Nightmare count: 20

*

Ten weeks post Amanda.

I'm crying.

A woman just brought her baby in. She was crying hysterically. I took one quick look at her child, and knew whatever it was she needed us to do it was too damn late.

I turned away and puked.

Manny told me to go back to our tent.

So that's where I am.

In the tent, crying my ass off, and questioning how the fuck I'm going to be a doctor one day.

Diary, if I ever complain about my life, tell me to buck the fuck up and get over it. Shit could be a hell of a lot worse.

*

Ten and a half weeks post Amanda.

A little girl came in today. She was holding her brother's hand. They could've been twins. She told me her name Amuhda. Definitely the highlight of my day.

Nightmare count: 21

*

Fourteen weeks post Amanda.

I laughed today. You'd think I'd be happy about it, but I feel like shit. I wonder how she's doing. I wonder if she ever laughs. I fucking hope so. Otherwise, all of this would have been for nothing.

We were moved from the field to more admin-type roles for the time being. They do that. Change things up. I'm not complaining. Even though it's still kind of a campsite, this one has actual roofs, walls, and showers.

Last night, Jamal's girlfriend called him. He wasn't around to answer, so Manny did it for him. Manny—being Manny—told his girlfriend that he'd been sick the last three days with the worst case of diarrhea he'd ever seen. Which is pretty bad, considering one of our main goals here is to treat the disease. Apparently, it was so bad he had to wear adult diapers and was in quarantine. He even referred to him as Jamal. I don't know what his girlfriend was thinking.

So, of course Jamal gets up in my shit to help him find a way to pay him back.

We waited until he was in the shower—one of those open shower stalls, like they have at public pools. Anyway, Manny faced the back of the stall where the shower head was, washing his face, shaking his ass and singing ‘Wrecking Ball’ by Miley Cyrus. I had Jamal's cell phone in hand, filming. Jamal was standing behind him with a full bottle of shampoo . . . We waited for him to start washing his hair, then when he was under the spray washing it out, Jamal squirted more shampoo in there. After a couple of minutes, Manny started getting pissed because he couldn't fucking get rid of the suds. In fact, it was getting worse. His eyes were closed the entire time while Jamal and I tried to contain our laughter. Fuck, we're assholes. Manny was cussing and spinning around in circles, blind as shit because the excessive shampoo was getting in his eyes. After a good five minutes of me filming and Manny losing his shit, Jamal finally spoke up, only he yelled, scaring the shit out of the still-blind Manny. Jamal went right up to Manny's ear, who was of course, clueless, and at the top of his lungs, yelled I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BAAAALLLLLL!!!

So fucking funny.

Manny eyes snapped open and he started chasing Jamal around the campsite, barefoot, bare-ass naked. Dick swinging from side to side. He didn't even hear me laughing, or see me filming it all. Once they were out of filming view, I uploaded the video to YouTube and Jamal's Facebook and tagged Manny in it.

Manny had no idea until his mom called him.

Good fucking times.

I wish I could call Amanda and tell her the story. She would've loved it. I could imagine her face as I told her. That slow smile build-up. The low laugh that turns to something so much bigger. I can imagine her head thrown back, her hand on her stomach. She used to do that when I made her laugh too much. Then, when it was over, she'd sigh, almost like she was thankful for that moment.

Fuck, I miss her. So damn bad.

*

September 24th.

Today has a date. Today deserves a date.

Amanda turns twenty-one today.

I’d planned to take her and Ethan to Vegas. I wonder what they're doing.

She's probably moved on. Has a boyfriend or whatever. He probably thinks he loves her more than anyone's ever loved her. He's fucking wrong. No one could love her as much as I do.

I was so out of it today, Manny told me to take the day off.

Valid.

Now I'm sitting alone on this stupid bed feeling sorry for myself, as if I don't deserve to feel like this.

I picked up my phone a thousand times to call her. I have her number saved. I changed my cell at the airport before I got here. I thought that maybe she'd call and ask me to come back, and I wouldn't be able to say no.

I gave in and actually called her. She answered. I heard her voice. She just kept saying hello. I didn't speak. I hoped maybe she'd know it was me without me having to say anything. Maybe she'd know I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. After a few seconds, I heard a guy’s voice. She told him to wait, and said hello a few more times. I still didn't say shit. I swear to God she whispered my name.

I hung up and called Jake.

He asked if I was okay. I told him I wasn't. He knew it was her birthday. He said that Micky was Facebook friends with her, and that it alerted her, but they weren't speaking yet. Amanda's wishes. From what he knew, she was okay. That was as much as he could tell me. I asked him to get Micky to email me that picture of her—the one from my desk. I hung up, and a minute later I got the email.

I stared at it for five hours.

Then I figured I should do something else to stop me from going crazy. I picked up one of Jamal's self-help books.

That's where I found this: Transit umbra, lux permanet.

How fitting.

Diary, no one else will understand this, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. When I started planning the Vegas trip, a part of me hoped that she'd think I wanted to take her there to get married. I would have. Married her, I mean. People might not have understood. People might have hated the choice we made or be upset we didn't do it properly. But she was my person. Nothing else mattered. Not back then. Now everything matters.

Because I was the match that started the inferno.

*

Seventeen weeks post Amanda.

Nightmare count: too fucking many.

Manny seems to think I'm getting better. I don't know. Maybe I am. Or maybe I've just gotten better at faking it.

*

Eighteen weeks post Amanda.

The worst day of my life was my twenty-first birthday.

The second worst day is today.

Today, a woman came in carrying a little girl in her arms. There was blood all over them. Especially in between their legs. A boy walked in behind them. They were all beaten and bruised, barely recognizable. But I knew who the girl was right away. Amuhda. Her mom and her had been beaten and raped. Raped. What the fuck is wrong with this world?

The little boy, barely able to stand upright, held Amuhda's hand while we tried to stop the bleeding. The entire time we worked on her, he stood by her head, whispering things in her ear.

I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to go back home and fall asleep with Amanda in my arms and tell her how much I love her. I wanted to hear her laugh, snort, cry, yell, anything. I just wanted her.