I have been writing on you for months. Journal entries were supposed to be beneficial – rejuvenating, giving mental peace, strength and what not. I do not know dear. I have not been doing any better since I started I am not doing very well lately. It is not your fault of course – you have been listening, keeping my words safe for me to come back and read again. Ponder on them and then try to put me to sleep at night. I have bad dreams, dear. Very bad ones. There’s a lot of blood, and then I hurt myself and then I wake up. Every night. Then I lie in my bed, scared and shivering till the dawn breaks. I am one miserable human being.
I killed a man. I did. There. I have been trying to tell you, but euphemisms don’t cut it anymore. Remember that day? – Check the entry from a couple of months before- when I mentioned that quote from Macbeth? I love those lines, here – “… the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!”
I digress. I can’t seem to hold my mind to the thought. That I’m a killer. There seems to be no further road down that end. Is that normal? I do not know any other murderers. This is my debut. I can’t recall a movie where they show the insides of a killer’s mind. It must not be pretty. So Jennie. I killed a man. All I am trying to say is that there is nothing remarkable about this whole situation. When I wrote that sentence out, after it had ricocheted inside my head a million times, I have finished everything that had to be said about this whole situation event. That was the only remarkable thing about the whole thing important part. It has changed me, I know – I can feel it in me. Or why would I give you a name, Jennie, and write on you, as if these entries were letters to my best friend? I’m glad you can’t talk though. That gives me time to think.
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t kill him. I tried my best. They brought him in, all blood and gore. He was probably a cruel man himself. Might have killed a dozen other kids – with dreams and futures. It doesn’t matter. Please tell me it doesn’t matter?
Why can’t I speak about this? It is maddening. I know this is supposed to work. I need a catharsis.
Trust me, there is nothing else that I want to do than let this out. There has to be a way. To mend the wounds without slashing them. To just let it out, and scream at it to not return, ever.
I shall try that again.
I didn’t kill him.
I am a promising surgeon. I’m just 27. I know my books and my craft. I follow rules, I respect my lessons. I obeyed my mentors, I believe in God. Yet, on my first procedure, a man died. In my arms. I saw his heart pause, permanently. He was shot in the chest, and a bullet, of many, had punctured his left lung. He had lost copious amounts of blood. Cardiac massage, clamping the aorta – I tried everything. I literally held his heart in my hands and rubbed it with all my might, to get the blood flowing into the brain. Does that sound scary? It is, but again, I had signed up for this and believe it or not- I cherished this. I was a man who could do things, impossible things. I know how humans work, like a mechanic who works with the engine turned on, I could mend us. It was all in line with what I knew and practiced. Yet, it happened. The man just died. It wasn’t in his stars to be alive for more than those few minutes with me.
He hardly had opened his eyes the entire evening. I had talked to him a lot. Egging him on – to breathe, to send his fluids back into him than out, in red. Could he hear me? I hope he did. I want him to know that I did my best.
Thank God, I’m an informed one. There were ways of dealing with this. A lot of documentation and studies. Writing has helped, Jennie. You have been wonderful. I think this has done the trick finally. I feel better now. Much better. In fact, I don’t think I need to write anymore though. Except that there is this niggling feeling that bothers me, at times.
I just can’t figure out what is bothering me. They all told me it was fine. “These things happen.” Why did they say ‘these’ things? Did they mean it was an accident, a mishap perhaps? I don’t think they did. They all knew how good I was. How meticulous and professional. It wasn’t an accident. There were others to see. None of them offered any word of advice though, on what to do later. I didn’t even see the kin of the deceased. The hospital staff covers that apparently. It was the procedure.
I will have to just let it be. I have in fact, as I said, I feel much better. I have dealt with this. I don’t need to do anything anymore. No more bothering you. I am sad to let you go though, you were great.
So that’s it. It was immense, it was troubling, but I got through it. On I go. Farewell.
I killed a man, dear
– Sr Ja [18/12/2017]