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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 93
wanted the god-awful truth.
“Self-assigned, by my heart as a Christian. It’s my duty to help

those in need,” he replied quickly. I knew there was more to
it than that, but I changed my mind and decided that I should
not delve into matters which he wished to keep to himself. My
mind was not satisfied. I wanted to know, damn it. But I’d be a
dick if I repaid my savior with interrogations. The turmoil was
probably evident on my face.
“Why, you don’t think your life is worth saving?” He asked,
after an awkward silence of studying me.
“Yes! I guess ... I don’t know. I don’t know for sure, maybe I’m

a villain and I don’t even know,” I replied honestly.
‘If he won’t come forward, at least I will,’ I thought.
“What crime could a boy your age do to damn you so
completely?” He asked.
“I don’t know! I can’t remember, but there’s guilt. I know
there’s guilt in my heart, and I can’t remember why. I don’t
know my crime, but it’s there, running like a bleeding wound

across the very foundations of my soul,” I replied. And there
it was, as honestly and boldly as I could put it. It wasn’t him I
wanted to interrogate, it was me. I rubbed my eyes, I wanted to
go away, I wanted to stay and open Pandora’s Box.
“So take this opportunity to ask forgiveness of the Lord, and
mend whatever it is you feel needs mending,” he replied, still
amazingly well-composed.
“But what if my crime is not against God, what if it’s against
my fellow man?” I asked, as I felt the Box’s lid start to open.

“Then ask forgiveness of that man once you see him,” he
replied.