The Deadly Sins of Truth

THE DEADLY SINS OF TRUTH

            He peered down at his worn hands, forged through the fires of self-hatred and envy of others. The cold didn’t help either, causing his torn hands to turn red and scar by the constant itching of his dry skin. The numerous scars that covered his hands and arms revealed a story of one’s darkness within the cold light. That crepuscular past was left alone, he was left alone. For too long it seemed. He quickly covered his past within his jacket’s sleeve hoping no one would witness his own torment. He looked up from his hands to see a little girl standing in front of him, the obvious look in her face showed confusion and fear. But this little girl carried more courage than most men; she was one of the few who knew how to live in this painful life, she was apart of a dying breed. And sadly she was dying faster and faster.

            The short silence between the two was broken by the man’s muffled coughing as his jacket acted as a defense against the airborne germs from spreading. “Hello,” he greeted her; his weak voice was a clear sign of the beginning of the end. She nodded in acknowledgement, then replied, “We’re both dying, ain’t we?” The question shocked the aging man, but nevertheless he nodded in agreement. Another heavy cough muffled once more by his jacket. “I’m sorry, mister” she commented, the man looked into her young green eyes, “No-” he was coughing more and more, “There’s no need to be, we both can feel it, right?” he asked her. She accepted the question, “Yes,” she paused, walking closer to the man and eventually sitting beside him on the old wooden bench, “What do you have, mister?” she asked him politely. He looked down at his hands once again, cover his mouth just as he begun to cough, then spat a mixture of saliva and a small amount of blood onto the snowy sidewalk.

            He turned his head slowly towards her, “Lung Cancer,” his hesitation to ask her was brief, “And you? What do you have?” She stared at the busy city street; buses, taxis, and various cars make and models drove by, passing as the pair discussed their deaths. “Stage IIA Breast Cancer, sir.” As his view changed from her to the street he whispered to himself, “Damn”, she looked over, despite the loud commotion from the morning traffic she could hear him whisper, his words were only a murmur, but she could hear them, his words praying for the young girl that sat beside him, not a single word for himself. She acted as if she didn’t hear him and instead watched the white contrails of a jet break the constant blue of the morning sky, she looked back at him, “Thank you, mister” she got up to leave, turning towards him to say goodbye, “Goodbye, sir. I hope to see you again, Merry Christmas.” He knew what she meant, and he hoped to see her again too.

            He pushed aside the waning door, the blue paint clipping off to reveal a dirty white that lied underneath, another cough, more blood. He walked in, flipping the motel room’s lights on to uncover what the darkness hid; a disgusting small one room area; dirty, used clothes piled upon each other in one corner; old bags of fast food in another corner; the window cracked open, with the curtains knocked to the dirty floor. This had been his home for the past few years, ever since his wife left him to rot with his sickness, “That b***h,” he thought to himself, “Why she’d have to give up in my time of need.” His wife was the main source of support in his life; emotionally, finically, and physically. He couldn’t get a job; he was a veteran of a former war, known as a “baby-killer”, known as an evil-doer, known as an outcast by the American public and its government.

            After she left him to die, he could barely walk right, his legs were crushed from shrapnel of metal, bark, and dirt during his time in the ‘bush’. The memories of tall grass and the flaming hulk of a crashed helicopter haunted his mind for ages. The visions of dead brothers, dead enemies, and images of his own death upon the rice paddies sparked nightmares every time he attempted to sleep, he, like the little girl, was dying faster and faster. His world was slowly bending into itself, imploding within itself, and there was nothing he could do. But, he wasn’t afraid to die, no; he was ready for it, wanting it since the sickness begun. His fear was the afterlife, was there really a Heaven or a Hell. He feared that his actions would cause him to burn; he never wanted to kill them, but he had no choice, Calley made the order, and he was a soldier, he had no choice but to follow the order.

            “I should’ve done what Carter done…” he thought to himself, everyday would end with him thinking this to himself, but the past is the past, and he knew there was nothing he could do. He walked towards his empty bed, a bed which had been abandoned for years, save for himself. He creped underneath the blood and piss stained blankets in an attempt to end this long day, reaching over towards the forsaken nightstand which held the lone lamp, he turned the small knob, flooding the dimly lit room with a plague of darkness. He laid there, on his back, thinking of the little girl he met this morning. He hoped his sins were forgiven, just in case there really was a Heaven or Hell, he wanted to be in Heaven. With a final sigh he closed his eyes to sleep.

            The light pierced through the motel window, its heavenly rays penetrated his closed eyes, awaking him. It took some time for him to wake up; he turned his attention to his alarm clock, the hands of time read 7:22. He sighed as he twisted his body towards the darker corner of the room, he wanted to stay asleep, this was the first time in a long time where he was asleep for more than an hour, he tried to fall asleep once more, but to no avail. Another sigh, which lead to a short coughing spree, blood fell upon the white pillow, he rubbed it in. It was something he was use too, it was more than a daily part of life, it was his life. He finally found the strength to arise from his bed, a feat which nearly took him an hour, “Damn, 8:17” he muttered to himself.

            He noticed his jacket lying on the wet floor, the snow had melted, dampening the cheap carpet and his cheap jacket, but this jacket was his only one. He bent down to pick it up, the usual back pain settled in, “Damn”, he slowly rose to place the soaked jacket on, slipped on his worn tennis shoes, which had patches and holes all over them. He opened the nightstand’s draw, having to pull it hard to actually make it open, he grabbed the fading wallet from it, checked to make sure all his money was there; five dollars. By the end of the day he knew it would be gone. He placed the leather wallet in his back pocket and walked out of the motel room, slowly shutting the door behind him. The snow, like usual, filled the holes of his shoes as he walked from the motel complex, pass the near vacant parking lot, and continuing on the sidewalk.

            He walked to where he usually went every morning: the aging bench that entertained the passing crowd as an artifact from yesteryears which had already passed. There he sat, in the wet and moist of the melting snow, waiting for something significant to happen. Something that rarely happened, hours passed, the middle-aged man finally found sleep as he laid upon the wet bench. Then he awoke, it was sudden but it wasn’t from his flashbacks and war memories, it was from something entirely different. He slowly leaned up, scanned the still, quiet street. The sun still shown, its fading heat rested upon his broken body, he turned to his right, there she was. The little girl had found him again; he smiled, then slowly waved at the young girl.

            The little girl acknowledged his greeting, then signaled for him to come towards her. He nodded his head in agreement, gradually rising his old body upon its weaken feet, he walked towards her, despite his torn legs, he was somehow able to walk right, the first time in a long time. He wasn’t sure how he was moving so perfect, but he didn’t really care. He knew something wanted him beside the girl, as a protector, as a father figure, as a guardian angel, he knew something wanted him there to defend her. He finally made his short trek, which felt like forever, she offered her hand, and he held her palm within his. He turned to her, smiled and said “Hello.” She stared at him, smiled back, turned the two of them towards the opposite direction she was facing, she tightly held his hand. And, he tightly held hers. The pair begun to walk away from the aging wooden bench, from the quiet street, from the entire world.         

Author's Note

Enjoy!