[ WP ] A soldier in the heat of battle suddenly hears a voice that says `` I am your child 's imaginary friend . They have sent me to protect you in your greatest time of need . ''

This is a different kind of battle, if it does not fit, feel free to delete.... 
 
 
 It happens over and over again. 
 
 The squad lines up to go, our Team Chief gives a thumbs-up, a loud snap, and he is down on the ground. As I struggle to tend to his wounds, I see the light leave his eyes. 
 
 We are driving to an Iraqi police station to help train some of the new officers. Everyone in the Humvee is happy. We are talking about going home, the Insane Clown Posse, how nice grass is, whatever. We laugh and joke as we hear a loud concussion and sand, rock, and debris obscure the vehicle in front of us. 
 
 Children pick through mounds of garbage, in bare feet and 120o heat, looking for scraps of unspoiled food. 
 
 Bodies lay in the ditch, dead for hours, blindfolded and shot executioner style, murdered because they don ’ t support a local tribe leader. A new widower won ’ t stop crying, and her children look off into the distance. They are broken. 
 
 It is so hot, everything smells like sewage, human excrement puddles in the streets. 
 
 Garbage lines the roads, with all of this debris, how do we know if there is a bomb or not? We can ’ t stop at every bag… 
 
 Boom! 
 
 Smiles. 
 
 Frowns. 
 
 Happiness. 
 
 Devastation. 
 
 Dead friends talk to me about lives they will never return to. 
 
 I wake up. Sweat beads on my brow. My heart pounds in my throat. I look at the clock. 2:12 AM. Looks like another night of no sleep. 
 
 I get out of bed and do a quick check through the house. 
 
 Wife is sleeping next to me, check. 
 
 Daughter is in her bed, sleeping. I notice that she isn ’ t quite covered up and is shivering a little. Her stuffed animal, aptly named “ Pink Puppy ” is just out of her reach. I place the toy under her arm and cover her back up. She shifts a little and is still. 
 
 I check the locks. The house is secure. 
 
 A mix of adrenaline and shame floods through my system. 
 
 It was all supposed to get better after we got back. It is supposed to be safe here, but I can ’ t get these images out of my head. Life is so much easier when you realize that it can end at any time. Living in the moment was easy. Then you get back home and time stretches out before you, as the past pistol whips you in the back of the head. 
 
 I am so irritable lately, the slightest things set me off. I can ’ t sleep. My wife doesn ’ t want to talk about these thoughts that I need to purge, and I can see small hints of fear in my daughter ’ s eyes when I lose it over something insignificant. I would never hit her, but I am afraid I do more damage with my voice. 
 
 They would be so much better off without me. That 450k would fix most of their problems. Getting myself out of the picture would certainly help. 
 
 Work sucks. These civilians have no work ethic, and they are pissed at me for wanting to do things right. You give a lazy dude a little “ encouragement ” and you are down talking to your supervisor again about “ being PC ” and “ hurting their feelings, ” well, his lack of integrity hurts my feelings. 
 
 I walk back into our room, and reach under the bed. I grab the gun safe and take it out with me to the living room. I quickly punch in the code that opens the box, and pull out my 9mm. Even in the darkness, light reflects off of the firearm ’ s surface. One well-placed shot, and all of this ends. 
 
 I don ’ t want my family to find me though. 
 
 When I have nights like this, I sometimes go for a drive. This time though, I won ’ t be coming back. 
 
 I go back for one last look at my daughter. God, I love her. I hope that she will be ok. Her dog is missing, probably rolled under her blanket; I hope he watches over her. I close her bedroom door and leave. 
 
 When we were dating, my wife and I would go hang out at a local 24hr supermarket after hours. The lots were always full of cars at all hours. I could simply park there, pull the trigger, and no one would notice. 
 
 On the drive there, I pass under a viaduct, and swerve the car over to the other side, avoiding an explosion that never comes. Had another car been coming in the other direction, it could have been bad for them. I start noticing every little piece of trash on the empty roads and scrutinize all of it. My senses are hiked up to 1000, for realty no reason, and I can ’ t shut it down. 
 
 After what feels like an age has passed, I pull into the lot. 
 
 I pull the pistol out from the small of my back, and look at it. 
 
 I hear a bark. I look down into my passenger seat, and Pink Puppy is sitting there. Its head is cocked to the side, as if inquiring about what I am doing here, in this lot, at 3am. I set the pistol down on the center console, and the stuffed dog ’ s tail begins to wag. Soon, his whole backside is wagging and he leaps into my lap. He buries his head into my shoulder and lets out a low whine, as if trying to give me a hug. I break down. It is as if a dam has opened, and tears flow down my face as cooped up memories begin to flee my brain. I pul this small, pink-spotted toy into a hug of my own and give over to emotion for the first time in what feels like an eternity. 
 
 I set Pink Puppy in the passenger seat, and begin to tell him stories of my experiences. He seems to be listening intently. There is the occasional cock of the head, gleam of a button eye, or thump of a tail as I discuss my hopes for the future and fear of the past. I am sure that if anyone walked by and saw me talking to a stuffed dog they would think I was crazy, but, well, I may be. 
 
 Before long, I look again at the clock, my wife gets up soon for work, and my daughter will need to get ready for preschool. I put the weapon under the driver ’ s seat and place the puppy in my lap. Together, we drive home. 
 
 On the way, I feel like a new man. I know that I have demons to work out. This isn ’ t a one night and done kind of thing, but we can make it. 
 
 I try to unlock the front door as quietly as I can and move stealthily into my daughter ’ s room. I look once more at Pink Puppy, smile, and again put him under her arm. She snuggles into him, giving him a big hug. As I walk out I hear her tiny, sleepy voice, “ Daddy, when you tucked me in last night, you seemed sad. I asked Pink Puppy to help. “ 
 
 She looks at me, blond hair sticking up in a million directions, blue eyes that pierce my soul, and the sleepy smile of a toddler that makes your heart grow three sizes. I look at her through watery eyes, “ Thank you, Kiddo, Pink Puppy helped me to feel a whole lot better. ” 
 
 She smiles again, “ I knew he would, I love you Daddy. ” and before I can say it back, she drifts back to sleep. 
 
 I go into the bedroom, lay down next to my wife. I close my eyes and sleep. 

