Insurgent

I killed you this morning.

Wait.

I guess I should start over.

I was brought before you. Called upon to nurse your filthy wounds. I    was asked to ease your comfort in the remaining time

you had on earth. The tender welts across your back revealed how the    Iraqi Police questioned you, and why you confessed

to your crime so quickly. You were just a boy. Lucky to have sixteen years    under your belt. I bet you felt invincible. Maybe

even brave. The dull and opaque color of your hip bone, visible through    the infected hole that was left by the bullet, whispered

that you only had days to live. I begged God to be there when it    happened. I didn't hate you for what you did. I didn't feel much

of anything, except a burning curiosity. I wanted to unzip you and place    pointy labeled flags into your organs. I needed to see

if your eyes turned to bliss, or fire.