Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death.
Agony ripped through him as the hot bullets tore apart his chest and stomach. She emptied the entire clip into him, dropping the rifle when it went clickclickclick, empty. She fell to her knees beside her brother, weeping now, limp and sobbing. She did not look at the American as he lay on the ground bleeding out.
Amen.
He was floating now. He saw the girl, far away somehow, thin shoulders shaking. The pain was distant, and he was cold. There was no sound once again, but this time the silence was a welcome respite from the cacophony of hell. The silence was an enveloping cocoon of comfort.
He heard the Hail Mary once again, but he was not thinking it, not saying it. It was a prayer whispered to him across the chasm of eternity:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death.
Amen.
There was heavy significance to the words, but he was too cloaked in slow peace and drifting chill to understand.
Then: May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life.
He recognized that…what was it? Where had he heard those words before?
Then it came to him…Chaplain McGillis said them, whispered them to Jimmy Carson when he was gasping his last breath, to Andrew Chavez and to Lucas Haney as they died.
The Last Rites…
The American heard McGillis’ voice in his head as he whispered the Eucharist and the Viaticum. Perhaps not in his head. Perhaps next to him, kneeling and kissing his small silver cross, fingers on his forehead.
The silence spread, the cold deepened...peace like a river drowning him in its black embrace...
There was no white light. There was only blackness, and silence, and cold.
ONE
RANIA
First Gulf War; Iraq, 1991
The American, he dies slowly. Not like Mama, who died instantly, in a spray of pink blood. I remember when Mama died. I tried to wipe the blood from my face, but I only smeared it worse, making my face sticky, like a mud-mask. He does not die like Papa, either, who was killed by a single stray bullet to the head, sudden and silent. The American, he dies like Uncle Ahmed, slowly, and in pain. Something about being shot in the belly, it causes such horrid suffering. Uncle Ahmed, he cried out to Allah to save him, weeping so piteously for so long that I forgot to be sad and just wanted him to die so the awful moaning and cursing and pleading would stop. Allah forgive me, but I did wish it. Not only once, but many times.
This American, however, he is not so noisy. He lies there bleeding from the belly and the chest, making a sucking noise every time he breathes. He does not cry, or scream, or clutch himself, as if trying to hold his life in with weakening arms. He just lies there, muttering to himself quietly, staring up at the ceiling, fingering those little wooden prayer beads. He works the beads as if they give him comfort, as if they, along with the strange words he speaks, could take away the pain.
Hassan, my poor brother, is noisy, moaning and cursing. He stares up at me, trying to breathe slowly, clutching at my arm, mouth working. I weep quietly, put my fingers over his mouth, tell him I love him, tell him he will be fine, he will be fine. I unwrap my hijab, rip a piece from it, and wind the length of fabric tightly around his bleeding arm. Hassan, he only gasps, looking terrified, and holds my gaze and clenches his teeth as I cinch the cloth tight around his wound.
I feel shame and guilt wash over me when I look at the American, dying alone. The anger that took me over, caused me to pick up the gun and shoot him—the anger is gone, and I feel hollow, empty like a water jug. I know Allah will forgive me, but will the American? He does not look evil. He looks kind, and young. He is tall and thin, with bright red hair and a beard that is not quite a beard, the stubble and scruff of a man who has not shaved in many days. His eyes are blue, very bright, startling in their intensity.
He stumbled in upon us, fleeing from the bullets as we had, clutching a camera and breathing as if scared, holding the beads by his chin and praying. I could not understand his words, but I knew he was praying. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was moving, but he was not speaking out loud. Prayer is prayer, even if he was not praying to Allah as he should. Perhaps Allah will hear him anyway, I remember thinking. Maybe all gods are the same god, only with different names, and a prayer to one is a prayer to all.
I want that to be true, as I watch the American struggle for breath, clinging stubbornly to life. I want him to have comfort, to have salvation that would carry his soul to heaven. I do not want to have sent him to hell. He looks so afraid, rubbing those wooden beads and praying, bleeding to death.
No one should have to die alone and afraid.
He took some pictures with his camera, braving the storm of bullets, peeking around the door post and popping back in, as I have seen other men do, only they did it with guns instead of a camera. I wonder what his pictures look like. Do they show death in all its many forms? My people dying, his people dying, each killing the other.
I do not know why they fight.
Then the American heard Hassan moving, and Hassan got angry, although he was more afraid than angry. When boys and men are afraid, they turn it into to anger, quickly, in the way the blue hot sky becomes dark with black clouds when a sudden storm rushes in. Hassan was very afraid. He only wanted to protect me, to be a man, to be brave, and so he made himself very angry, but he was just a boy. The American was not dangerous, not until Hassan pointed Papa’s gun at him. I did not want Hassan to shoot, but I was frozen with fear. When I saw the American reaching behind his back, I knew in my stomach and my heart that something bad was going to happen.
And it did, so fast. The American drew his gun, quick as a viper striking, and the air was filled with the thunder of gunfire. Hassan cried out, jerked backward, fell to the dirt floor. The sound was deafening, made my ears ring.
I was overcome by anger then. He was my brother, and we were alone. We were just frightened children. I had to protect my brother. The anger overtook me. I could not help it. It was as if I was dreaming, in the way that I was moving without being able to control what I was doing. I reached down, hearing vaguely the sound of screaming somewhere far away, picked up the heavy rifle, and fired it. I missed, and I thought for a moment that he might shoot me, but he did not. I was glad. I didn't want to die. He shook his head slightly, and I saw some kind of resolve harden there in his vivid blue eyes. Was he resolving to kill me, since I held a gun?