The Wronged

I didn't kill anyone.
I never wanted to kill anyone, and I really mean that.
I have never killed anyone.

I've been here for so long, just down here. No one cares about you after a war. I fought my war, and I paid the price for giving my all for my country. I still have nightmares about it, you know? Terrible, terrible nightmares. We're in the jungle, crouching so low that our noses are practically in the dirt, and we aren't even breathing, because we're so terrified of dying. We don't want them to hear us. We don't want them to find us. God, please don't let us be found.

We're there in the dense jungle, it's pitch black. I can't see my own nose there on my face. My body hurts, and we don't have any more water, and none of us believe in the war we're fighting, but god dammit, we're going to fight it, no matter how many of us don't come home. Oh, God, I want to go home. God. I don't believe in God now, and never will I again. The things I've seen...no God let's that happen. But there we are, in the jungle, inching along, our breaths held, praying that we'll all be alright.

We won't be alright.
We will never be alright.

Then one of us coughs, or another sneezes, or another trips, it's always different, but the end result is the same. They are upon us. Descending from nowhere in a burst of bullets, and we're all screwed, no way we'll live this. In the light of the gunfire I see my best friend's head blown apart, but I'm too shocked to care. I'm dead too, within seconds. And then I wake up, covered in sweat, the sheets soaked.

But I'll tell you right now, I killed no one.
I can't kill anyone.

But those nightmares are long gone. I can't sleep anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Her face is my eternal reminder.

It was just another routine call. Another private and I were sent out to investigate a small village two miles north of where we were stationed. It was believed to be safe, because Agent Orange made sure that there was no foliage for anyone to hide behind. We were safe. At least, we were supposed to be. As my partner and I approached the village, we saw nothing but burned huts and bodies scattered everywhere. I didn't kill anyone though, I never did.

It's hard to tell who the bad guys are. But I'm not a bad man. I go to church every Sunday, and I hope to make my peace with a god that I don't believe in.

There were only two huts standing. Charred, but standing. And I heard the most terrifying noises I have ever heard in my life that day. It was emanating from a less-charred hut. I slowly approached it as my partner went to look at the other. I was shaking violently, but I had to see if I can help in anyway. The closer I got, the more the stench of death fouled the air. I had my mouth and nose covered by the time I got there.

God, I wish I didn't get there.

I saw an older woman cradling a dead body, surely one we killed. A simple farmer. He must have been dead for several days, judging from the smell, and the decay. But the lady hadn't left him. She didn't even know I was there. Not until I spoke, anyways.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?"
Then that woman looked up at me with the most penetrating stare I have ever seen. Her eyes seemed to pierce me, and her stare was physically painful. She began to scream, and produced a gun, and pointed it at me.

"Ma'am, please don't do this, I don't want to kill you! Please, god, don't. Put the gun down, put it down!"
She screamed, louder, and then put the gun to her head, and pulled the trigger. Brain matter flew everywhere, and the pistol dropped with a thud, but her eyes were still open, transfixed on me. The eyes of the wronged.

My partner came running over, and saw what had happened. He smiled widely, and remarked about how he wished he had been there to see me kill her.
But I didn't kill anyone.
"Sure you didn't."

He patted me on the back lazily, and then mentioned how we should start heading back. We made it back, but I didn't sleep that night, nor the next. Whenever I did fall asleep, it was due to exhaustion, and when I slept, I didn't dream. I was thankful for that, because I know her eyes would be in my dreams, the eyes of the wronged.

A few months after that, I came back home, but I didn't get a hero's welcome.I was spit at for fighting a war we lost. Who cares about the loser of a war? There's no glory in that. I came back to find that my wife had left me, I had lost my house, and I had nowhere to go. That's the welcome I deserved. I've since made my living working at a slummy auto repair shop, sleeping in my car, and making a meager living off of that. I was forgotten, but that's the loser's reward.

We're the good guys though, I have to keep reminding myself that.