Death Reports

Matthew's Curse, part 5

I was standing on the church porch, reluctant to get in. I was only one step away from shaking hands with a priest wearing a phony smile; preaching the bogus fairy tales with happy endings; emphasizing an everlasting battle between good and evil.

"Come in son", a deep voice made me twitch.

A smiling creature; a Jesus's desciple spotted me; gesticulating to me to come closer. Honestly, the church looked old and in a need for a fair spring cleaning. The wooden benches have lost their brown color; a mass of the warm blooded religious people or the ones pretending to be, have absorbed it thoroughly.

A couple of nuns wearing baggy, midnight blue dresses were pouring the water into the white ceramic vases; blurting out something in French.

I came closer to the priest, holding my hands in pockets. He kept smiling at me, restraining his sick mind from cursing at me for not following "the church rules". I didn't mind; I didn't even touch that "holy water"; I didn't pull my hands out of the pockets; I didn't call him father. Why would I, anyway?

"I'm not your son!" I said looking around, shunning an eye contact. That remark disturbed his mind; wept his smile away. Oh, praise Lord.

He looked like he was planning a conspiracy; like he was about to dedicate the rest of his petty life to changing me; making me realize that the Almighty was the only salvation.

Reverend Lucas. That was his holy name. A collar and a fake smile were just a mask to his true emotions; hiding his real face. Shiny, polished shoes looked metallic; covered in chromium. He wasn't wearing that clergy mantle, a rain coat as I like to call it; he had a black, buttoned up shirt and black trousers; nicely covering his fancy shoes.

What made me sick, causing a deep fatigue in my guts were the Armani glasses. For crying out loud. That tiny label, engraved on the golden glasses was perpetually prodding my mind. He was smiling like a crook after the successful robbery. Damn thief, that I didn't like.

He offered me a 10 year old Cuban cigar he had stashed in the chapel. I gasped. He kept that stupid smirk glued to his stupid face most of the time. He was talking about Matthew with enthusiasm. But if you're asking me, he was thinking of Sharon; Matthew's mom. The woman who needed a man by her side. I shivered.

He was waffling, walking down the aisle, putting his hands together like a sudden outburst, like an uncontrollable urge to pray to God. Just writing about his awkward, sick posture, his yellow teeth and fingers, Armani glasses, puts me in temptation to bang my head against the wall. But I won't. Not yet.

The clergyman was just improvising; trying to put me down. God. No God. GOSH. Gosh, he made it with his Australian accent.

I wasn't any smarter after seeing him. Only duller. Much duller. Matthew was an altar boy for a couple of months. That is the only particle of information I got. Nothing else. Allegedly, Lucas was serving a night mass in another parish when Matthew was murdered. I deeply doubt it. DEEPLY:

I couldn't have had a word or two with another reverend, also stationed at the St. Peter's Church. He was out of city, attending a convention but he should be back by night.

I noticed those two gloomy nuns sporadically looking at me as I was striding towards the door. I felt so relieved, feeling a breeze caressing my face; the sun making me warm.

He was up there. Smoking a cigarette, smiling at me from the window. Smirking. That look on his face, full of pent up feelings, full of some unidentified hatred towards me, full of... LIES. I felt like a man convicted to death; waiting for the bullet to make his heart stop beating.