SearchEugene
I don’t know much about this world, but I wrongly believed God would protect me, no matter what, by my side through the good times and the bad. Unfortunately, I learned a little too late that things would never be so simple. The sad truth is, I’m a killer. I ain’t about to dispute the fact, and you can judge me harshly if you want to. But it’s kinda ironic how such a literal statement is set to end my tainted days—those three little words enough to ensure whatever time I have left will be spent now on death row. It don’t matter how much I wanna believe otherwise ‘cause there ain’t much I can change about what I can’t control. I don’t get to choose the outcome. All I know is there comes a point in every man’s life when he needs to face his mistakes, and I guess, if I ever hope to find a place in the good Lord’s green Eden, I need to start owning mine.
It’s hard to admit I’ve taken very little from the forty years I’ve existed on this planet, but I can tell you with all certainty there’s nothing worse than the smell of fear on a man’s skin during those final moments of his infected existence. Hell, the poor bastard don’t know what to do first—vomit or piss his pants. Regrettably, the male in my company this evening has taken it upon himself to do both. As it is, the air is cloaked in a heavy stench of regurgitated food, sweat, urine and, if I’m not mistaken, human excrement. It’s probably all I deserve, already irritated by the unfamiliarity of a disused barn, a heady stench of bodily fluids still lingering from the farm animals once raised for slaughter out here. It’s enough to make me sicker than a dog passing peach pits.
The fading light hurts my eyes and I strain to see where I’m standing, nothing to do but stare at a stranger’s body hauled up a couple of feet above my own. His blue-veined feet are overlapped and nailed by iron to a wooden post driven deep into the earth, his blood-soaked wrists hammered to a crossbeam with the force of redemption he ain’t likely to find in this life. His arms are outstretched on either side of his body, as if he’s reaching for something, searching for mercy we both know he’ll never get from me.
He ain’t dead. At least, not yet.
I try to shake off the frustration that has taken a hold of my thoughts, but this yellow-bellied son-of-a-bitch has burrowed deep inside my brain. I can already tell this moment will be enough to keep me awake long after the torment has ended, long after I quit giving a goddamn shit what his God-given name is. I can’t, however, dislodge the feeling of dread that’s been growing in my gut for the last hour, can’t help what I’m about to do next. It adds nothing of value to the way this night is heading. All I know is there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. I sure ain’t about to deny it.
Truth is, the Devil took control of my soul long ago, his unseen power screaming louder than Grandpa’s Sunday tie. Satan has long been set to claim me for his own, my mind already in Hell ahead of my cold, twisted body. He controls my movements, commands my thoughts, dictates how and if I can breathe. Shit, I’ve forgotten what my life waslike before this sorry business began, before I lost my senses to a world that’ll never understand the likes of me. It’s a shame my mind is filled now with impossible images and distorted ideas, twisting my existence into something real ugly. It’s been like this going on twenty years. I can’t change it. Sure ain’t fixin’ on doing nothing about it.
I take a heavy breath as I trace cold fingers along my victim’s clammy skin,his rancid breath a little too close for comfort. He stares at me and I stare right on back, his goose-bumped body quivering into the frigid air like a goddamn whore in church. We stay like this for a while, just the two of us, unable to express much to the man in my company about what I’m thinking ‘cause I don’t know an awful lot about an awful lot. I figure his actions have brought about this impossible moment, that’s all, so I try not to overthink what neither of us can change. I’m growing tired of waiting on an explanation we both know will never arrive. I still pray I might someday get into Heaven, if I can. But if I’m going to Hell, this sorry piece of shit may as well come along for the ride.
I don’t exactly know where such a crazy idea comes from, but I take a knife from my pocket and look him directly in his eyes before driving the cold blade into both. I’m detached from myself and my emotions, gouging out his eyeballs with about as much compassion as an acre of snakes waiting on their next meal. Warm blood seeps between my fingers, my teeth clenched tight with the suffering I’m inflicting, his hollow screams set to destroy us both before this night is done. I shoulda changed things when I had the chance, coulda done things real different. But if I had my time again, I probably wouldn’t change a thing. I reckon I’ll be dead long before it matters now anyways.
‘I’m…sorry…’ He attempts to speak, ready to shoot his mouth like he eats bullets for breakfast, his pained apology about as welcome as a fox in a chicken coop.
I snarl. He ain’t sorry, but this piece of shit soon will be. We both know it’s not me he needs to convince, his half-assed apology falling on deaf ears.
‘Shut your goddamn mouth,’ I yell, more to myself than him.
It’s a shame he didn’t feel the same need to speak up when it mattered, when he coulda changed the outcome for those poor bastards he wronged before he and I were forced to meet. But I can’t have him pleading for a life not worth saving, so I pry open his jaw and cut out his tongue.
When I’m done, I stand back and watch iron-rich liquid pour from his face, unable to hold back a sideways smile as he chokes on words he can no longer say aloud. I’ve blinded him, rendered him mute, ensuring he’s unable to see a thing beyond the intolerable pain he once inflicted upon others. This guy ain’t no saint, that’s for sure.
Unspeakable images once littered his home, his thoughts, his life. Don’t ask me how I’ve acquired the information ‘cause you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I’m ensuring he can no longersee those unclean things that have led him to my unwitting attention, can no longer speak of his despicable crimes. I need to end this thing before the Devil ends me, already tortured by apast that haunts my every waking breath.
I don’t know him, but I know enoughabout him to tell you he’s getting what he deserves, every twisted thought coming back tenfold, every tainted deed set to swallow him whole. I just need to open his soul, if I can, emotionally, literally, help ease his suffering and show him the light. Hell, if anyone deserves the Lord’s attention, it’s this son-of-a-bitch. I’m doing what’s required of God to save his damaged soul from the depths of Hell, my reckoning that I’m doing him a favour. Besides, it was my job once upon a time to helpfolk like him. Sinners, non-believers, killers.
He tries to speak but can’t, so I respond by punching him twice in the belly. He releases a sharp groan, crying out like the snivelling coward he is, just a product of an unsavoury past he can never undo. His mutilated eye sockets are buckshot black, a ring of heavy thorns set upon his crimson-stained brow as he chokes back unspoken words only God will ever understand. He looks like Jesus Christ—only fat and bald. Mutilated ‘cause it’s all he deserves, about to die ‘cause the Almighty commands his penance.
‘If you lie down with dogs, son, you’ll get up with fleas,’ I mutter, my snarled lips pulled tight across my teeth.
He’s heading for the wagon yard, no place else to go, speared in several places from the knife in my grasp and dangling like a pig from fattened limbs. I close my eyes, knowing I’m serving rightful justice. There’s no one to blame but God for our unfortunate position. Or the Devil. Guess it makes no odds either way, easier to blame him than anyone. My actions will ensure this sicko might still be received into Heaven if the Lord willingly chooses. Or Hell, if he don’t. My money’s on the latter.
I tilt my head skyward, hoping to see God’s face above mine, hoping he’ll show mercy upon my ravaged soul. I wanna reclaim my lost sanity, if I can, despite the blood I’ve spilled, to prove my worth and devotion to the Almighty. I still believe I’m worthy of his protection. Somehow.
‘You don’t talk no more,’ I croak toward the dark, talking to God ‘cause there’s no one else here worth talking to.
The Lord don’t answer but I know he’s listening. Probably appreciates I sound desperate, broken, this entire building mocking my actions, my soul long past condemned. But the harder I pray, the less I hear him, my struggling lungs failing to accept my surroundings as silence falls across this desolate place.
It takes a moment for me to realise my victim is dead.
I guess we’re done here.
I hold my old bible against my chest, nothing to do now but pray, tears streaming down my reddened cheeks, my face all twisted up like a pretzel.
‘With God, all things are possible. With God, all things are possible.’
I repeat the words of Matthew, verse 19:26, mostly outta desperation ‘cause I want it to be true, praying the good Lord will save my sorry soul, too, if he can. It’s a simple reminder that while earthly obstacles and limitations may seem insurmountable, God’s grace and power can and will overcome any challenge we’re given. God knows I need that now.
I fall onto my knees, my trembling legs no longer holding me steady, my blood-coated palms taking the impact of the incoming dirt. I take a deep breath, an icy chill ripping through my skin, sucking the warmth from my body, twisted thoughts adding nothing to the agony gnawing my bones. The Devil’s breath is colder than a well-digger’s knee, his frigid fingers wrapped around my frozen heart, his cold grip squeezing, tighter, tighter. It’s all Ideserve, all I’ll ever know for the rest of my tainted days, the dead of night set to taunt me for the rest of my luckless life.
I used to believe I was a goodman. Tried to live a simple life. Holding onto simple values whenever I could. But what is done is done, and, in the end, despite it all, I still became a killer. We all know God willneverforgive his most damning commandment. He left my side long ago. Don’t matter how much I wish things were different.
I glance skyward once more, just in case the Almighty has changed his mind about saving me, nothing to do now but struggle against the harsh evening air, a voice I barely recognise repeating the ancient Aramaic word, bi’uwsh, bi’uwsh, bi’uwsh. Over and over and over.
Evil. Evil. Evil.
