deployment felt like a dream. Seventeen deaths in less than eight months and I wrote the press release and covered the Ramp Ceremony for every one of them. The slow march down hastily-constructed aisles to pay final respects to shiny dog tags and too-clean combat boots while trying to ignore the muted sobs of survivors became routine. After the first few, I just went numb. I thought things would get back to normal when I got home. I thought I’d be safe – but the world moves around me so fast I can’t stop spinning.

Sacrifice. Before joining the Army at 17, I’d only heard the world “sacrifice” during seminary class. Now, every time someone talks about the “sacrifice” my fallen brothers and sisters have made, my head feels like it’s going to explode. They didn’t sacrifice their lives – their lives were stolen from them—for dreaming of a way out of their small towns and inner cities, for wanting a shot at a college education, or for doing whatever it takes to get medical coverage for their families. You shouldn’t thank them, I think every time I hear that empty “thanks.” You should apologize – every single one of you should apologize…

Death is a familiar companion. According to veteransandptsd.com, more than 2.7 million Americans have now served in Iraq or Afghanistan, more than fought in the Vietnam War. Five-to-eight-thousand of those take their own lives – per year. Nearly twenty percent of Veterans who served in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom have suffered a TBI. When I returned from my last deployment, an Army psychiatrist diagnosed me with Adjustment Disorder after months of insomnia, irritability and loss of appetite. I still haven’t told my family because I have no idea what Adjustment Disorder is – other than a small percentage of my monthly disability check. I am still chasing the dreams I have left after war tore the rest from my memory. I still run from statistics – Tell me again how lucky I am.

Bree Pye is a former U.S. Army photojournalist who is currently working on completing her MFA in creative writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder, where she teaches creative nonfiction and serves as the Nonfiction Editor for TIMBER: A Journal of New Writing. Her Army photos and articles can be found in various news outlets, both online and in print.

Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.

Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.

Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.

Submissions

Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again March 15, 2023. Submit here.

Upcoming

09/09 • Rae Gourmand
09/16 • TBD
09/23 • TBD
09/30 • TBD