Bruce took a step back from Charlie. He was overcome with horror and disbelief. His head shook. No, no, no, he thought to himself. This couldn’t be happening. He knew Charlie. The boy who was prepared to give his life for him out in the grass field was not a murderer. The boy who buried the body of the young child soldier was not a killer. The boy who valued decency and honesty despite his starving stomach was a good kid.
Charlie looked at the expression on Bruce’s face. “See. You are sick of me, too. You look at me, and you are sick of the very sight of me. And I do not blame you. I do not even want to be me.”
Bruce turned away from Charlie and walked to the end of the cell. His thoughts weren’t clear to him. This was beyond him—or was it? He had heard those words before: “I’m sick of you.” From his stepmother, his dad. Many times.