by Steven Shafer

waited at a bus stop on an empty street. The rain had cleared an hour before, and I was in no rush to reach my destination. I looked to one end of the street, large billboard advertisements, closed doors, boarded windows. I turned my head towards the other end, empty magazine racks, broken parking meters, abandoned homes. In both directions, there were no people on the cracked and narrow sidewalks. No cars in the long, unevenly paved streets. No signs of any living things. I wondered if the bus would even come this way anymore.

I turned around and saw a man leaning against an old brick wall. His hair grey and frayed, his eyes glazed, his hands shaking. His skin was so pale it seemed transparent. He was wet with days of rain and tears. His clothes stained, a jacket with camouflage print and jeans ripped with the years, socks missing, boots untied. He hadn’t eaten in hours, he hadn’t slept in days, he hadn’t bathed in weeks. He left the firm balance of the wall and was now standing next to a pile of empty liquor bottles, and a discarded canister of pills. When I looked into his eyes they did not look back, they stared past, miles past, not taking the time to blink. In his eyes I saw fear and hatred, not towards me, but towards himself. I wondered if he was always there, or had just walked up, either way, I did not notice him before.

The man turned his head slightly more towards me, but still not able to reach my eyes. A bright reflection hit my view and I noticed a small medal, rusted, poised over his heart. His mouth opened, I could see gaps where teeth had once been and he spoke heavy uneven words, as if he had not spoken in years.

“I am a murderer

By any definition
I was given a pay order and a checklist
Of men to turn into bodies
Statistics

I was trained to forget everything I learned
Do not kill, do not steal, do not rape
Not only forget, but rebel against every moral teaching
And I was payed for it

I watched families being ripped apart
In the metaphoric and horrific literal
Blood stained my face for days
And I needed it

My Mother told me to obey my God
My God told me to protect my State
And my State gave me a gun,
Pointed me in a direction and I slayed anyone in our way

My gun turned men into blood
Their blood turned dirt into mud

I saw my friends fall to the ground, and I felt nothing
I was told to feel nothing
I killed an enemy and felt a seething joy in my very soul
I was told to feel everything

I knew a man who raped three women
He was with me in training
I watched this man win a medal
The same medal I still wear today

I am a hitman

You may say I’m just a lunatic now
But I was trained to be a lunatic
I had to win my State’s honor
I had to win my Mother’s love

I had to make another man’s mother weep
I had to do this to make my mother tell me
Just how proud she is that I drank the blood of my enemies
And ended another young mans life

If I were born in Roman times a sword I would yield
Tribal times a club
I would have had the same honor
Of not dying but causing death

But, after you kill a man you can’t think straight
And when you get home you can’t tell the stories like they really happened
You start to envy the men you killed
They didn’t have to lie, they didn’t have to hold back every horrific painful emotion

I wish I could go back, so I could die in honor
Then my wife wouldn’t think I’m crazy
My mom wouldn’t turn her back
They couldn’t

And then I could die assuming their honor and respect
Instead of knowing it does not exist

I am a murderer.”

Saying nothing more, he turned toward an alley and walked away as the bus came to a creaking stop. I decided to walk instead, I was in no rush and it was a nice day. I started heading towards my destination as the bus drove past.