The Unforgiven (short story)
By Luke Labern
What do you think, when you hear the words “I’ll never forgive myself”? It seems that each one of us will eventually say this at some point in life – perhaps more than this. It strikes me that those with great power, who are also regarded as evil, often drum it into themselves that they are beyond this measure, this ability to feel remorse.
However, I am not one of these men. I am simply a young man, who was excessively lucky and threw it all away. Now I live with existential demons so fierce, I fear my time alone, for I must duel with them just to fall asleep. This is because I do not feel that I deserve sleep. Rest should be earned; it should be a ticket you gain every day for surviving twenty-four hours of the events which surround every one of us, as we all move towards the day when the bell will toll for good.
I am a petty insomniac who swings between striving for self-confidence, and throwing myself into the jaws nature, to be preyed on all sorts of hungry beasts, all within the same day. Let me take you back to where this all began, and how it is that I ended up in this situation, so that you may avoid my mistakes as best you can.
My name, my name is not important: consider me a fragment of your imagination, as you read this, building up a picture of my complexity and my fallacies, my traits both positive and negative. For a physical model, consider me of average height, of standard looks, Caucasian, short brown hair – some look right through me; others do notice me, as per their taste. My personality is for you to judge, as I consider this my trial, and my punishment will be dealt (as it has been throughout this retelling)... I wish solely to be known as the Unforgiven.
* * *
With the breaking of dawn, the sun crept across the sky like the smile on my face. I looked to the left of me and I saw the most beautiful thing I can ever recall seeing. To wake up with your lover – my life’s love, the one I truly cherish and do to this day-- is there a more satisfying event? No matter what happens from then on, you have spent time with someone you would sacrifice yourself for.
Not being alone is one thing; knowing that you are with someone who is just the right balance of humanity is another; agreeing on certain views, disagreeing on others, like a fruit whose texture and taste is complex yet addictive, and of course, healthy.
I placed a kiss on her forehead and she stirred slightly, and all I could do was look at her and smile, without a care in the world outside of that room, that bed. There is a dualism that can be sourced here; with such perfection in one’s life it is easy to be satisfied and to relax forever, and in another reflection it is desirable to continue and strive to conquer the world, in whatever respect you can, knowing that your deepest want is fulfilled in this person.
For some, this increased desire is to help others, to cure their ills, to make their day. This was hers. Not only was she the beholder of a physical beauty the likes of which is desired all over the world, her mind was just as striking. I do not believe there is a malicious intention that has once passed her lips. Her sweet giver of passion: she awoke and we kissed, and I ran my fingers through her hair. She yawned as she stretched, her body preparing for the day ahead. I laid silently next to her, still smiling.
As I asked her how she was, and we eased each other into waking hours, I could feel myself warming up, emotionally. I was like a engine filled with the fuel, her kisses, her touch, her presence, her reciprocated love.
This, this truly is where I am most happy. If only I was as simple as I have so far written, then this dénouement would not be in front of your eyes. No; for I am a combustion engine, and at this stage I truly was producing the smog that only I could survive. Carbon monoxide poured from me, slowly at first, so subtle that no one knew – it even made them dizzy, euphoric. Little did she know I was poisoning her.
As we wrote history that morning – as we all do, at all times “present” – I could feel myself being pinched from inside. There was a reverberation within my happiness; I’ll try to explain it as best as I can. Every smile was only half a smile: within it there was a grimace, a shudder of pain every time I kissed her.
Please, do not misinterpret this: I was in pain not because I did not love her, but because I did love her! The idea of rating people as a whole is, in theory, something which should be dismissed. How could you possibly judge an entire person’s character? You simply can’t; or at least you should not be able to. Consider the dictators I mentioned previously: unarguably, they are remorseless killers. Though what about the people they loved? Did their pets love them, did their children, their wives? To them, ignoring all ideologies, they are still loved, cherished, thought about. Even these undoubtedly flawed humans had a side to them which is loveable.
So why did I feel a shiver of pain run through my body when I kissed my lover? Simply, because she was too good for me. Too perfect. Too close to something that humans shouldn’t be; not a flaw about her. Truly, it intensified the idea that I was going to die one day: I wouldn’t be able to be with her forever. One day I would have to let her go.
Now prepare to judge the mistakes of the human mind: how did I deal with this knowledge that I adored her above all other things in the universe? Let the unthinkably frantic emotion of love take over here.
I treated her like I wanted to treat myself. Where I wanted to berate myself for my stupid ways, for not living up to her impeccable standards, I would irritate her. I would find flaws in my own psyche and pretend they were hers. I was jealous of myself, when I thought I could stand with her on the same platform as just a human. That time had long since passed: I would chastise her and flare up at the smallest disagreement, where before I would have understood her view point completely, and secretly envied her logical and precise way of thinking.
More and more, I began to push her away, wedging my own insecurities between her and me, and I disguised them as her flaws. She, being so humble, so understanding and so compassionate, she believed my fabrications. She genuinely believed I was annoyed at her, when really I loved her so much that I was violently ripping my insides apart. My thought processes had become disfigured and monstrous; the more I tried to mistakenly convince her of her flaws, the more she believed me, the more vile I was becoming – and of course, the worse I treated her.
The very epitome of a vicious cycle. To top things off, she seemed to escalate in her righteousness, her perfection: she would not end it with me. I was treating her like I might retaliate to someone who had insulted me. Instead, I was becoming the worst thing I could possibly imagine; literally acting the opposite way I wanted to. I was drawn to speaking to her every day, only to face the realisation that we were diverging paths: she was becoming far, far too perfect for me, and I was becoming such a villain that I deserved to be alone.
I would never want you to think I’m wallowing: I am coming to terms with my own actions, and I criticise them as I would someone who needed to hear it. This is why I’ll never be anything other than the Unforgiven.
* * *
Here, bullets whistle past my head, inches from ending my life. Behind me are my comrades. We fight as a unit. We keep low to the ground, with our heavy rucksacks on our backs weighing us down, sprinting towards the trenches just fifty metres ahead.
Then, the whistling stopped. I hit the psychological and physiological wall and my body collapsed... I stumbled to the ground, and where I fell onto my torso, another round of bullets found their way into the space I had occupied just milliseconds before. Unfortunately, as a comrade of mine attempted to help me up, these rounds burrowed their way into his chest.
With what little breath I had left, I began to crawl towards the trench that was a beacon of life just ahead. But did I really want life? What was left for me? All I was now was a soldier. I had nothing to return to, I had done what I thought was the right thing to do, and left my love.
All I could picture now, as blood and mud sprayed around me, was her. Such soft skin, as picturesque as could be imagined; her red lips screaming to be kissed, her luscious brunette hair falling past her shoulders, every subtle freckle on her face making up everything I loved about existing. Her sublime form, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace me. Exquisite fashion sense, the likes of which I could never hope to match (in fact, my simple green camouflage suited me) accentuating every millimetre of her body; how could everything be so perfect?
As I thought these things, I realised this was my life flashing before my eyes. Without knowing it, I had risen to one knee, and a bullet had pierced my abdomen. I was bleeding, but not severely yet: thus, I knew it was time.
I could never return to my love, and she would never take me back. I had never been good enough for her and I wasn’t now. What I could do was protect her, fight for the Queen and country she resided in. As I looked across the trenches I could see machine guns lined up and approaching enemy; smatterings of German was all I could hear; “Heil Hitler”, I heard, and I realised that these men had entered a frame of mind that was impossible to visit unless you were willing to risk your life for an ideology, for the people you love.
I respected these men who had killed my friends and shot me, in the respect that they had exceptionally strong will: however, they were fighting for the wrong side. I knew that fighting for a country is a trap; if you are born somewhere and it happens to be the wrong side and you are drafted, what can you do?
These men were, in all honesty, firing bullets at my country and at my love. This, this is when I realised that I could never be forgiven. This was a noble suicide. I would not let these men advance any further towards our trench. Reinforcements were twenty minutes behind my unit, and I knew that I had no reason to live any longer than those twenty minutes.
With these final thoughts, I stood to my feet, staggered as I adjusted to the newly-formed hole in my stomach, and I raised my gun. I sprayed bullets every which way, left and right, moving from different targets, changing position as best as I could, absorbing bullets all the mean while.
I was satisfied. Not because I was murdering life, but because I was fighting for my love; I was no longer capable of treating her right, nor myself; so all I could do was do my best to hold off these advancing Nazis, tooth and nail. If they were prepared to give their life, I was jumping at the chance – but only after I had stopped them all. This was to be my final act.
In the silence of eternity, of death, being forgiven did not matter. She would never know what happened to me, how I died, what I thought whilst I received the final metal jacket to the skull. All I know is that I laid down my life for her; that’s what she deserved.
Though I can never be forgiven, I know that my tormented mind and body combined passion with skill, emotion with logic, patriotism with love. This is the recurring tale of the Unforgiven.
However, I am not one of these men. I am simply a young man, who was excessively lucky and threw it all away. Now I live with existential demons so fierce, I fear my time alone, for I must duel with them just to fall asleep. This is because I do not feel that I deserve sleep. Rest should be earned; it should be a ticket you gain every day for surviving twenty-four hours of the events which surround every one of us, as we all move towards the day when the bell will toll for good.
I am a petty insomniac who swings between striving for self-confidence, and throwing myself into the jaws nature, to be preyed on all sorts of hungry beasts, all within the same day. Let me take you back to where this all began, and how it is that I ended up in this situation, so that you may avoid my mistakes as best you can.
My name, my name is not important: consider me a fragment of your imagination, as you read this, building up a picture of my complexity and my fallacies, my traits both positive and negative. For a physical model, consider me of average height, of standard looks, Caucasian, short brown hair – some look right through me; others do notice me, as per their taste. My personality is for you to judge, as I consider this my trial, and my punishment will be dealt (as it has been throughout this retelling)... I wish solely to be known as the Unforgiven.
* * *
With the breaking of dawn, the sun crept across the sky like the smile on my face. I looked to the left of me and I saw the most beautiful thing I can ever recall seeing. To wake up with your lover – my life’s love, the one I truly cherish and do to this day-- is there a more satisfying event? No matter what happens from then on, you have spent time with someone you would sacrifice yourself for.
Not being alone is one thing; knowing that you are with someone who is just the right balance of humanity is another; agreeing on certain views, disagreeing on others, like a fruit whose texture and taste is complex yet addictive, and of course, healthy.
I placed a kiss on her forehead and she stirred slightly, and all I could do was look at her and smile, without a care in the world outside of that room, that bed. There is a dualism that can be sourced here; with such perfection in one’s life it is easy to be satisfied and to relax forever, and in another reflection it is desirable to continue and strive to conquer the world, in whatever respect you can, knowing that your deepest want is fulfilled in this person.
For some, this increased desire is to help others, to cure their ills, to make their day. This was hers. Not only was she the beholder of a physical beauty the likes of which is desired all over the world, her mind was just as striking. I do not believe there is a malicious intention that has once passed her lips. Her sweet giver of passion: she awoke and we kissed, and I ran my fingers through her hair. She yawned as she stretched, her body preparing for the day ahead. I laid silently next to her, still smiling.
As I asked her how she was, and we eased each other into waking hours, I could feel myself warming up, emotionally. I was like a engine filled with the fuel, her kisses, her touch, her presence, her reciprocated love.
This, this truly is where I am most happy. If only I was as simple as I have so far written, then this dénouement would not be in front of your eyes. No; for I am a combustion engine, and at this stage I truly was producing the smog that only I could survive. Carbon monoxide poured from me, slowly at first, so subtle that no one knew – it even made them dizzy, euphoric. Little did she know I was poisoning her.
As we wrote history that morning – as we all do, at all times “present” – I could feel myself being pinched from inside. There was a reverberation within my happiness; I’ll try to explain it as best as I can. Every smile was only half a smile: within it there was a grimace, a shudder of pain every time I kissed her.
Please, do not misinterpret this: I was in pain not because I did not love her, but because I did love her! The idea of rating people as a whole is, in theory, something which should be dismissed. How could you possibly judge an entire person’s character? You simply can’t; or at least you should not be able to. Consider the dictators I mentioned previously: unarguably, they are remorseless killers. Though what about the people they loved? Did their pets love them, did their children, their wives? To them, ignoring all ideologies, they are still loved, cherished, thought about. Even these undoubtedly flawed humans had a side to them which is loveable.
So why did I feel a shiver of pain run through my body when I kissed my lover? Simply, because she was too good for me. Too perfect. Too close to something that humans shouldn’t be; not a flaw about her. Truly, it intensified the idea that I was going to die one day: I wouldn’t be able to be with her forever. One day I would have to let her go.
Now prepare to judge the mistakes of the human mind: how did I deal with this knowledge that I adored her above all other things in the universe? Let the unthinkably frantic emotion of love take over here.
I treated her like I wanted to treat myself. Where I wanted to berate myself for my stupid ways, for not living up to her impeccable standards, I would irritate her. I would find flaws in my own psyche and pretend they were hers. I was jealous of myself, when I thought I could stand with her on the same platform as just a human. That time had long since passed: I would chastise her and flare up at the smallest disagreement, where before I would have understood her view point completely, and secretly envied her logical and precise way of thinking.
More and more, I began to push her away, wedging my own insecurities between her and me, and I disguised them as her flaws. She, being so humble, so understanding and so compassionate, she believed my fabrications. She genuinely believed I was annoyed at her, when really I loved her so much that I was violently ripping my insides apart. My thought processes had become disfigured and monstrous; the more I tried to mistakenly convince her of her flaws, the more she believed me, the more vile I was becoming – and of course, the worse I treated her.
The very epitome of a vicious cycle. To top things off, she seemed to escalate in her righteousness, her perfection: she would not end it with me. I was treating her like I might retaliate to someone who had insulted me. Instead, I was becoming the worst thing I could possibly imagine; literally acting the opposite way I wanted to. I was drawn to speaking to her every day, only to face the realisation that we were diverging paths: she was becoming far, far too perfect for me, and I was becoming such a villain that I deserved to be alone.
I would never want you to think I’m wallowing: I am coming to terms with my own actions, and I criticise them as I would someone who needed to hear it. This is why I’ll never be anything other than the Unforgiven.
* * *
Here, bullets whistle past my head, inches from ending my life. Behind me are my comrades. We fight as a unit. We keep low to the ground, with our heavy rucksacks on our backs weighing us down, sprinting towards the trenches just fifty metres ahead.
Then, the whistling stopped. I hit the psychological and physiological wall and my body collapsed... I stumbled to the ground, and where I fell onto my torso, another round of bullets found their way into the space I had occupied just milliseconds before. Unfortunately, as a comrade of mine attempted to help me up, these rounds burrowed their way into his chest.
With what little breath I had left, I began to crawl towards the trench that was a beacon of life just ahead. But did I really want life? What was left for me? All I was now was a soldier. I had nothing to return to, I had done what I thought was the right thing to do, and left my love.
All I could picture now, as blood and mud sprayed around me, was her. Such soft skin, as picturesque as could be imagined; her red lips screaming to be kissed, her luscious brunette hair falling past her shoulders, every subtle freckle on her face making up everything I loved about existing. Her sublime form, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace me. Exquisite fashion sense, the likes of which I could never hope to match (in fact, my simple green camouflage suited me) accentuating every millimetre of her body; how could everything be so perfect?
As I thought these things, I realised this was my life flashing before my eyes. Without knowing it, I had risen to one knee, and a bullet had pierced my abdomen. I was bleeding, but not severely yet: thus, I knew it was time.
I could never return to my love, and she would never take me back. I had never been good enough for her and I wasn’t now. What I could do was protect her, fight for the Queen and country she resided in. As I looked across the trenches I could see machine guns lined up and approaching enemy; smatterings of German was all I could hear; “Heil Hitler”, I heard, and I realised that these men had entered a frame of mind that was impossible to visit unless you were willing to risk your life for an ideology, for the people you love.
I respected these men who had killed my friends and shot me, in the respect that they had exceptionally strong will: however, they were fighting for the wrong side. I knew that fighting for a country is a trap; if you are born somewhere and it happens to be the wrong side and you are drafted, what can you do?
These men were, in all honesty, firing bullets at my country and at my love. This, this is when I realised that I could never be forgiven. This was a noble suicide. I would not let these men advance any further towards our trench. Reinforcements were twenty minutes behind my unit, and I knew that I had no reason to live any longer than those twenty minutes.
With these final thoughts, I stood to my feet, staggered as I adjusted to the newly-formed hole in my stomach, and I raised my gun. I sprayed bullets every which way, left and right, moving from different targets, changing position as best as I could, absorbing bullets all the mean while.
I was satisfied. Not because I was murdering life, but because I was fighting for my love; I was no longer capable of treating her right, nor myself; so all I could do was do my best to hold off these advancing Nazis, tooth and nail. If they were prepared to give their life, I was jumping at the chance – but only after I had stopped them all. This was to be my final act.
In the silence of eternity, of death, being forgiven did not matter. She would never know what happened to me, how I died, what I thought whilst I received the final metal jacket to the skull. All I know is that I laid down my life for her; that’s what she deserved.
Though I can never be forgiven, I know that my tormented mind and body combined passion with skill, emotion with logic, patriotism with love. This is the recurring tale of the Unforgiven.
A Short Story,
Published 14 February 2012
Published 14 February 2012