The Monster's Deathbed

How can so much evil hide inside such an ordinary person?

When I went to Nate Webber’s deathbed, my first thought was that he looked like just another harmless grandfather. I trembled as I entered the ward, and my mouth was dry when I brushed aside the curtain to find him in his bed.

Nate – such a depressingly ordinary name – lay so still I thought, hoped, he’d died waiting for me. His waxen skin stuck around the ridges of his skull, and his bare arms were emaciated. His toothless mouth gaped beneath glassy eyes.

When I arrived, the nurse who greeted me told me he’d suffered from dementia for the last few years, which had only accelerated after the diagnosis of bowel cancer. I looked at this carcass in his bed, and I thought of the children, and I wished he’d suffered more.

That was the moment my faith faltered. And that was when his glassy eyes suddenly rolled to fix on me.

“Chaplain, please, sit. Thank you for coming.”

As if entranced, I moved to take the seat beside him. The chair creaked, and I jumped at the sudden sound. He smiled thinly, lifting one purplish hand before letting it drop.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

I winced, taking the almost fleshless hand in mine as I’d been trained. Near the end, they ramble sometimes, my boss told me on my first day. I was still fresh to the job though, still eager to prove myself, which I suppose isn’t very godly. In truth, I was wrestling with the fact that I hated what I’d put myself into. My parents always told me I got too emotional – anger management, mood swings, the full range.

I’d sat with a dying man before, but he’d been unconscious most of the time, only rousing to mumble a prayer with me. A few hours later, he’d stopped breathing. I couldn’t stop weeping for the rest of the day, even though I’d never known him before.

I hadn’t wanted to be sent to Nate Webber, but I lacked the conviction to argue with my boss. Though I was young, and I knew what he’d done, I was the chaplain. I had to go to him.

“Did you hear them laughing at you?” said Nate.

The only sound was the footfalls of orderlies. I squeezed his hand gently. Nate Webber’s dull eyes roamed the ceiling.

“Do you regret your calling, chaplain?”

I flinched, withdrawing my hand from his. His mouth gaped and breath rasped in and out in a few rapid bursts before he went quiet.

“Do you speak with God? What does he say?”

“Is there anything you’d like to say, Mr Webber?” I tried, to avoid the subject of my faith.

He had another fit of frantic breathing. Then he went still, eyes rolling about, settling on me. I did my best to conceal my unease.

“Have you eaten today, Mr Webber?”

He gave a grim smile. “Not hungry. Not thirsty. They’ve left me to waste away anyway.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Soon, Isaac, I’ll be gone.”

“Who’s Isaac?” I took his hand again, though my skin tingled with disgust. At the time, I cursed my own judgement of the man. After all, Jesus spent time with criminals, didn’t he?

His eyes returned to me, suddenly alert. “God won’t take me. You know what I did?”

I couldn’t pull away. His hand gripped mine with strength that seemed unnatural in his fragile state.

“Kill me, chaplain,” he whispered. “End my suffering. You know it’s right.”

“Killing is wrong,” I mumbled, sounding idiotic.

“And I am a killer,” said Nate. “How many was it?” He frowned, confused.

“Twenty-two,” I said automatically, acid in my voice. He couldn’t even remember how many, let alone their names.

Nate took a rattling breath which hitched in his throat. “Should’ve been more.”

My anger seized me, and I clutched his hand without caring if the bones ground to dust. He showed no pain. His dull eyes fixed on me, and his pale lips lifted a weak smile.

“You won’t ask forgiveness?” I hissed. “Twenty-two families you ruined. And your only worry is that it should’ve been more?” My other hand balled into a fist. It would be easy to kill him, I thought.

“God won’t forgive me, will he? Or does he forgive everyone anyway? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m no religious man.” His eyes shone. “What do you think?”

I wanted to hear God speak then, more than ever when I’d prayed in silence. I wanted to hear him whisper to me that I could take this man’s life and it would be justice. Twenty-two families torn apart by this demon, and I was supposed to comfort him as he approached death? And he’d just said himself he was no religious man.

“God speaks to me,” he mumbled.

“Liar,” I snarled.

He smiled, and I looked away, seeing the orderlies at the other end of the ward, huddled to discuss the rest of the day.

“What will make you kill me, chaplain?”

“I won’t kill you, Mr Webber,” I said. But it would be the best time. Here, no one would even know. Only me and God.

Nate screamed, a short, shrill note that cut off as soon as I turned back to him. His eyes were wide and frightened now. Then, again, he gave his ghoulish smile.

“Back to the camp,” he said. “Back to Japan. That’s where God spoke to me.”

My own grandfather was a Japanese prisoner of war, so I had a sliver of sympathy now. I leant forward, holding his gaze.

“God told me this was my Hell,” he said. “Whatever I did after, well, what could possibly be worse…”

“God told you to kill twenty-two children?” I withdrew from him again, thinking of just leaving him to rot away alone. How had the orderlies not let him die in his agony already? We were wasting so much money pumping him full of painkillers.

His eyes wandered, and I stood, leaning over him. I grabbed at his thin shoulders, shaking him. He weighed almost nothing, and his head bobbed wildly.

“Do you have any remorse?” I asked.

He looked at me, lucid and grinning. I let go, and he fell back, cackling like a crow.

“God’s given me a long life either way,” said Nate. “And when things went wrong, I had good people to keep the pain away. I think that proves I was right.”

“Right!” I yelled.

At the other end of the ward, orderlies glanced our way. The guard at the door shifted, but then shrugged, obviously believing a chaplain, a young and fresh-faced chaplain at that, could do no harm. I’d thought the same.

Nate gave his sickly grin. “Why have I been allowed to live so long, chaplain? Oh, maybe I suffered a bit, but there’s a million children starving slowly on the other side of the world while I’m pampered on my deathbed.”

I gulped back my revulsion. By how gaunt he looked, he had no right to be so aware. He should’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness now, incomprehensible, close to death.

And I was revolted because I’d had similar thoughts. Of course, you’re supposed to suppress them, like I’d suppressed the idea of me being unprepared for this job. Yet there I was, listening to a child-killer talk theology.

“What does it mean if I live such a long life, chaplain? Would it have been better if I’d have died when they caught me? Either way, after Japan, life was good. I suffered nothing worse.”

I sat and listened, a hollowness spreading through me. My hands trembled, reaching for the chain at my neck.

“I can tell you’ve questioned your God just the same,” said Nate.

Again, anger surged within me. Before I knew it, my hands were around his scrawny neck, the flesh burning against my palms.

“God will punish you more than me, chaplain!” croaked Nate.

I tightened my grip, cutting off his breath. Something screamed at me to stop, that the man was dead anyway. But it seemed unfair to let him die peacefully in bed. I saw twenty-two ghostly figures crowding around as I pinned him to his bed, and his face turned red.

I must’ve been there for some time after he stopped breathing, because I remember the orderlies prying me away from his corpse. I was yelling about how he deserved worse. They threw me in a cell and left me while they figured out what they’d do.

Eventually, someone came up with the idea to just let me walk away. They claimed Nate Webber had died before I could visit him, as per his request, and maybe that meant something to someone.

In the cell, I cried for the dead children. I knew what Nate had inflicted on them, and how easily he’d lived the rest of his life in comparison. Inmates had tried stabbing him, but he’d been inoculated against pain long ago. Even the slow rot of cancer hadn’t phased him.

He’d told me God would punish me. He was right, of course, even though I act like I don’t care much for Him anymore. There’s always a suspicion. And killing is killing. Every day, I wake from nightmares where Nate Webber is laughing as I strangle him. Sometimes, I hope there’s nothing after life.

But, if there is, will Nate Webber be there to laugh while we both suffer?