The Hidden Disease

He grabbed his gun today, a telescopic rifle made for hunting. From a sixth floor window overlooking Main the telescope brings the rebels on the street so close and focused. He spends all day breaking down the gun and re-assembling it, polishing each part until it gleams. He fits the telescope, lifts the weapon to his shoulder for just another look. Why won't the noises stop? Explosions, and the burning of cordite in his nose and eyes ingrained into his memory. He'll bide his time until it's rush hour. The streets will be teeming with rebels then. The time has come, his palms are moist, the images are changing. In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain, a pregnant woman on a cell phone, an old man struggling with his walker, and children, lots of children. there are no insurgents here. A half-hour passes. He slowly lowers the rifle and puts it back into its case. Another hour passes and he stumbles down the stairwell to the street, his mind confused and torn. Crossing a bridge he stops to hurl the case into the river. He wanders slowly home to his studio apartment, his haven of forgetfulness, his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform, and wonders why he just cannot stop crying. He tossed his gun today, and begged for help.