“I hurt them. I burned them from the inside with my pain… I ripped them apart… and I liked it.”
Next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed, cuffed to the rail. Not the life I envisioned for myself when I left the seminary. The detective didn’t seem to be happy with my story. Maybe it’s the part about my black outs that bothers him.
“I’m afraid you going to have to do better then that, Father.”
“You can check my medical records. I’ve had black outs before.”
He had my file under his arm. He took it out and flipped it open, to a random page. He just wanted to make sure I knew he looked. I knew he had plenty of time to look through it. I’m sure he knew just about everything in there. After all, I’ve been out for three days, or so they tell me. Usually my black outs only last a few hours.
“… It says hear you haven’t had a black out in fourteen years.”
“Well that’s because…”
He cut me off, “The medication. Yes, I know. Did you take your pills on the day in question?”
I have not even been awake ten minutes and I’m getting these questions. They haven’t even bothered to tell me why I’m here.
“Yes,” I took a deep breath, “Maybe you could tell me what this is all about? Why am I hand cuffed? Is this about the Wake Point murders? I think the man in the confessional..”
“The man in the confessional? You mean this guy?”
He showed me a picture on a man. Fat, bald, glasses… a priest. I know that I met him before…
“Does he look familiar?”
“Yes, who is he?”
“Father Michael O’ Brien. From Saint Mary’s downtown.”
Now I remember him. Was he the one? The detective sat down by the bed, “Why don’t you tell us what happened that day. From the beginning.”
The day started off the same as any other. I woke up feeling about as empty as I have since my sister died. She took care of me when I was a child, even though she was only eleven years older then me. Our parents died when I was six, so she was all I had. She worked hard to feed us both while I went to school. I felt so bad when she had to drop everything at work to come get me if I had blacked out. When she died of cancer twenty-three years ago, I filled my life with God and went into the seminary. It didn’t help. But they gave me all I needed to live, and paid for my medication, so that was enough to stay.
All these years I had hated God for what he took away from me. The sheep followed the faithless Sheppard, without a clue. Each day I would wake up and read the news paper. I would see all the evil this world had in it. Everyday I wondered how anyone could believe in God. This was especially true of the Wake Point murders. Nine girls. Raped. Beaten. Butchered. And left in the woods, just past the Point.
After I had read about the latest victim, I took my pills, finished my breakfast, said a hollow prayer for them and mentioned them in the seven o’ clock mass. Only a hand full of seniors even bother anymore, especially that early in the morning.
Later that night, I had seen a man from my window in the rectory enter the church. It was too dark to see his face, but I assumed he was there for absolution.
“…So I had made my way to the church and went inside the confessional, where he was already waiting.”
“And then he confessed to you, about the killings?
“I’m not sure. All he said was, ‘I hurt them. I burned them from the inside with my pain… I ripped them apart… and I liked it.’ That’s all I remember before the black out. Was Father Mike the murderer? Did he get away? What happened? Tell me!”
“We found Father O’ Brien…,” he took some crime scene photos out of the folder and showed them to me, “dead. Next to you, who we found soaked in his blood, passed out on the alter.”
The pictures detailed a horrific sight. Father Mike’s body was not even recognizable. Blood was every where. Words were written with it… “No God.”
“You tore him apart, Father… with your bare hands.”
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In Somnia Part 2: The Priest blog
