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Finally,when the dogs were losing much of their earlier enthusiasm, Ken pulled themaway and chained them once again to the door knob.? He untied the ropes from the couches andpulled Carol unsteadily to her feet with the ropes tied to her wrists.? To Carol the room seemed to be spinning.? It wasn?t a hot day, but her body glistenedwith sweat--mixed, of course, with dog saliva.?Ken took a drink from a bottle of beer in his hand then offered it to Carol.? She took a sip, but could hardly swallowit.? It made the sickly sweet taste inher mouth all the stronger.? She handedthe bottle back, and he put it on the floor. With afirm grip on each of her arms Ken guided her backward toward the heavyoverstuffed chair.? When the back of herlegs touched the seat, he pushed her down into the chair.? He pulled her arms back around the sides ofthe chair with the ropes attached to her wrists, and he tied the two ropestogether holding her arms around the chair back..? Heretrieved his beer bottle and. .. I’d grown up in the 1980s, in the long shadow of the war, when Vietnam, the war there, remained etched into America’s recent memory.It was a stigma, a trauma.A festering, open wound.As a nation, we had collective PTSD.There were those I knew, personally, who’d returned from the front lines, and I’d heard their stories... Like an uncle of mine who’d served, taken a bullet in the ankle, was honorably discharged.Every single night since the war, for years afterwards, he’d been plagued by night terrors. Vivid dreams.Him back in the green, trudging through the caws, echoes and marshes of boobytrapped jungle, his friend, Derrick, in tripwire; the whoosh of a bamboo whip; the young marine writhing and twisting on the spikes, his eyebrows upcurved, dark blood curdled in his mouth.My uncle, in his dreams, would hear those wretched gurgling murmurs Derrick uttered, as mortars clapped and colored the sky.Every night he’d see Derrick’s face in a deathmask.Every day, my uncle’s limp, tottering.
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