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He's crying again. He comes here every weekend and cries to me that he's so sorry for beating his family. Blood floating in a pool of water comes to mind as he lets me know how much he hurts every time that he slips his black leather belt into her skin. I don't know what to tell him. I can just imagine what I could try and say and I laugh in disgust. "It's alright man, I'm sure she was asking for it." My response is like clockwork every week. "Twenty Hail Mary's and buy her some yellow flowers." Forgiven.
This type of character is rare indeed. I can't believe I have the privilege to call the cops on this fuck. He's been having these voices since he was a kid and finally, to get away from it, he took this little school girl and tied her up in his apartment. He feeds her and rapes her daily. He tells me about the amber waves of pleasure that come over him every day since she's been around and that he doesn't know if the church will condone a marriage. He's had her for two years. She doesn't remember her parents.
I married these two kids today. The story behind them wasn't the source of my pleasure as much as it was the aura around everything today. Their eyes would shimmer like the sun off the ocean. Laughter would pain the walls in pastel colors of Caribbean splendor. The hues of blue on green through the panorama would carry an organic splendor through the air. Moments like these are the moments that keep us walking through the swamp of everyday life. As tomorrow comes and brings a feeling of decline, the memory of the days past will keep them walking forward.
A cop comes in today from the other side of town. For all I know, that could mean out of state, but I listen to him anyway. He tells me how he killed a rapist. He's afraid that he's going to go to hell for killing a rapist that's been holding this twelve year old girl in his house for two years. He was just a sick fuck who needed help. He wasn't violent at all. He saw the girl with bruises from trying to get away for what felt like forever. Unload ammunition, unload his soul. No shit. Forgiven.
I wish that I would gather the courage to look into the faces of some of these people that air out their dirty laundry on me and expect me to clean it for them. Don't they understand that it doesn't make a difference what I say to them? People need to learn that the lord doesn't help those that cannot help themselves. I could have saved that girl from the sick fuck and even spared the sick fuck from death by holding him in the church and calling the cops here. Sadly though, the lord only works in mysterious ways.
Do you notice my fumbling words? Can you smell my lust coming up through my collar? I look at you and remember how you used to look, when you were twelve and I was seventeen. I remember how you would stare at me when you would come by with my sister. Was there ever a connection? You've grown into a woman now and have seduced me and can control my mind from afar. I can taste you through your Catholic school plaid skirt and cream button-up blouse. My eyes are fingertips that slowly trace your lips and feel your breath.
Father O'Connor is a good man and a caring teacher. He loves to tell people about the ‘better times' of his youth when he first helped open the church. He's helped reform a couple of ex-cons and turn them ‘back to the light'. He's never had to pay for a drink at the bar. He says the bar is filled with the people that are looking for help the most. Everyone wants to talk to ‘Father O'. I reach out to help and he pulls them closer to himself. Greedy fucking asshole, there's only so many years in a lifetime.
People stare at me when I walk around outside of the church in my little outfit of the church. They look at me with the ‘I hope you don't notice me' glance that I hate so much. I come into this profession only to help others through my belief in the Lord (the Christian one if anything), yet instead of receiving open arms, I have people slam the doors of their souls in my face. I wonder if God gets the same sort of treatment from us. Do we ignore Him when he comes to us? I think we do.
I love Sunday. I get to stand at the front of the church and sing out with my brazen vocals the word of the Lord. I have the opportunity to speak and educate the people in the pews with words of reason and authority. This is how it must have felt when Alexander the Great led his armies onto the great field. I tell them to turn to each other and give a sign of peace, ‘and also with you'. They then come to pray for forgiveness for their small and pitiful sins. I am then both life and death.
Monday is unemployment day. We call it that because nine out of the ten that come on Monday are usually people that are looking for a job or have been looking and now turn to us as if we were a divine employment agency. One guy lost his job because the boss' son was nailing his wife. Wife left him and took custody of the child. He has nothing now and comes in asking for a job and forgiveness for thinking of killing them both. I tell him he's forgiven as I think of how I would feel the same.
A tree is my companion this morning. I stand here under the branches as the silver threads of light pass through the morning dew. Children walk by and play in the school-yard. I hear the laughter ring into the air that surrounds me as it passes by me in a slow embrace. The heat of the once comforting air slowly rises as the laughter becomes a chaotic roar in between my ears. Flames drive me into the sky as cameras in the distance record my last moments before my demise. Our souls become silent and unified as we walk skyward.
Father O'Connor is dead Lord. I wished him gone and sadly, it is now so. As I ran from the impending doom and chose to comfort those nearby that have lost loved ones, he gathered his courage and went to the debris to help those who had to see the casualties and drag the masses out. Forgive me Lord for being content at his demise. I miss him and love him, but now I can resume my quest for greatness now that his greatness is lost. Now, I can be the warm sunlight for a new day and yearning hearts.
Look at her crying as she laughs at a friends joke. Her husband has been missing for the past two days and she's being comforted by her friends. Little Jessica is too young to know what's going on and will never know her father. She'll come into the world with no recollection of the love he had for her. Stories of his greatness will only bring more sadness to her memory of him. What she will never know is that she carries inside of her his greatness, and as long as she holds on, his love will thrive inside her.
Everyone's had enough of their television. Force fed information to the point of exhaustion. It's almost as if the media were under the impression that we would all forget this incident if it weren't for this media exposure shoved down our throats. The sad reality has become a terrible dream that we cannot awaken from. Assurances of vengeance have false promises for a better tomorrow as the repetitive days pass with the speed of a tired cripple. Many ridicule the reporters that attempt to bring false hope to the situation by using phrases like missing persons instead of dead bodies.
I stayed up last night to reflect the occurrences of the nights that have passed. This isn't the first night that I've stayed up, but it's the first time that I noticed how these people mourn in their own way. I observe from the rooftop in a quiet vigil. Denise is in her husband's Mustang crying. They would come here to talk and make love during High School and got married right afterwards. The saddest part in this tale is that she's been fucking another man every night before he passed on; in the same car, in the same spot.
People are changing all around me. More people are showing up to mass this Sunday. I feel like they are more receptive to my sermon now that they can see the light that I can provide to them. I am the light that Father O'Connor had blocked out in his life. I am the part of their life that they didn't have. I wish he were here to see this. He would be pushed into the corner by the roars of admiration. As I bring happiness, they slowly forget his name. This is the Lord freeing me of my envy.
Kids have become weak it would seem as the generations pass. On the other hand, parents have become backwards themselves. Little Tommy has been caught torturing little animals in the backyard, so they decide to send him to a psychologist. Tommy misses school so his dad, Joe, teaches him school lessons with a belt like his father did before. Tommy's shrink sees the cuts and bruises and calls the police. Tommy's estranged mother comes in and begs for her son's forgiveness. She tells me in a tear-filled voice, "Maybe the Lord can forgive him for turning on his father?" Forgiven.
I explained to people the other Sunday that those responsible for the tragedy that occurred are all bent upon the destruction of our faith and our society. I explained to them the secrecy of their cult-like ways and how we are all looked upon as devils in the eyes of these radical monsters. The events that have come to pass are nothing more than a harbinger of the whim of their choices as a community. One person called me out and explained how we had done the same with our radicals. From what I hear, he's still in critical condition.
A house was burnt down to the foundation. Not only a lonely and innocent house, but a hive of the mercenaries of our faith was torched. I love the unity that I've brought to my people. Blacks, Whites, Hispanics and Asians that at one point would all attend different churches are now all unified and have chosen my palace as the place of meeting. All to hear my gospel, they commute from far and wide and donate so generously to support my cause. They shout with their hearts within these walls and then, they bring their words to the murderers.
The church has written to me and has let me know that they are planning on sending a replacement for our recently departed. I chuckled violently before I explained that my followers would not accept him. The idea of some idealistic coming into my house of worship to corrupt and distract my people from me is nearly an outrage. I will call out a meeting and explain to my fellow men that those that come to worship here from the outside are not allowed as they are sent from the devil himself to corrupt us. We will fear no evil.
This is a grave time for my followers and me. It would seem that some of the other places of worship have been under attack by some terrorist group of some kind. The police that attend have offered their undivided service. I am so proud of how they are displaying their support by some sleeping here and by coming in droves to church every night to ensure that our strength is in number. I've been told that only a person with intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the churches could be to blame. There was an infidel amongst them.
Will these radicals ever stop their demented ways? Last night, a group of them came into the church looking to destroy us by sneaking into the basement and trying to light my house ablaze! Thirteen of them were caught, but then proceeded to kill each other in an attempt to never be held by the authorities. The last of the thirteen managed to slip away into the city streets; screaming nonsense about kidnapping and murder. He then turned around to fire on police officers happened to be in the area, only to be struck down by the hand of God.
Gambits made to gain sympathy for ones cause is no way to gain respect or forgiveness from the Lord. Many of these pigs of nature have burned their own house down in an attempt to gain public sympathy. My people see past this mockery of honesty. These animals have even left children inside their homes while they torched them down; only to gain more sympathy! They would then love to point at my House of Worship as the cause. We would love to assist anyone; unfortunately, we know that it is their own sins that are bringing them to Hell.
Investigations are growing against me and my people. They say that I'm the cause of hate crimes throughout the city. I am not a hate monger. I love my people and will do anything to ensure that they are well prepared against those that may feel justified in killing them. My people are a good people and I will not let a political group (blinded by their own self righteousness) control my people's safety. My people know that our numbers are few in to the rest of the corrupt world, but they trust that I am prepared for the future.
There are some sayings that hold truth no matter the circumstances. Phrases such as ‘Don't tread on me' (a phrase rooted in this country's conception) and ‘If you're not a part of the solution, you're part of the problem' are just a few that can always be referred to in every situation. My people and I know that God believes us right in our ways; that he will reward us for our adherence to our firm beliefs. We are zealots amongst infidels and slothful sheep of the devil. May the Lord have mercy upon their souls, for I have none.
The police have finally become corrupted by the evil of the world. I saw them as the final barrier between a corrupted society and my haven of gifted and enlightened people. Now, we stand here patiently waiting for the final moment to shine before our creator and against the minions of the devil himself. A few of my followers are police officers as well but it doesn't sadden me to see them on the other side of my doors. The crucifix hanging upon the wall shows us what we cannot see; Jesus looking onto us, arms open for our embrace.
This is as Biblical as it gets and it is me that is bringing this to light. I am bringing the wrath of God down upon those who would stop us and it is my zealots that bring this message to the world. The police surround my church and prepare a first and final assault upon my people. The slow rumble of hundreds of feet becomes a final bass-line for the symphony that I have written for them. Three policemen amongst them take out a bit more than three quarters of the opposing force in a ball of flames. Forgiven.
Beat on this woman before she makes everyone start to get all upset. Muzzle her before she starts to spread her lack of faith. All she can keep screaming is how she's afraid to die and that her husband killed himself for this monster (I can only assume she was talking about me) and how her baby has no father. No one wanted to silence her infectious disease, but I can't have this woman jeopardizing my path into the heavens with saint-like grandeur. I reached over for the candlestick holder and let it fly into the air into her head.
I guess that there is no way that I will be able to win this war against evil after all. All of my followers followed the candlestick with their eyes as it flew through the air into the woman's head. Their faces turned from blank as grazing cattle to as enraged as Nazis at a Jewish temple to the fear in of a rape victim as I opened my jacket. I was prepared for this unfortunate moment. Those who didn't die in the explosion were shot by the police on the way out of my church. Forgive me father. Forgiven.
I started this month with the intention of making the theme ‘The Diary of a Preacher' and the preacher would be placed in situations where his faith would be questioned and bent the same way that our morals are twisted everyday. I didn't decide to change the theme based on the events of the eleventh but was forced to in a way by my inability to isolate my thoughts from it. People kept shoving the shit down my throat, and although I know that it is a tragedy, some people mistake patriotism for ignorant bigotry. Please forgive me folks… forgiven.
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