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Oh, these wild thoughts of mine. What can I say, what can I do, lost as I am, fighting against the train of thought that leads me, through the valleys of death. And this pain and torture I dwell on, such sins are not mine to bear, not mine to hold, but the good Lord has struck me down. Oh, how he remained silent when I called out to him. When I called his name in vain and shouted to the heavens, “Why have you forsaken me?”
But those were his words, his prayer to his father, not mine to use, not mine to covet. And yet my feelings are the same, the calls of men, vicious and angry- for my head, my death. What else can I do, but stand with my arms open, and carry the words I leaned so long ago? Who else could understand, who else could feel the honesty of my cry?
And so I stand open, so beautifully open to all possibilities, to homosexuality, to Billy Joel, fornication, Hitler, terrorism, futile resistance, Snapple-even wisdom. I stand to be examined, judged by the Alpha Omega himself. But my awareness is mocked. It is damaged, destroyed by the crushing hand of the Almighty and all pleasantries are gone.
Nothing is left but an empty shell of what once was, the tower of Babel abandoned and the walls of Jericho demolished. I stand alone to fight the war. What shame it brings me, knowing I too was left for Satan.
And when I fall in the depths of wilderness, I understand no more or less than what I began with. The winds picks up sending grit into my eyes, my mouth, my ears and I can do nothing with those parts but try to cleanse them of their wrong doings.
The distant memory flashes before my eyes, the sighs of night, a bird calling, power flowing through my veins. Everything happened quickly then, everything moved, and I couldn’t tell the wicked from friend. My knife flailed with wild passion and the sounds of the alarm rang in my ear. Enemies. Fire when ready, attack, never look back.
And the rifle on the ground was in my hand within seconds and the shots that rang out were from my own need to survive. Just shoot, only shoot, live, don’t die. I could hear my commanding officer’s voice in my ear. Just do it Marine, just do it. And I did.
But when the firing cased, all that was left was silence created only by death and I knew, that somewhere, I would find a buddy or two lying in the marsh. I crept from my hiding spot and sighed. Today I would live. I gazed through the grasses to where the fallen lay and was disgusted by what I saw.
Children. Children lay scattered, their arms wide like Jesus, their faces pale, and their eyes wide with fright. One twitched in the grass, as the others lay in silent rest. I cursed them for coming, for dying, for living and fell to the ground. No amount of questioning would bring them back. True evil brought them to this place. They were sacrificed, like lambs, forgotten.
And this memory fades into blackness and the blackness turns to fluorescent light that blinds and purifies. Tugging at the collar of my suit, I close my eyes. There is no more faith, no more hope left in my body.
“I, William Patrick Pearson, plead guilty to the crimes, which I have been charged with, including, the massacre of one hundred children.”