(A man, never named, aged 19, is confessing his sins to a priest before committing suicide. Note: The priest never actually says a word.)
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Oh, don't worry, I won't go to Hell for it. I'm not Catholic. I just needed to talk to someone. Will you hear me, Father?
Jesus Christ, I hate that word. Father. For most people, it invokes a wonderful feeling. Hell, other men, they're close to their fathers. They have fond memories of all the usual male bonding: camping, hunting, fishing, sports. Not me. My old man beat the living hell out of me. Fuck, my fondest memories of the man are, in this order: That day he didn't take the belt to me for no apparent reason, and a month ago, when the old fucker was forced from this life. Honestly, I don't think he'd have gone any other way.
Sure. You'll say I'm a bad son. You don't understand what it was like, living with the old bastard. Every day, we would get whatever chores around the house done. I'd do my homework; I'd help Emilie with hers. We made sure that dinner was waiting, hot of course, and that he had a cold beer in hand the minute his boots were off. Didn't help most nights. He'd find something wrong with it. Off would come the belt. I took the worst of it; he could beat me to death, I didn't care, but I'd kill the fucker if he ever laid a hand on Emilie.
I wanted to turn down NYU last year, when they gave me the scholarship. I couldn't stand the idea of leaving Emile alone with him. I knew what he wanted to do to her. He tried to do it to me. I fought back, protected her, but I knew that if I left, she wouldn't be able to protect herself. I couldn't...they gave me six weeks to decide. Emilie finally convinced me to do it.
I knew he was going to go after her. Within a week, I got a phone call from Em. She was crying, she wanted me to come home. I was ready to board the next plane. Hell, I would have hitchhiked back if I could. But just as I was ready to book the flight, she changed her mind. Told me “I'll be ok. Don't worry about me. Whatever happens, remember that I love you.” She hung up after that.
I called back right away. His voice came over the line, said she was going to a friend's house, and dropped the receiver. I thought about calling the cops, but they were always fucking useless. Don't look at me like that. You know it's true. I put the incident out of my mind, but made plans to get Emilie with me on my next break.
When my phone rang again, two hours later, there was silence when I opened it. That's a fucking lie. There was the sound of someone being hit; I know that sound. Crying, pleading, a scream, another scream. What sounded like something being stabbed. I yelled my sister's name into the phone. The line went dead. There was no answer when I picked up.
I was on the next plane. Back in Texas in seven hours. Renting a car, speeding to the house. I called the cops on the way and they laughed at me. They fucking laughed. They weren't laughing when I called back from the house. Nobody was.
They said she was raped and murdered. They've been running tests on the evidence, but it's been two months. Besides, they just don't want to admit the truth. My old man was a model citizen, after all.
We were allowed to bury her last month. The dirt wasn't even over the coffin before my old man's body was found. They say he put up a good fight, that it looked like he fought back with whoever killed him. It was a pretty gory scene. There was blood everywhere. He'd been shot, stabbed, strangled. Whoever killed him was obviously wanting him to suffer.
You know the saddest part? They arrested my uncle two days ago, charged him with both murders. It's depressing, really. The cops really are incompetent, aren't they? Everyone knows who killed Em, and everyone knows I killed the killer.
I guess they won't get around to arresting me. I've confessed my sins, but they won't get the pleasure of ending my life. The last thing I'll do is deny them that.
I've got nothing left to live for.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
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