6.2 - Write about something, other than a house, that is haunted.
My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready. We will become part of each other. WE WILL... - Excerpt from the USMC Rifle Creed
Anyone who heard him talk about it would laugh. But Grady believed it with all his heart. The rifle he had taken with him when he left the Corps was haunted. Every time he told someone that, they gave him a look, as though he had grown a second head or turned purple. They looked at him like he was crazy. And maybe he was, but that didn't change anything.
He took the weapon out once a month to clean it. It was immaculate and would function like new if he ever used it. But he couldn't. Whenever he laid hands on the long gun, they went numb. His body temperature would start to drop and he would start to shake. He could work past those things, those were conditions the Corps had made sure he could work in with ease.
It was the visions that always stopped him. His fingers would close around the cool steel and an endless loop of death would play in front of his eyes. Closing them didn't help. Drunk or sober, the dead were there, reminding him of the things he had done.
The visions did not scare him. He was long numb to killing. They were a distraction. He could not aim through the loop. He could not focus on his breathing, could not center himself, with the jerky replay of the past in his mind. So he never used the rifle.
But he refused to get rid of it. It was a catalog of his work and his life. Each new killing went into the loop, joining the orderly procession of lives he had taken. His certainty that he was going to Hell was locked up in that loop. There was nothing anyone could say to change his mind. But he would not be alone when he got there.
(307)
Anyone who heard him talk about it would laugh. But Grady believed it with all his heart. The rifle he had taken with him when he left the Corps was haunted. Every time he told someone that, they gave him a look, as though he had grown a second head or turned purple. They looked at him like he was crazy. And maybe he was, but that didn't change anything.
He took the weapon out once a month to clean it. It was immaculate and would function like new if he ever used it. But he couldn't. Whenever he laid hands on the long gun, they went numb. His body temperature would start to drop and he would start to shake. He could work past those things, those were conditions the Corps had made sure he could work in with ease.
It was the visions that always stopped him. His fingers would close around the cool steel and an endless loop of death would play in front of his eyes. Closing them didn't help. Drunk or sober, the dead were there, reminding him of the things he had done.
The visions did not scare him. He was long numb to killing. They were a distraction. He could not aim through the loop. He could not focus on his breathing, could not center himself, with the jerky replay of the past in his mind. So he never used the rifle.
But he refused to get rid of it. It was a catalog of his work and his life. Each new killing went into the loop, joining the orderly procession of lives he had taken. His certainty that he was going to Hell was locked up in that loop. There was nothing anyone could say to change his mind. But he would not be alone when he got there.
(307)