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“Killin’ Ain't a Forgivin’ Sin”

2018; Wiley; Volume: 67; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1111/jgs.15574

1532-5415

Paul Rousseau,

Intelligence, Security, War Strategy

“Cancer done laid eggs all over my body, and I'm worried.” Don's voice grates like an old hinge needing oil. “What worries you?” “I'm a killer.” He smirks. “Don't worry, doc; I wasn't no killer like Charles Manson, I was a sniper in Vietnam. They picked me ‘cause I was the best shooter in boot camp. Hell, I'd hunted deer and duck since I was no higher than a letter slot in a door. If I took aim, it was good as dead; in fact, my buddies called me Deadeye.” I glance at his hands; they're like knuckled mountains, his fingers grimed stubs yellowed from cigarettes. He notices. “My fingers weren't always twisted stumps, they were smooth and straight, ‘specially my trigger finger.” He bends his index finger slowly, repeatedly, as if pulling a trigger. “You're worried because you were a sniper?” “I'm worried ‘cause I'm guilty of killin’ innocent people, people that never did nothin’ to me. My old sergeant in Nam told me it's the politicians that are guilty, not us grunts, but truth is, I'm as guilty as the politicians.” “Why are you guilty?” “I'm guilty ‘cause my killin’ wasn't honest. Honest killin's lookin’ your enemy in the eye. My killin’ was eye-to-finger—my eye, my finger, you're dead.” “But in war, it's kill or be killed,” I say. “It ain't that simple, doc. They didn't know it was comin’; they didn't have no chance to defend themselves. I'd see a gook—and I know I ain't ‘sposed to be usin’ that word, but that's what we called ‘em—walkin’, talkin’, maybe showin’ a picture of his wife and kids. I'd wait until I had a good shot, then bang, he'd be gone. Walkin’ one minute, dead the next, a pool of blood his tombstone.” He scrunches his brow and clenches his fingers. “I got such a rush killin’. I controlled a man's life, and I was only 19. I was the CEO of death. My finger was God. But when you're young, ya don't think about the guilt and regret that's festerin’ beneath, that one day you and God are gonna have to have a talk about your sinnin’. I'm afraid doc, really afraid, cause I'm goin’ to hell; there ain't no fixin’ the past.” “We've all done things we're sorry for, some worse than others, but we're only human, we're imperfect. You've repented, you've asked for forgiveness. I think God has forgiven you.” “I wish I believed that, doc; I really do, but I don't. Killin’ ain't a forgivin’ sin.” “Maybe talking to a…” “Don't be askin’ if I wanna see a shrink or a therapist or a chaplain, ‘cause I don't. I just gotta deal with it.” “Sometimes talking helps.” “I know, doc, but they're always diggin’ and pryin’ and askin’ about things I don't wanna talk about. I'll say what I wanna say when I wanna say it. Besides, it's between me and God, not me and another man.” I didn't know what to say, for there were no words to say. That's the trouble with death, all the loose ends, the things said and unsaid, the things done that can't be undone. It's a blunt reminder of how damning too late can feel. He glances at the window. “I hate to ask ya doc, but before ya go, could ya push me to the courtyard? I get so fretful sittin’ in my room, it's like my nerves’ done been picked clean; smokin’ helps take the edge off.” “It's against my rules, but…” I smile. Outside, he cups his hands around the end of a Camel, strikes a match, and takes a deep drag. A cloud of blue smoke hovers. He smiles like a starving man stumbling upon a hoard of food. “I know they're killin’ me doc, but I still love ‘em. Besides, it don't matter now.” He nods towards a group of people hurrying wherever people hurry. “When you're sick and dyin’, ya wanna run, just like those folks, but problem is, there ain't no place to run. It's all dead ends.” He sits bent in the wheelchair, ashing his cigarette, then takes a final puff and tosses it to the ground. “I'm done with my coffin nail, doc; I think I need me some rest.” I reach to push his wheelchair. He grabs my hand and pulls me close, so close I can smell the wet smoke on his breath. His hand trembles. “Doc, me and time, we got a shaky marriage. I'll see ya in the mornin’ won't I? I'll still be here, right?” “You will,” I answer. Later that evening, a telephone call awakens me. Don has died. I feel regret and shame. Don's questions were like a sick canary in a coal mine, yet I answered with hurried, lip-service words. I failed to hear his fear, and I failed to be present; I failed him at the time of death. And with death, there's no redress for failure, only a final and unforgiving silence. Conflict of Interest: None. Author Contributions: I am the sole author of this manuscript. Sponsor's Role: None.