Short Story: A Hero's Guilt

A Hero's Guilt
by Gary Anderson

This could not be happening, I told myself. This wasn't real. Maybe it was a dream, perhaps it was the matrix, but this could NOT be real, I did not just shoot that man. However, no matter what I told myself, I knew that it was in fact real. I had just shot a man running for the cockpit door.

I had only been working as a US Marshal for six months. I had scored highly on my exam and was pegged to go far. People have asked me if 9/11 had pushed me to become a US Marshal, so that I could protect our skies. I mean, I was deeply affected by what happened, as was anyone with a heart and soul. However, I don't know personally how much that event pushed me in this direction. I just know that I come from a long line of US Marshals, and I don't suppose there were really many options for me. It was just expected.

When I was assigned to work on the airplane, I was a bit nervous as I had never flown before. Even when going to my exams and medical tests in Chicago, I took a bus or a train. I never mentioned any of this before, because I wanted the job, and was afraid I would be discounted. I knew I could do this job, and did not want to be passed over just because I had a little uneasiness over flying. I didn't wanna be relegated to a desk job either.

I masked my nervousness by trying to sound brash and cocky. I was sure that there would be no problems, I told the guys at the party my father threw for me. There were many Marshals there, all my family and my father's friends. They all knew me since I was a baby, so I'm sure they all still saw me as such.

"There's no way any thing's gonna go wrong on that plane when I'm on there", I said taking a swig of my beer. They all laughed and patted me on the back. I went on about how I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on some "towel head" that dared to try something. In the years since I have wondered if my comments would have raised an eyebrow before the Towers fell. Before all the hatred of Arabs came front and center. Before everything went to Hell.

So there I was, on my first flight by myself, hands gripping the armrest and trying not to seem like I was full of anxiety. I kept getting an image of that old kid's magazine that had the four pictures and the caption "which one does not belong?"

I closed my eyes and started counting to ten to calm myself. I had gotten to four when I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I saw a man standing in the aisles waving a knife. Everyone was crying out, and the man kept screaming something in another language. And I froze.

My gun was right there on my hip, under my jacket and I couldn't move. I was cursing under my breath trying to get my ass in gear. I took a deep breath and finally got my hand to move. I unhooked the gun from my holster and slid it out. He turned around and I got up quickly and stood in the middle of the aisle.

"Drop the knife!" I yelled, probably a bit too loud.

The man turned around and started screaming at me, and pointing the knife in my direction. He started running towards me, and I took a step back and my foot got tangled in some woman's purse and I fell back, the armrest digging into my side causing me to grimace.

I fumbled with my gun and the man suddenly stopped, turned around and started rushing towards the cockpit. I yelled for him to stop but he kept going. Suddenly there was a loud noise and the man dropped to the ground. My hands were trembling as I held the gun. I sat there and stared at the man slumped against the wall, blood spreading across his back. What the hell had I gotten myself into, I wondered.

Afterwards the people on the plan told the airline officials that I had saved their lives. That I was a hero. They said that I took control and assured everyone that things would be okay. They said that I cracked a few jokes as a way to lighten the mood and get people to calm down. I remember none of that, however. All I remember is his screaming and me shooting him in the back.

It's weird. All the things that I want to remember, I can't. All the things I do remember, I wish to God I could forget.

I quit six months later, much to the disappointment of my father. No one said anything, but I could see in their eyes that they thought I was a pussy. I didn't care, though. My f ather wouldn't talk to me, despite my mother's constant attempts at negotiating a sit down.

I moved back to Virginia and into the apartment building I had lived in when I first moved out of my parent's home. The town was a dead town, nothing to really do. I felt a deep feeling of guilt and as cliched as it sounds, it was as if a 500lb gorilla was perched right atop my shoulders.

I reconnected with some friends of mine and through an old acquaintance I became involved with a local soup kitchen. Funny how growing up I thumbed my nose at the homeless and liked to think that I was above all that. How I could never end up like they were. It's amazing what a year will do.

As the months go by, I get used to my surroundings. I no longer feel a sense of guilt over the fact that my life is better than those I attempt to help. No longer do I look away when a woman with her three children smile at me and thank me for the bland soup that I hand her. I have become one of them.

Occasionally someone will recognize me from all the news coverage of the shooting. They will want to know what happened. I don't know what to tell them, though. They tell me I'm a hero, and I just smile and nod. I can't tell them what is going on inside me. I can't tell them how I wake up screaming at night as that man's face stares at me with silent condemnation.

How do I explain that I don't consider myself a hero, even though I did save our country from a disaster? How can I possibly put into words the guilt that I feel, the tears I shed every single day and all the second guessing that I have done? How do I ruin for them, this moment? And why is it their moment?

When did my shooting a terrorist become everyone's feel good story? And if it is truly a feel good story, as I am constantly told, then why the hell don't I feel good?

Someday I shall get past this. At least that's what I tell myself. During counseling with the Pastor of my church, I often ask him if God will forgive me. I'm told that I have to fogive myself and that God has already forgiven my taking of a life, because I have asked forgiveness. However, until I forgive myself, God's forgiveness will never seem enough in my eyes.

But how do I do that? How do I move on? How do I stop this self flagellation and torture that I am putting myself through? When will I have suffered enough? Will I ever get my life back? And the real question is would I want my life back the way it was?

Perhaps I have found my true calling. I am making a difference in people's lives on a more personal level now. The smile I get from a little dirty faced child is more satisfaction that I EVER got in my past life.

It's time to move on. One day at a time.