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“I killed my mother. Put poison in her nabe. She never noticed anything was wrong, even though she made it every day. First time I killed a human. I was young.”
There the patient went again. Next, he would talk of how he killed his brother, and then his father. Sometimes, he’d add anecdotes of his other crimes. He shot a bound and helpless Russian war prisoner. He tried to kill a young girl after killing her father. The details sometimes changed. He had to strew his father’s intestines across the floor. His father’s intestines spilled out by themselves. His brother marched forward a few steps after getting shot in the head. His brother stood still and looked back when he died.
Otherwise, even after his condition stabilized, he was unresponsive, lips chapped, body prone, one glassy eye blinking up at the hospital ceiling.
No matter how the story went, he was an injured man (the aconite poisoning, broken bones, bullet wound, periods of unconsciousness, and lingering fevers were not pretty), and you were supposed to help injured men. This was not your first time hearing a damning hospital bed confession, and your senior coworkers had heard even more. Every time you were assigned to his room, you kept your head down, did your duties as a nurse, sterilized his room, and spoon-fed him his meals (he refused to eat at first, was threatened with an enema infusion, and relented).
“You’re a nurse. Would setting a murderer out in the world help you sleep at night?” He spoke something other than his macabre confessions.
You stayed silent and prepared his meal, an action that had become a habit that didn’t require much pondering. You’ve gotten rather good at not reacting to anything he said. Maybe that’s why your coworkers tended to leave him, the only patient in his ward in the sparse hospital, to you. He was a solder. 7th Division. The Defenders of Hokkaido. A few members of his division were also in this hospital, scattered among the civilian patients. Soldiers of the 7th have been found scattered in hospitals all over Hokkaido. Rumors of conspiracy abound. Officials may have been bribed, but nothing stopped the curiosity of off-duty nurses. Something about a train and a bear and not being all together in the same place? None of that was your business. You had better things to worry about.
You thought of your grandmother when you fed the soldier soup. She had lost a tooth yesterday. She pulled on it lightly, and it came off. At her death, you would be alone in the world. Could you possibly move into a boarding house? Living in one should be cheaper in the long-term if you did your math right. You would miss your neighbors, but they were getting old. They would likely die right after your grandmother. Would saving up for fake teeth be a viable option? Were fake teeth reusable? You would have to double-check your nursing textbook after your shift.
The soldier grabbed your arm with surprising strength for a man whose entire rib cage poked out against his skin (he could use his arms the entire time? What were you doing spoon-feeding him, then?). “You want me to shut up, don’t you? Feel like grabbing your scissors, and cutting out my vocal cords?” His voice was in that same low, goading tone, but his eyes were lit by a manic glint.
You respond with an unshaken voice. “My responsibilities are to help people, not harm them. I would not do that to you.”
The private considered your words. “Responsibilities as a nurse. Let me ask you this. If I am released, and I kill more people, would you feel guilt that you followed your duties?” His lone eye stared up at you. Soup dribbled down the side of his mouth, threatening to stain the sheets you had spent so much effort changing.
Soldiers. They all thought their stories were unique. He must not know the hospital planned to turn him over to the police after he got better. Asking if you feel guilt, questioning if you feel emotions thanks to your frozen face, you were reminded of your childhood bullies, many of whom had joined the army. What was the penalty for patricide? A death sentence? That was a shame considering all the doctors and nurses did to retrieve him from the judgement of Enma. You wiped the soup from his face with a napkin and leaned down.
You open your mouth. “What I feel outside the hospital is not under a Private First Class’s purview, sir. I would have already done my duty to help you live. What you do after is your business.”
He frowned. “Superior Private.” He released your arm. His arm flopped back to his side and didn’t move.
“That’s not what your uniform said.” Everything the hospital knew about him was from his uniform. The soldier had kept tight-lipped about himself during the periods he was awake enough for questioning. “The nurses are taking bets on what your name is.”
The soldier stayed silent. You guessed that if you kept talking, he wouldn’t launch into his speech again.
“They have to call you something. There are soldiers downstairs too. Masao’s been a popular guess. So is Ichiro, Tadashi, Hajime–“
“Hajime?”
“It’s a common name.” You shrugged.
“You nurses are chatty.”
“Many of them had served in the Russo-Japanese war. I imagine to them, this hospital is a slow workplace.” You had great admiration for your senior coworkers, who talk of the most grotesque afflictions and conditions with the casualness of unimportant gossip. “Are you going to ask if they feel guilt for gossiping?” You adjusted your nurse’s cap. The fit felt good around your head.
“What about you?” He asked.
“Are you asking about my guess for your name?”
The soldier stared at you, eyebrows lowered.
“I will answer as if you asked me for my guess about your name. I don’t know. I didn’t bother to speculate. But none of the guesses seem to fit you.” You studied his cold features, sharp from the hospital stay. You wondered what you would name a child if they had his aloof face. “If I had to guess, your name would be lofty, unwieldy, something that asks people to look away from you.”
Something that the people on the street could hear and receive the expectation that they could not be in the same realm as him. Perhaps you were being too cruel. Children could not choose their names. Perhaps his name was an anchor around his neck as he grew up. But what did you know. You had fake teeth to worry about.
The soldier stayed silent. You finish feeding him as well as the rest of your duties. While you updated his patient chart, the soldier muttered something. “My name…”
He paused. His eye wandered around the ceiling; mouth slightly open. “My name…it’s Yamanoue Yoshizo.”
That was obviously not his real name. You raised and eyebrow and made sure he saw it. Still, he gave you a manner of referral, and you would use it.
“Alright Yamanoue, sir. I’ll be seeing you at the same time tomorrow.” You looked forward to sharing the name with your coworkers.
You left the ward and continued with your day, rolling the fake name on your tongue.