Josh shrugs. "I don't know. Does it matter why someone kills? If the end state is the same?"
There is an undercurrent in that question, a darkness I'm afraid to acknowledge.
But I've already seen it. I've already looked at this man and seen what he's capable of.
"Our legal system acknowledges a difference in intent," Parker says.
There's something off in her tone today. There is something in her voice that lacks her normal spark, and damn it, I do not want to care.
"How so?"
"We don't punish people strictly for killing. We punish people for intentionally killing," she says.
"Durkheim famously said crimes are the things we punish because we punish them, not because they are inherently criminal in and of themselves," Josh says. And I try not to be impressed that Josh knows anything about Emile Durkheim, my favorite sociologist. "So maybe it's only intentional killing we punish because maybe that's the only form of killing we wish to condemn."
Parker shakes her head once more. "Then why don't we punish soldiers? They are intentionally killing."
"On behalf of the state," I clarify.
"People who join the military do it for some sick thrill," Parker says. "We know there are higher rates of psychopathy in the military population. Why do we have to explain their killing with justifications for state violence?"
Josh is practically vibrating next to me. "And corporate board rooms have the highest rates of psychopathy and CEOs destroy far more lives than any gun-welding soldier ever will."
"That's not true," Parker snaps.
"It is. Just because the truth makes you uncomfortable doesn’t make it a lie," he says.
I can feel it again, the urge to diffuse this tension building in Josh. "We've surrendered the right to take people's lives to the state in modern democracies."
Josh shakes his head. "No we haven't. It's just a convenient lie we tell ourselves." His voice is tense, but calm. Not even close to that first day where the violence practically radiated from him. "Any one of us in this room could kill someone."
"That's definitely not true," Parker says.
“It’s absolutely true. How else can you explain how entire nations are moved to commit genocide,” Josh says. “It’s an indictment on being human, not individual character flaws.”
Parker opens her mouth, then snaps it closed. It really is a banner day if Josh has finally won an argument with her.
"Any one of us could be gunned down on our walk home from class today. We could be shot by a robber or hit by a drunk driver. We tell ourselves our lives are safe but that's because we live in a bubble. A nice protected world where the police don't shoot us for the color of our skin, where the streets are safe to walk at night. Or where religion is something done on Sundays or Fridays or whenever but not something worth dying for." He pauses. "This entire conversation is informed by very western, educated ideas. The rest of the world doesn't work like this."
"Does anyone wish to challenge Mr. Douglas's assertion that ours is a very western conversation?" He looks to Parker, who is strangely silent.
Josh
I can't think straight. I keep hearing Parker's voice mocking me, my brothers. The pain that Caleb is going through right now–all dismissed as the needs of a group of psychopathic killers.
I look down at my hands. The anxiety is back. Paralyzing me, choking off my ability to breathe.
I hate this class. I f*ck
ing hate it. It is a mantra in my head, repeating over and over ad nauseam. I hate how this class makes me feel. Nothing has changed.
I doubt it ever will.
Class can't end soon enough.
Abby deserves an explanation, but I have to get away. Have to break free before I completely lose my shit. Again.
One f*ck
ing comment. One goddamned discussion in class and I'm a f*ck
ing basket case all over again. I might as well join Caleb in the funny farm.
I feel rather than hear Abby fall into step next to me.
I am not a small man but she keeps up easily.
She doesn't stop me. Doesn't try to get me to confess my sins or talk to her or beg me to tell her what's wrong.
No, not my Abby.
She just walks with me, keeping pace as I try to outrun the demons that have followed me home from war.
I cut through a narrow, wooded path. Toward the old tunnel that leads through the dry riverbed toward my apartment.
Finally I stop. In the center of the trees, with the smell of damp woods and old leaves surrounding me, I stop.
Because I can't go on. Not like this.
"You should know I've fired my weapon in combat," I say quietly when the words will finally come.
"If you're asking me not to judge you, I already don't."