Death Reports
Matthew's Curse, part 7
I used to be a lovable smartass. At least, that's what I was told. I used to smile. I used to have the heart filled with love. I used to have a life. I still know every single American president; the years of their elections; I still know every single capital city of every single state in this world. I still... No. Forget it.
I'm trying to say that you shouldn't waste your life on petty, unimportant things thinking: "I have enough time". No, you don't. Life is one big fraud, lurking around, biting where it hurts most. One day you're reaching the sublime of living; an undefinable spree of excitement, eagerness to make it last forever. The next day you're crying over your wife's dead body - begging her not to leave you, not to let you drown in the sea of hazardous lives.
Life's short. So seize it! Trust me, you don't want to wake up one morning realizing that you haven't even lived. Don't let it happen. Please, for me.
I was striding down the streets. High street lights were shivering, trying to let everybody see their glamorous beams. I guess that the imagined curfew hasn't occurred yet. The city was congested with traffic. People were passing by, talking loudly. Even the clouds looked glamorously satisfied. Not me. I was trying to come up with some new questions for Reverend Lucas. Gosh, I really wanted to recite that famous, everlasting statement - that sentence you often hear in the crime movies - You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Miranda Rights.
I wanted to arrest him just for spoiling the reputation of other priests. For his fancy clothes, his satanic glow, lack of morality. Amen.
I don't feel like seeing him again. That Armani label still burns my retina. Itches. Plus, I wanted, I needed to talk to the other reverend. Hopefully, he'll get back soon. If I had to come back for the third time, I'd blow my brains out. I just needed Lucas's cigar. He bragged about his stash, his decade old Cuban cigars. Like he was a part of damn show business.
I'm sitting on the same bench I sat on last night; being out on a prowl - waiting for the murder to happen. I'm sitting on the very same bench and writing this. This is Present Continuous. It's not raining. Not yet. And the playground is empty. And there's nobody staring out of that obtrusive window. Just a gargoyle, smiling at me from the roof. Its ugly, sickening appearance can only look appealing to someone like Lucas.
Well, I think it's time for me to confess something. Honestly, I do have a confession to make. The very first day, actually the morning I'd started writing this diary, my death reports, there wasn't the storm that had walloped my mind. Just before I had a vision of Sarah's death, I had experienced another one. I saw a man lying on the floor with a bullet hole next to his right eye. Still, I didn't see his face. That was my flaw. Still is. He was lying next to the brown, wooden doors on the spotted floor. White flowers, daisies were scattered around him. Then I saw some other man with a golden watch, wearing a cape, wiping the fingerprints off the gun then placing it in the dead man's hand. Then he picked up a black diary with the "SS" initials from the floor. My diary. This diary. That Sarah bought me for my birthday. I don't know who the cape man was but the dead one was ME. Wearing this military jacket and the old Converse sneakers, the ones that I'm wearing right now. The ones I wore yesterday as well.
I don't know when. I don't know if it will happen. I don't. Another "I don't know" phrase coming from the disturbed detective.
It's 8:30 PM. It's getting dark. Notorious animals are crawling out of their cubby holes. Searching for meals. Yodeling. Eager to cut down on competition. Little culprits. This street light above me doesn't work. Little hooligans smashed the bulb. I'll go inside the church and find some hidden spot to... Scribble down my thoughts. I can't bring my gun in - it's not allowed. Screw it, I'm not taking it off. I can't see a thing - the eclipse of my mind. The thoughts. I'm closing the diary now.
I believe that a couple of minutes passed and nobody saw me coming in. The church is all lit up by candle flames, lightly waving in a draft. And the smell of myrrh is so powerful. Right now, I'm sitting in a confessional, restraining myself from bursting into laughter. Me, in a confessional?! It's pretty obscene but it's hidden. I see what I'm writing. The footsteps. I hear someone's approaching. Someone's soles hitting the ground, making a shrill sound.
"Praise to Lord", echoes from the other side of the confessional.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned".
It's Lucas's voice. Most likely he thinks that I'm Father Kevin; the father I needed to talk to. I just don't want my squeaking pen to give me away. I'm trying to pause my breathing, trying to be silent. Trying not to swallow. My heart is pounding with fear. Anticipation. And my hand is shaking. The pen is slipping through my sweaty, calloused fingers. And he's confessing his sins. I'll do my best to catch every word even though I'm sensing something evil. I apologize for my obscure handwriting, for my high school writing style. I just can't think - like I'm locked up in a claustrophobic, cramped room, unable to breath, to inhale a stint of air.
"Father, I must confess my sins. I cannot keep them inside anymore. Father, I'm attracted to little boys. Whenever I can, I touch them. I cannot resist. Every Sunday after the morning mass, every Wednesday after the choir practice. Forgive me, Father. I've been trying to mask it by looking joyful, by being at service. These cuts all over my body... They present my everlasting struggle. Every time I'd wish for a boy that I couldn't have, I'd cut myself. And Father, I committed a homicide, I killed a human being. I killed a little boy 7 years ago. I saw him one night walking across the playground, wearing his blue pajamas. The devil inside me had invoked. I must have approached him. I asked him in, politely and gladly, lying about a warm cocoa waiting on the table, waiting for him. But that mischievous kid kept saying that he'd tell his mom everything. How I touched him after a morning mass. I couldn't have let it happen. I picked up a rock and smashed his tiny head. And ran away to wash the blood off my hands; off my soul. Oh, my God, what have I done?!"
I'm shaking. I'm trying to flinch but these wooden doors don't let me. I can't even write. The cold sweat's overcome my dreadful pain. He stopped talking. I can hear him sobbing. No, this cramped nook is making me claustrophobic. Hang on, Sean, please. Hang on. I twitched on a thud. Something broke; dispersed on the floor. Through these little, triangle shaped holes on the doors, I see a nun. She's leaving fast. I see white, scattered flowers, white petals.
"Father, I can't bear this burden anymore. I'm sinking, drowning. I cannot cope with it any longer. One lady, one God's child saw me touching a boy. I don't think she knew I had noticed it with a flick of my poisoned eye. I followed her home. I couldn't have put my life at risk, God's chosen me. I couldn't have put my God's service at risk. I couldn't have let her defile my loyalty to the Almighty. I had to kill her. I took off my leather belt and strangled her. Her long hair was waving as I was tightening my belt around her neck. Her beautiful eyes begging for mercy, were staring right at me. Like a porcelain doll that broke, scattered all over the floor within a minute. Sarah. Her name was Sarah..."
The pen dropped from my hand. Hit the floor. Made a clinking sound. I can't breath. Back stabbing breaths are killi... I can't swallow, writing fast. I'm feeling paralyzed. Opening the door, trying to get up. Cringing. My feet are so heavy, like I'm stuck in a deep puddle of mud. Puke. No. Lucas is in front of me. Wearing a mantle. A cape. THE CAPE. THE GOLDEN WATCH. OH. THE SPOTTED FLOOR. THE DAISI-
I'm trying to say that you shouldn't waste your life on petty, unimportant things thinking: "I have enough time". No, you don't. Life is one big fraud, lurking around, biting where it hurts most. One day you're reaching the sublime of living; an undefinable spree of excitement, eagerness to make it last forever. The next day you're crying over your wife's dead body - begging her not to leave you, not to let you drown in the sea of hazardous lives.
Life's short. So seize it! Trust me, you don't want to wake up one morning realizing that you haven't even lived. Don't let it happen. Please, for me.
I was striding down the streets. High street lights were shivering, trying to let everybody see their glamorous beams. I guess that the imagined curfew hasn't occurred yet. The city was congested with traffic. People were passing by, talking loudly. Even the clouds looked glamorously satisfied. Not me. I was trying to come up with some new questions for Reverend Lucas. Gosh, I really wanted to recite that famous, everlasting statement - that sentence you often hear in the crime movies - You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Miranda Rights.
I wanted to arrest him just for spoiling the reputation of other priests. For his fancy clothes, his satanic glow, lack of morality. Amen.
I don't feel like seeing him again. That Armani label still burns my retina. Itches. Plus, I wanted, I needed to talk to the other reverend. Hopefully, he'll get back soon. If I had to come back for the third time, I'd blow my brains out. I just needed Lucas's cigar. He bragged about his stash, his decade old Cuban cigars. Like he was a part of damn show business.
I'm sitting on the same bench I sat on last night; being out on a prowl - waiting for the murder to happen. I'm sitting on the very same bench and writing this. This is Present Continuous. It's not raining. Not yet. And the playground is empty. And there's nobody staring out of that obtrusive window. Just a gargoyle, smiling at me from the roof. Its ugly, sickening appearance can only look appealing to someone like Lucas.
Well, I think it's time for me to confess something. Honestly, I do have a confession to make. The very first day, actually the morning I'd started writing this diary, my death reports, there wasn't the storm that had walloped my mind. Just before I had a vision of Sarah's death, I had experienced another one. I saw a man lying on the floor with a bullet hole next to his right eye. Still, I didn't see his face. That was my flaw. Still is. He was lying next to the brown, wooden doors on the spotted floor. White flowers, daisies were scattered around him. Then I saw some other man with a golden watch, wearing a cape, wiping the fingerprints off the gun then placing it in the dead man's hand. Then he picked up a black diary with the "SS" initials from the floor. My diary. This diary. That Sarah bought me for my birthday. I don't know who the cape man was but the dead one was ME. Wearing this military jacket and the old Converse sneakers, the ones that I'm wearing right now. The ones I wore yesterday as well.
I don't know when. I don't know if it will happen. I don't. Another "I don't know" phrase coming from the disturbed detective.
It's 8:30 PM. It's getting dark. Notorious animals are crawling out of their cubby holes. Searching for meals. Yodeling. Eager to cut down on competition. Little culprits. This street light above me doesn't work. Little hooligans smashed the bulb. I'll go inside the church and find some hidden spot to... Scribble down my thoughts. I can't bring my gun in - it's not allowed. Screw it, I'm not taking it off. I can't see a thing - the eclipse of my mind. The thoughts. I'm closing the diary now.
I believe that a couple of minutes passed and nobody saw me coming in. The church is all lit up by candle flames, lightly waving in a draft. And the smell of myrrh is so powerful. Right now, I'm sitting in a confessional, restraining myself from bursting into laughter. Me, in a confessional?! It's pretty obscene but it's hidden. I see what I'm writing. The footsteps. I hear someone's approaching. Someone's soles hitting the ground, making a shrill sound.
"Praise to Lord", echoes from the other side of the confessional.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned".
It's Lucas's voice. Most likely he thinks that I'm Father Kevin; the father I needed to talk to. I just don't want my squeaking pen to give me away. I'm trying to pause my breathing, trying to be silent. Trying not to swallow. My heart is pounding with fear. Anticipation. And my hand is shaking. The pen is slipping through my sweaty, calloused fingers. And he's confessing his sins. I'll do my best to catch every word even though I'm sensing something evil. I apologize for my obscure handwriting, for my high school writing style. I just can't think - like I'm locked up in a claustrophobic, cramped room, unable to breath, to inhale a stint of air.
"Father, I must confess my sins. I cannot keep them inside anymore. Father, I'm attracted to little boys. Whenever I can, I touch them. I cannot resist. Every Sunday after the morning mass, every Wednesday after the choir practice. Forgive me, Father. I've been trying to mask it by looking joyful, by being at service. These cuts all over my body... They present my everlasting struggle. Every time I'd wish for a boy that I couldn't have, I'd cut myself. And Father, I committed a homicide, I killed a human being. I killed a little boy 7 years ago. I saw him one night walking across the playground, wearing his blue pajamas. The devil inside me had invoked. I must have approached him. I asked him in, politely and gladly, lying about a warm cocoa waiting on the table, waiting for him. But that mischievous kid kept saying that he'd tell his mom everything. How I touched him after a morning mass. I couldn't have let it happen. I picked up a rock and smashed his tiny head. And ran away to wash the blood off my hands; off my soul. Oh, my God, what have I done?!"
I'm shaking. I'm trying to flinch but these wooden doors don't let me. I can't even write. The cold sweat's overcome my dreadful pain. He stopped talking. I can hear him sobbing. No, this cramped nook is making me claustrophobic. Hang on, Sean, please. Hang on. I twitched on a thud. Something broke; dispersed on the floor. Through these little, triangle shaped holes on the doors, I see a nun. She's leaving fast. I see white, scattered flowers, white petals.
"Father, I can't bear this burden anymore. I'm sinking, drowning. I cannot cope with it any longer. One lady, one God's child saw me touching a boy. I don't think she knew I had noticed it with a flick of my poisoned eye. I followed her home. I couldn't have put my life at risk, God's chosen me. I couldn't have put my God's service at risk. I couldn't have let her defile my loyalty to the Almighty. I had to kill her. I took off my leather belt and strangled her. Her long hair was waving as I was tightening my belt around her neck. Her beautiful eyes begging for mercy, were staring right at me. Like a porcelain doll that broke, scattered all over the floor within a minute. Sarah. Her name was Sarah..."
The pen dropped from my hand. Hit the floor. Made a clinking sound. I can't breath. Back stabbing breaths are killi... I can't swallow, writing fast. I'm feeling paralyzed. Opening the door, trying to get up. Cringing. My feet are so heavy, like I'm stuck in a deep puddle of mud. Puke. No. Lucas is in front of me. Wearing a mantle. A cape. THE CAPE. THE GOLDEN WATCH. OH. THE SPOTTED FLOOR. THE DAISI-