Beyond Our Imperfections

By Shad'e Zuiweta

After growing up with a past that haunts him and serving a tour of duty in Afghanistan, Wyatt Steele returns home with high hopes of leading a normal life with his wife and young daughter. But little does he know his wife would become a stranger, neglecting their daughter.

When at home he is frequently ridiculed and blamed for everything bad that is happening in their surroundings. He turns to a bad habit to keep sane. The only people he has left are his two friends and father who shares his troubled past. Shortly thereafter, his wife files for a divorce. Just then, Wyatt's life hits rock bottom. But when he thinks his life is over, a random outing with friends changes everything.

He meets Sasha Bennett, a young, attractive African American woman who challenges him. At first, he does not think much of her, making comparisons between his present and the weight of the past. Wyatt's life takes a dramatic turn when a chance meeting, as if by fate, brings them together again after a while. She levels him, and their bond is inseparable. But the pressure of her family and secrets reveal that the trials of love are far more challenging than he expected to make it through. ???? ??? ????? ??????? ???? ? ??? ?? ????? ? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ????????

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A  heartbreaking read of how life can take us on an emotional roller coaster- how love can do the unimaginable, break our hearts, and draw us away- heal us with it and restore faith. Readers who loved The Notebook by Author Nicholas Sparks - will enjoy the stunning, and emotional narrative depth of Beyond Our Imperfections.


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• Language: English
• Publisher: Enscope Publsihing
• Release date: Sep 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215509296

Book preview

Prologue

PRESENT DAY

Two sessions every two weeks and still nothing. Why do you go back, then? they ask. It is because every time I set foot in that building, the therapist always makes me feel another way coming out of it. That is why I keep going back: for that temporary healing to suppress the anxiety, you know.

I run from the elevator down the hall, passing multiple glass doors, turning the heads of bystanders who probably think I’m just some person running amok. From several feet away, I see the last door at the end of the hall, where I am supposed to be for my session. I glance at my watch. I am late for my appointment, but the receptionist said that I have a ten-minute grace period, and I haven’t met that yet.

As I push through the glass door and walk inside, the receptionist stands up and smiles. She knows me from my regular sessions, always greeting me in the kindest of ways with a little sweetness on top. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was flirting each time.

I reach the room where it is all done, entering the chamber of torture she guides me to, every time for forty-five minutes, or sometimes sixty. Each session strips my vulnerability to its bones.

I stand dormant in the same place that I always stand—by the bay window—in my suit and tie, staring down from the highest floor of the building. The people scattering below are like busy army ants. My therapist sits across from my dwindling expression with her pad, flipping a pen between her thumb and index finger. Words echo from her lips but they die on my ears; only the voice of my wife lingers in my thoughts now. I am a volcano, someday ready to erupt what I’ve kept bottled inside, as her voice whispers of memories which reminisce upon my heart, no longer to be mine.

I get dressed up for these sessions now, preaching about my failed attempts in finding a cure for my wife’s epilepsy, rarely building things with these God-given hands. I don’t know why I complain. It could be the lifestyle of the organization I own now, for which I am accustomed to working tirelessly every day. I would have loved to share it with my sweetheart. Or perhaps to help those like her overcome the challenges of living with that disease. I share the difficulties with my therapist instead. What issues don’t we share with them, as a listening ear? The room is thirty degrees warmer than it is outside. My therapist keeps it warm in here, but I never complain that she should turn on the air conditioning sometimes. Or it could just be me.

I take the crumpled letter my wife gave me out of my suit jacket and read the three words of the last sentence: Please forgive me. I can’t take my eyes off it. My fingers encounter a prickliness from nervousness and I flex them. I lay my jacket across the chaise for a breather. This is going to be a hard session—like all the others. I find my story hard to tell, and every time I break out in cold sweats when I try. Maybe I’ll tell my therapist the entire story of what led to my anxiety this time. Or I could just jump to my death from this window and end the suffering.

I tremble at the sound of the therapist thumbing through the pages of her black book. All the negatives and positives she keeps in there.

While I’ll never be able to love another like I love my sweetheart, I want to put this thing to bed.

Are you ready to begin?

I suppose. I wrap my finger around my tie. Let’s get it over with.

I can hear my therapist in the background for a moment, then everything goes silent.

Before my sweetheart, living was like a myth I longed to discover. Now I’ve convinced myself that flowers will take root in the emptiness of my heart someday, and sprout me a beautiful season, far from the one I’ve been living without her. What is a man, if not living in love beside the one he calls a good wife? The woman he needs?

My therapist reaches for a glass of water. After quenching her thirst, she then takes her pad and pen back out. She wants to know everything, if I can find it in me to share this time. I am her last session for the day, and with that she has all the time in the world to listen. I shift my gaze to the window.

Everything? I smile to myself, not turning away from the window.

Yes, Wyatt. Start from the beginning, from your time in the Army to when you married her. I want to help you move past these difficulties, so that you can create the future you wish to.

Okay, I think I can start from the beginning...

Chapter One

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BATTLEGROUNDS—YEAR 2001

My brothers of the battlefield thought I was crazy. That I didn’t have the same level of concern for my life as others. But I got an adrenaline rush every day that we traveled out into dangerous lands, and I loved everything about my duty. They all told me that I should value my life. I had one prayer, along with a certain scripture, which I read from the Book of Psalms every day before we moved out, and I made it known that I felt if it was my time to die, then it was my time.

2001 was a year I would never forget, from all my years in the Army. It was the time I learned my greatest life lesson; when I understood that the life we have can be taken in seconds. Because of that, you should never take it for granted. My military occupational specialty at the time gave me the status of tanker. I loved my career, but I wanted more out of it.

The skies bordered a dark grey, moving above me with every step I took across the sand, which crunched beneath my feet. It was a Saturday afternoon in Afghanistan—I remembered that well; I was counting down the days until my return home.

A soldier yelled up ahead and cold chills ripped throughout my body. My fingers tightened around my rifle as a cloud of dust came over us, hovering around me and my brothers in arms. Then we were experiencing the horror of our lives, as our enemies attacked us.

The tinnitus kept coming and going, but that didn’t distract me from carrying out my duty. My eyes scanned my surroundings for any threats, as if my life depended on it. As I hastened through the hungry dirt which devoured my boots, the sounds of gunfire and explosives rang out, clouding the air with smoke and pollutants. Soldiers cried out for help.

My heart pounded in and out of my chest and my face poured with sweat as I rushed to take cover, but also being aware of my enemy. Although this was not my first time in Afghanistan, from the look of things I thought it would be my last. The situation escalated as I aimed the muzzle of my rifle at intense attack points, war raging with a group of heavily armed and ruthless terrorists. They took no chances and neither did we.

The wind, initially heavy, slowed some then halted. The gunshots ceased as well, seeming to me a good sign. None of our enemies were close, nor distantly continuing their attack on us. The smoke wasn’t as bad as before, but it was still mildly floating in the air.

It was quiet. Too peaceful, I’d say at the time. I wanted to think we had won, but I knew better than celebrating when on the battlefield. I crept out of cover, keeping my head low to any danger, not underestimating the capability of our attackers.

My crew members cried out to one another, some reporting that they were okay. Even though I was with the best team from Fort Riley, they had done a number on us.

Check for survivors, Steele, the squad leader instructed from behind me.

Yes, sir.

I nodded to the loader and, without hesitation, led the way out. The silence was greater the minute my boots sank in the dry Afghanistan soil. In my gloved hands, I clutched the M4A1 carbine, right-hand index finger on the trigger. Despite my shaking hands, I moved in ready to fire if any action was set off by my approach. The pillars that our enemies had attacked from were now empty, from my knowledge, and the win felt superior.

I crouched behind the loader with my eyes all around me, catching a glimpse of something silver, about a hundred meters left from me. I looked again to be sure…

And caught sight of a next generation, light anti-track weapon pointed straight at us.

Fall back! I shouted.

A sharp and powerful sound approached, as I bolted toward one of the pillars farthest from the tank, but the blast knocked me forward. A wave of heat and tiny particles pierced through my body. Our enemies had come out of nowhere, and the gunfire resumed before I could take cover.

I dragged my weight, resting my back against the pillar, my gun still glued to my hand and my eyes scanning the surroundings. My breath was heavy and the tinnitus worse than it had ever been; the ringing was sharp in my right ear. Thankfully, I wasn’t too badly hurt.

For a moment I focused on the noise, until a groan of pain from someone nearby earned my attention. It was one of us. I forced myself onto my knees and crawled to the injured man.

Medic! I need a medic! I shouted, as I got closer to him.

Help me! the soldier cried.

Stay with me. I don’t need you letting go.

Okay.

I knew that he could not move; both legs were like branches barely hanging on to a tree. He tried to talk again, and I retrieved the soldier’s IFAK to stop the bleeding.

The medic will be here soon, I said, trying to give him some reassurance. Save your energy. You’re going to need it. The blasts and gunshots, however, suppressed my voice.

I tried applying pressure on the soldier’s wounds, but he was bleeding from various places, not only his legs. It was a lot to bear. The soldier reached for his dog tag and yanked it from his neck; a letter was in his other hand. His bloodshot eyes focused on mine as he handed them over to me.

Please make sure my family gets these. He dropped his hand beside him.

I need a medic! We’re losing him!

I was certain I would get a response, and a medic from our team was running toward us by the time I had finished the sentence. I put the dog tag in my breast pocket and gripped my gun again, covering the medic as he worked.

The moment the medic was with us I looked down to study the soldier’s wounds. But everything was different when I looked up; the soldier’s eyes were still on me but he lay unblinking, his body motionless.

He’s gone, the medic informed me.

I sighed, Damn it.

You’re in bad shape yourself, said the medic. Let me have a look at those wounds for you.

I shook my head. No, I’ve got to help the others, I stated, while reloading my weapon.

I paused for a moment, trying to think, but I couldn’t escape from the pain. Sweat covered my face and dripped into my eyes from the scorching sun, but nothing broke me. I mustered up the courage to crouch and shuffle past a couple of pillars, making my way over to find more injured soldiers. The gunfire had toned down some, but I felt there were more wounded men out there somewhere.

As I tried to get one man to safety, a bullet struck me, penetrating fire into my lower abdomen, and we tumbled to the ground together.

This was it. I just knew it.

My breath slowed and my eyes grew heavy that I could hardly keep them open. My head fell toward my chest as my body sunk to the ground. My eyes were still open, but all sounds of life and the whistling of birds were fading in my ears. I had to keep myself from blacking out somehow—but those words were easier to speak than to act on—from the pain I realized was trying to bring me the death I had signed up for. Who was going to carry me on their back to safety? I got to my feet, pressing into the earth at a slower pace now.

Our enemies had been using RPGs more than anything else, but we used the NLAWs to take them down. We finally won. Thirty-two soldiers lost their lives, fifty wounded and another thirty with minor injuries, yet we still won.

I opened my mouth for a drink of water from my canteen, while I rested in the dirt as the rescue helicopter came down, picking up all the wounded soldiers, myself included. It was a relief to be out of the battleground and medevacked to a private camp, where we received treatment for our injuries. I relaxed myself on the gurney, thinking of my family.

The more I thought about my wife and child, the more excited I got that I would see them in April—next month. Still, in my heart, time wasn’t moving fast enough for me.

♦♦♦

My time in the Army was finally over. The trials, tribulations and sacrifices of my last deployment were one hell of an experience, but it had finally come to a much-anticipated end. I was ready for the life-affirming presence of my wife and daughter to greet me. It felt like a lifetime that I had been away from them. In no time I was at the airport, looking for my family, whom I would hug and hold tightly the moment I saw them.

Instead, my father came into sight as I walked from the ramp to the center of the airport, gripping my bags. My eyebrows scrunched together as I held my unexpectant gaze on his.

He raised a banner to his chest, with the words Welcome Home Wyatt written on it. I hadn’t been expecting him, but I waved anyway. From the expression I read on his face, I could see he was aware of