On the day my parents died, I went to the kitchen


I finished the last piece of apple in the bowl and tossed it down the
veranda railing.

I walked to the dining room. My parents weren’t there. The living room was
empty, except for a couple of books and a few photographs. A few hours later,
they would leave for our country for a weekend. A few hours later, they would
be on a flight back.

It felt like a bomb had exploded. They were dead and it was all my fault.
I didn’t get them justice. I gave them justice in my book.

I sat on the dining room chair and stared at the photograph of me with my
parents on the beach in France. I did something terrible. I had killed my
parents; I was the only one who could understand how they died.

But I’m a good person. I just can’t help this. I can’t do what I did because
I’m a good person.

I’m a good soldier. I killed to protect my country. And the death of my
parents was justice. They died for their country. Maybe, it was hard for me to
justify the deaths of my parents and to save my country. But the death of their
sons was justice.

And I was able to do justice to my past and to my present. I felt better. I
got a new job. And I would do justice with my past and my present. I was able
to protect my country. I was able to protect myself.

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