Page 95 - full

94 Amit Bobrov
“Not all crimes can be forgiven,” I replied, feeling a hole in
my soul, my heart burning, and growing frustrated with these

feelings for which my mind recoiled at the recollection.
“Forgive yourself then, or find a way to make amends, lest
guilt consume you.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Go
on, eat your food.” I did absent-mindedly.
“I killed,” I said after finishing my food, having no better way
to restart the conversation so I just opened the Box and dared
reveal what was inside.
“That’s a soldier’s job, Jesus knows ...” he said, and I stopped
him.

“Not as I did,” I replied, tears in my eyes.
“I don’t understand,” he said, becoming very attentive.
“My brother, I fink I killed my brother, and it’s haunting me
forever,” I said, staring at the ground.
“You remember this or you just think it?” He asked, caring
perhaps more than he should.
“It’s a feeling I can’t describe, but I know it’s real and it won’t

leave me be,” I said, looking away from him.
“Did you mean to do it?” He asked calmly.
“No! I don’t think so, maybe … no,” I said. “I don’t know!”
“So for all you know, it could have been an accident,” he
replied.
‘It could have … yes!’ I thought. I hung on his explanation as if
my life depended on it.
“Yes, it must have been an accident, though I feel responsible,”
I said.

“If it was an accident, your guilt can only hurt you, unless you
find a way to make peace with it and move on,” he said simply.
“How can you make peace with something like that?” I asked,
clenching and unclenching my fists.