By It’s late… or early… you’re not sure. The last of the Marines have finally gone to sleep, the drunken shouting and thrashing has subsided for the night. Stephens is still awake in his room playing Warzone, but he’s quiet enough, with little more than the soft glow of the TV in his room to tell the tale. He’s gonna be tired for PT in the morning.
You won’t be there though, you’re on duty. At least you get to skip PT, you say to yourself. The clinging warmth of the daytime has just been overtaken by the cold, crisp morning air. The sky turns to ominous shades of purples, blues and oranges as you drink your fourth energy drink. You see signs of life from across the parking lot. The duty at the barracks next door is roving.
Nothing to report.
You check your phone. The last text you got from her was at 12:32. She sent you a picture from her bed. Nothing salacious or anything like that, just a cute selfie to get you through the night. She legitimately felt bad for you having to be up all night. You think about texting her, but she’s asleep. Best not to bother her.
The logbook is gross. The green hardcover feels like it’s about to fall off, some of the binding is loose. You’d think the book was 60 years old, but it was just put out a few days ago. Who takes the log books when they’re full? No one knows. The table is also gross. The carved phallic graffiti is amusing at first glance, but somehow there’s always a layer of filmy oil dressing the surface. Your arms feel gross for resting on it.
You hope Ramirez is on time to relieve you at 0800, but you know he probably won’t be.
You’re on duty.
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