The Elements of Zion: the Vine, the Branch, and the Thorn

Chapter 1 It wants me dead...

The chair gripped me as if I were sinking into quicksand, my limbs stiffened, my grip on reality seemingly dissolving. My pulse escalated, and in response, my eyes shut tight, attempting to find solace in a forced calm. Silence enveloped the room, punctured only by the relentless ticking of a clock perched on the sterile white wall.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

Darkness swathed the inside of my eyelids, a canvas where my thoughts ran wild before succumbing to the emptiness that was burgeoning around them.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

My leg began to tremble involuntarily, sharply bouncing in a rhythm fueled by my inner turmoil, an outward signal of my disdain for this place and its clinical detachment. Breathing became laborious, as if the air had suddenly grown thick and resistant. I felt ensnared, a pawn in an environment that echoed the confines of a prison, with invisible shackles that chafed at my already frayed nerves.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

"Issac?" A faint murmur emerged from the clock's mocking cadence.

Startled, my eyes snapped open to meet the source of the call. "Yes?".

The man before me peered over the rims of his spectacles, his gaze heavy with empathy. "I know this is difficult," he began softly, "but I truly want to help you. The only way I can do that is if you are willing to share with me exactly what happened."

"Yes, sir," I nodded, my eyes locked with his but seeming to look through him, as though he were a ghost.

An eerie emptiness filled the room as if I were the sole living being sitting there. My desperate need for help clawed at me, mercilessly snapping me out of my delusions. Sleep had become the rarest luxury, eluding me like a phantom lurking in the shadows. The relentlessness of being triggered by the footsteps behind me in public restroom stalls, unable to sit through a movie without instinctively seeking the nearest exit — this was not a life I could bear.

The man glanced down at his papers, tapping his pen thoughtfully. "Let's start with something a bit more approachable," he suggested, breaking the silence. His voice seemed to echo in the otherwise still room. "Your assessment indicates you suffer from frequent nightmares. How often do they plague you?"

"Almost weekly," I replied, the soft murmur of my voice betraying the storm of emotions whirling inside me.

He pressed on, "Would you be willing to share what they're about?"

A shiver wracked my body, but I forced out a few words. "It's the same damn nightmare, over and over," I started. "I'm not even back in Iraq, no firefight or nothin'. I'm just in bed, and the rooms pitch black. Then, in the corner, way back there, I feel this presence, even darker. I can't explain it, but I just know it wants me dead..." My voice trailed off, leaving the room thick with tension.

He cocked his head, puzzled, and asked "So, you can't actually see what it is?"

I paused for a moment trying to gather my thoughts, "If I had to guess what it looked like, I'd say it was this giant, evil cloud of smoke."

He settled back into the deep embrace of his tufted leather chair, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. In the dim lamplight, his eyes gleamed with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Well, that's a new one, indeed. What happens next?"

"The dream typically culminates in me waking up soaked in a cold sweat and entirely disoriented," I snapped. "My bedroom seems unfamiliar and terrifying, and even when my wife wakes up to console me, I don't recognize her."

"I have to ask this, but do you have any firearms in your dwelling?" He said with a hint of trepidation.

"Yessir..." I muttered.

His eyes narrowed, searching my face as he continued. "Have you ever considered—"

"Oh, never," I said shaking my head. "In that state of mind, I doubt I could even locate the key to the safe."

He scribbled something on the paper before him, nodding his acquiescence. "That is indeed a relief. Moving on, I understand you served as an infantryman in the Marines?"

A sensation of pride mingled with pain swirled within me as I responded, "Yessir. 7th Marines, 1st Marine Division."

The therapist pointed at the tattoos adorning my arms. "They sort of gave away your history the moment you stepped into my office".

For the first time, a weak smile crossed my face. I lowered the collar of my shirt, revealing the fresh tattoo etched over my heart. "Got this ink last year after I got out."

My eyes lingered on the mark, an intricate double 'u' pattern made of three large, interlocking leaves that sprawled across the right side of my chest. A familial emblem tinged with enigma, borne by both my father and grandfather who had served before me. They too had been soldiers, forged in the crucibles of Vietnam and the Normandy beaches during World War II, respectively.

Throughout my childhood, I hounded them for the deeper meaning behind their cryptic tattoo. The only responses they ever offered were tantalizing breadcrumbs – "You'll need it one day," or "You'll find out when the time is right." Fate, however, cruelly robbed me of the chance to know the truth, both of them passing away while I fought across foreign lands.

"You in to dinosaur footprints or something?" he laughed, with a hint of mockery hidden within his words.

Reluctantly, I shrank back, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his remark. "Yeah... It's one of those crazy Marine things, I guess." I tried to divert my gaze, focusing on the unusual tattoo etched into my chest.