Guilt

No one can predict anything. Not an astronomer with the stars in his hands, or a palmist who can trace the patterns of skin. Not a farmer who watches eagerly as her crops blossom and grow into things good enough to eat. Not even a lawyer who defends his clients with the most obvious ease. Things can lead to a premonition, a lone guess of better things to come. But nothing is certain – it’s never certain whether you will wake up and smile or wake up and ask yourself why. It’s never certain whether you will draw the most amazing masterpiece or a single line on a white page. It’s never certain whether a bud will grow into the most beautiful flower or get eaten by pests as a seed.

Only one thing is certain; life and its ultimate demise.

Why did I not save him? Why did I not try harder to rescue him, stop the bleeding, save his life? What’s one more body amongst the thousands that died before? I let him die. A bullet wound is fatal. I could’ve done more. I could’ve saved one more person.

Gerard shouted at his brother, screaming for him to wake, screaming at me for not trying hard enough, screaming at his comrades to let him go as they struggled to keep him away. It was his brother. It was understandable. He was all Gerard had. Mikey, I think he said his name was.

They weren’t just brothers, Gerard had said when we were allowed to rest. They were best friends. And I took that from them, the special bond that they both held so willingly on to. How could I forgive myself? He was a special person – a son, a brother, perhaps even a husband or fiancé – and it’s all my fault.

Ever since I was young I always wanted to save everyone, never wanted anyone to feel harm, feel alone, feel unsafe. Maybe I was simply naïve, living inside my head. Maybe I was too determined, too ambitious. Or maybe I was just stupid, thinking that the problems of the world – war, poverty, intolerance – were small enough for me to change. I’m a coward. I should’ve tried harder. It’s all my fault that Gerard doesn’t have a brother anymore.

Gerard avoided us that night, choosing instead to have a cigarette propped against a mound of hay. We left him alone. He needed to calm down. Frank said he saw him crying, sucking in quiet gasps and trying to conceal his tears. Said he heard him whispering Mikey’s name into the dark, French air, too. I should’ve done more. I let him die. And it’s all my fault.

We’d all been lucky not to perish, not to fall under the enemies. But Mikey was unfortunate. I could’ve done more. I should’ve done more. He screamed for Gerard as he bled, I remember. He clawed at the sand, agony etched into his dirty face, screaming out for the brother that so desperately screamed back. But the gunshots and screams of other men deafened the sound. He was unheard over the terrified shouts of pain and discomfort from the rest of the battalion. But I heard him. I heard them both. I haven’t been able to stop hearing it.

There were so many other men that died that night and I selfishly concentrated on one. And even then it was all in vain. I’m a coward. And I should’ve saved him. He died because of me. And Gerard cried because of me.

I survived long enough to see the war end. Frank and Gerard did too, barely. Bob didn’t – he was hit by an exploding grenade a few weeks before the armistice was declared. I could’ve saved him too. But he was dead before he hit the ground. Despite this, I tried. I tried so hard. But he lost his arms and left leg that night, and I could’ve tried harder.

Gerard went home to his wife, daughter and parents. Back to New Jersey, back to a happy life with his family. But he doesn’t have a brother, a best friend anymore, because of me. When they examined Mikey’s body after he died, they found a few photographs, a letter, a razor and a chain with a padlock on the end. One of the photographs was of a woman; a pretty thing she was, dark hair framing her face perfectly. I never asked if he was married. Gerard never mentioned it.

Another of the photographs was of his parents, smiling and happy, young, in love. And the last of the photographs was him, Gerard and a group of joyful men, standing on a beach somewhere. They looked juvenile, happy, peaceful. His brother said Mikey was always his best friend, his life support when things went wrong, and it was easy to tell. But I ruined it, and now Gerard has no one.

The letter was from the woman – named Alicia, apparently – in which she wrote about home life and wishing him well. She signed it with three x’s. The paper was browning and folded in half so many times that it looked like it would tear through the middle. The corners were torn and soggy from the sea. And the handwriting was messy, ink splodges occasionally littering the page. But it was a token of love, of comfort; nourishment at its finest. I’d seen him read it so many times, smooth the page with his thumb and smile when he reached the end. He’d then pocket it quickly before anyone could see him acting any less than brave.

But I always saw it and I know Gerard did too.

The chain with the padlock was a peculiar thing. I rescued it from his corpse and gave it to Gerard a few days after the incident happened. I can only guess it was a family affair. When Gerard grasped the silver object in his hand, he looked so sad, so forlorn, to which he explained “he had it all along” without anything more. It was scratched and faded in many places. It didn’t even look silver anymore. I never questioned it, though, and wholeheartedly left Gerard alone with the small possession.

When we both arrived back in New Jersey, he introduced me to his family. Frank had disappeared somewhere, presumably to greet his family too. His parents were older than their photograph, wrinkles on the sides of their eyes. But they only looked sad for one minute when Mikey didn’t arrive before they composed themselves and introduced each other. I felt like a traitor, shaking hands with Mr. Way when I was the one who hadn’t worked hard enough to save their youngest son. Mrs. Way looked dreadfully heartbroken at the sight of only one of her children. I felt ashamed. I could’ve saved him. I should’ve.

I was swept away by my own wife at that moment. Her arms enveloped me into a tight embrace and she whispered things in my ear. She was crying so I wiped her tears and kissed her cheek. I’d missed her so much. My wife is my strength, the love of my life, my inspiration. For that moment I let Mikey’s last screaming seconds filter out of my brain and concentrated on the beautiful woman who was hugging me and kissing me. I grasped her hand. It was warm to the touch, slightly sweaty and soft. She’d painted her nails a lovely shade of light pink, something which she only ever does for special occasions. I felt home for the first time since I arrived in France.

Even after all the years, the pets we owned, the houses we lived in, I never forgot the horrified screams of torture and affliction that swam in the moist, salty air that night. I never forgot the blood, the sickening stench of death. I never stopped feeling guilty. I never stopped wishing I’d saved him. I never stopped wishing I could make things up to Gerard. I never stopped wishing I could’ve predicted Mikey’s footsteps and persuaded him not to do it. I always remembered. I always felt horrible for what I never did.

Nothing is certain. I couldn’t have predicted that it would turn out so badly. The war ending didn’t occur to me. I’ve felt guilty ever since.

It was all my fault. I’m sorry.