Something went wrong with my Dad

This is only half of the story. The other half is stuff that happened to my Dad, but he's not talking, so it falls to me.

My Dad is an Army guy, through and through. Most of the rest of my family has served, but my Dad is the only one who went long term. He's been deployed a bunch of times. He was in Desert Shield/Storm, been sent to Afghanistan, Iraq, pretty much if it's been sandy and violent there in the last twenty years, my Dad was probably running around in it at some point.

The last time he came home was from Afghanistan in 2009. It was a normal homecoming: big party, lots of storytelling, updates on how the house was, etc, etc. We were all pretty well practiced at it by that point. A couple days after he got back, my Mom finds me and my brother while we were alone. Told us that Dad got into some shit while he was over there, he didn't get hurt, but he was shook up real bad. He was getting some treatment for PTSD and would probably be out of sorts for a while. If he acted weird or anything that was the reason, and that he would need our support. We said okay and promised to do what we could.

For a couple weeks the only difference I noticed with Dad was that he was getting really high a lot. PTSD can apparently get you a weed card in the state we live in and he was not shy about using it. He was responsible about it, never drove, did it outside or near an open window. Even when he wasn't stoned he seemed to be back to his gruff, no-nonsense self. Commenting to me about school, harping on me to get a job, asking after girls I'd mentioned. He acted like a normal, involved Dad, just every now and then he'd just get super chill.

It was the middle of Summer, months after he came home, when I woke up one night with the insistent need to pee. I tiptoed to the bathroom and took care of my business when I heard a noise from downstairs. Not a thud or a creak like the house settling, more like a soft thump of a drawer closing. Not a noise that could be made accidentally.

At first I thought it was the dog, but I'd left her curled up in my bed and I doubted my cat could make a sound like that. More curious than worried, I went downstairs, once again trying to keep things quiet.

The only light on the whole floor was a small bulb above the range that we can't turn off anymore, the knob having long since disappeared somewhere, forcing us to simply replace the bulb every few years. Standing there in front of it, facing me, was my Dad.

He, like me, had decided not to get dressed and was only wearing a pair of boxers. He was crouched, bouncing on the balls of his feet and darting his head back and forth, checking his sides. It took him a good ten seconds to notice me standing right in front of him, and when he finally did he almost jumped out of his skin.

I asked him what he was doing and he sputtered something about being thirsty and that I needed to go back to bed. I figured he was smoking in the house again since my Mom put a ban on weed in the house a week ago. I rolled my eyes and told him I wouldn't tell Mom if he was smoking and that we both needed to get some sleep. He started nodding rapidly, and that's when I noticed the knife.

It was his combat knife, a big piece of matte black steel he brought back from Afghanistan. And it was bloody.

I thought he was having a flashback, had maybe hurt himself in a fugue or something. I was about to ask him about it when the front door swung open.

Both of our heads snapped to the noise, but I was the only one who could see the actual door from my position. The screen door was still shut, letting in a bit of moonlight. I remember thinking that was impossible, since you had to open the screen to get to the actual door. A harsh wind blew at me that reeked like burning rubber bands and I recoiled from it. I only had a second to smell it before my Dad rushed over and slammed it shut, cutting off the smell with no lingering odor.

He racked the deadbolt and the chain, even bracing a folding chair under the knob. He turned back to me and asked if I had seen “it” come in. I told him I had no fucking clue what he was talking about and he was scaring me but he just repeated his question, walking close and dropped the knife. When I didn't respond he grabbed me by the head and repeated his question very slowly, never breaking eye contact. I told him I didn't see anything and he let out a sigh of relief.

He let go of me and started pacing the kitchen, muttering inaudibly to himself and wringing his hands. My knees were shaking I was so afraid. I thought my Dad was having a nervous breakdown and he was going to end up hurting himself. I saw the knife on the floor and decided that I needed to keep it away from him, for mine and his sakes. When I grabbed it I could see that it wasn't blood on the knife, the color was lighter and it looked too translucent, like an off-shade of jelly.

My Dad stopped pacing and went stock still, his head cocked like a dog that heard a car door close. He started breathing heavy, eyes going wild. He turned to me and asked me if I could hear something. I shook my head, not hearing anything. My Dad was in an artillery regiment early in his career, and as a result his hearing was completely shot. Him noticing a sound before I did was impossible.

But then, I did start to pick up something. It wasn't a noise, not really. More of a feeling, like someone was blowing in my ear, twitching the hairs in there. I flinched at the sensation, finding it incredibly uncomfortable. I stuck a finger in my ear and swirled it around, finding that it did not help in the slightest.

When my Dad saw me probe my ear he went completely ashen, ghost white. My Dad is the toughest, strongest guy I know, bar none, and I have never seen him look that afraid. Moving faster than I thought he could, he snatched the knife out of my hand, spun me around, and locked his arm around my neck. I struggled a bit, slapping at his arm and trying to wriggle out, but couldn't get out. I felt him sobbing, apologizing and saying that I needed to go to sleep. “You'll be safe in your sleep” that's what he kept saying to me, over and over until I passed out.

When you get choked out, you're only unconscious for about ten seconds, maybe more if you're unlucky. You feel like crap when you come to, but that passes pretty quickly. By the time I woke up and managed to look around, probably about a minute had passed. The range light was off, shattered I found out later, and the front door was open again, except this time to screen was shredded.

My Mom came thumping down the stairs wrapped in a robe. She saw me laying at the base of steps and I told her to call the police.

They found my Dad a little more than a mile away through a sort of thicket near our development. He was all torn up from thorn bushes and he'd been stabbed in the arm by something thick and round like the shaft of a golf club. He was passed out from blood loss by the time the paramedics got to him. They never found the knife.

He had a psychotic episode, the doctors told me, brought on by his PTSD. He claimed that he didn't remember anything, he only recalled waking up late, a few flashes, and then being in the hospital. He apologized, said that nothing like that would ever happen again, and went to his treatment. Every time I tried to talk to him about it, he just said he couldn't remember and that I should just drop it and be grateful it's over.

There was never another incident like that again. No flashbacks, no anxiety or delusions. My Dad stopped smoking and got a job training MP's for the National Guard. My Mom tells me that we're lucky, that with what happened to him it could have been much worse. Guys with PTSD are sometimes nonfunctional, completely shattered by their memories.

I don't think bad memories are all that my Dad brought home from Afghanistan.