New Beginning

I:

Dear Diary, 

It’s now day… What? 16? 17? I don’t know. They were extremely fast on their decision to lock me in the cage and throw away the key. Determined, really. I’m impressed. The same people that participate in great movements, human rights this, human rights that, everyone has the right to a second chance… And here I am, alone in my cell, no windows whatsoever, my door is this massive metal piece with a small, mocking little hole on the bottom from where I receive my food and not a fucking soul to talk to. Oh, and this annoying little light bulb that is constantly turned on. I swear to God, under the presumption of His existence, they are trying to make me insane. 

Like I don’t know I already am. 

Fuck all of them. They are treating me like I’m this great scary public enemy… When, in reality, I’m just a dirty little secret. I have to be treated as such. I’m a rodent, a mistake in the system, a sign that their so-called society, with all its laws and promises, with all the big words and huge perspectives, and all the pretty slogans it’s worth something. I had to be shoved in the dark. Otherwise, they would have to deal with me. And worst of all - they would have to deal with themselves. 

No one ever wanted to deal with themself. Don’t I get that. 

II:

Dear Diary, 

Jesus told me that it’s day number 23, actually. I feel like years have passed ... And at the same time, it's just a few minutes. Just a second ago I was entering this forgotten place in my disgustingly orange jumpsuit, which, by the way, is giving me a horrible rash. And if 24 days ago I was eating the best cheeseburger in town - I’m talking juicy meat, I’m talking pickles, the freshest onion a man could find and the finest ketchup that was ever created, now I’m eating… Well, Jesus is insisting that it’s different food each time - according to him I even had meatballs the other day, but I’m just calling it a blob. A prison blob. Same taste, or lack thereof, same disgusting texture - think snot, but mixed with cornstarch… Gives me the same stomach ache each time. 

Jesus is not the Christian-created lie, by the way. Jesus is the janitor - I have no idea how he looks, I’ve only caught a glimpse of his shoes and his hands while he is giving me that disgusting food tray, but sometimes he stays and we talk. He was the one giving me this diary - a notebook and a pencil which he leaves with me for an hour or two and then he comes back to collect it, so I won’t get caught with it.

He’s a nice man. Sounds kinda old, but also kinda… Kind. We need more people like him in the world. We sure as hell don’t deserve him, but we need him. 

III: 

Dear Diary,

Day 27. Jesus brought me pickles - not disgusting prison pickles, no - the big ones in the square jar with, you know, the label. He couldn’t give me the whole jar, of course, he couldn’t get it by the security, but he slipped me some with the food tray. And right now, in my right hand I’m holding my pencil and I’m writing these lines, and in my left hand, there is a big, juicy pickle, crunching between my teeth, it’s taste lighting my tastebuds on fire, my tongue, dancing to music created by the universe itself…

Man, I love pickles. He asked me what else do I like so he could try to smuggle some in. Apparently “hookers, booze, and coke” wasn’t sufficient for him, so we settled on some broccoli instead. I know, I know, I sound insane, but truth be told I miss vegetables, and I sure as hell ain’t getting a decent vegetable in this hell hole. 

Speaking of hell holes, my useless lawyer should have contacted me by now. In theory, I was supposed to be left in the cell until the judge comes up with the final decision. What decision does he have to make exactly? I’m not that hard, I killed 93 people, I’m either getting a life sentence or at least 50 years, just get on with it and put me in a normal cell… I’m not saying that Jesus is a bad person, but he can’t stay around all day and I’m getting ridiculously bored, I need to speak to someone… Or at least to get that light bulb turned the fuck off. 

IV: 

Dear Diary, 

Day 34. God bless Jesus for actually updating me on the days - especially since he’s been goon for so long. I thought that he was sick, but he told me that, actually, his mother passed away. He took two days to arrange the funeral but then decided to stay home for some time, soak in grieve. I get it. 

I remember when my momma passed away. So, so many years ago… And still feels like yesterday. Sometimes I wake up from these dreams, cold sweat dripping down my neck and my fingers are clutching onto the thin air where I could swear I felt her hair between them… But it turned out, it was just a dream. 

I often dreamed of her when she was alive too. Sweaty, steamy dreams even, which no good boy had to have. Especially at that young age and even more so towards his mother. But I couldn’t help it… She was so beautiful, with these heavy black locks of hair hanging down her fragile back… And she was so, so nice to me… Even when everyone told her that I’m a bad, bad boy, even when my father insisted that I have to get locked up in an institution, she was always there, she came in each day and she fought for my release to her last breath. 

And then… She died and my father told me that she got sick because of me. She gave birth to the devil himself, he used to say, and God finally came down on earth to release her from her suffering. 

I’ve been listening to that same gibberish since the first time I got caught with a dog (and then a squirrel, and a few cats, and with my cousin, but that’s not the point now), but this time… It hit the hardest. He refused to let me go to the funeral! He refused to let me say goodbye! beside

I was okay with staying in the institution - there was the occasional “spanking” here and there, of course, but the pudding was nice, the nurses were hefty, and I love me some hefty nurses, it was warm, I had friends… 

But that night… Something broke. I wanted to see my momma. I wanted to touch the soft, hopefully still warm skin on her long, graceful fingers… I wanted to kiss her - in many ways and on many occasions, but right now I wanted a small peck on the rosy cheek, a fast one, just before they bury her in the ground. 

That night I ran away. I’m no moron, I’ve learned the secret passageways in the first week, so I usually moved pretty freely in and out, but this night I collected my stuff and I never looked back. 

The only stop that I made was at my old home. And he was there, completely shitfaced, fell asleep on the couch, beer cans at his feet… Took me less than five minutes to soak up the fucking shithole in gasoline and less than 5 seconds to light the place on fire. And then… I ran away. 

V:

Day 73. 

Jesus insists that I have to write more often, but actually, I don’t have that many things to say… Besides, we talk every day and I’ve realized that I prefer to talk with him instead of with myself. I’ve spent way too much time talking only with myself. 

When I was out in the world, I thought of myself that I’m… Something else. Something more. After all, 93 murders, and I was caught only on the last two. No stupid man could achieve this. And I wouldn’t look at Jesus twice - after all, he is a fucking prison janitor, how intelligent could he be? 

But he is… He is a nice man. A gentleman even. And I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, the complicated philosophical discussions are not so important when you are faced with the rough reality - everything you do has its consequences. 

I don’t know why I killed them. Maybe someday I’ll tell him. Maybe he’ll have a different perspective. 

All I know is that I was mad. At the whole fucking world. And it seemed only righteous to take my anger in the clearest way I could to the people who… Well, deserved it. Starting with my father and ending with the stupid lady from the stupid bar who spilled her drink at me… They all deserved it. I can’t get mad by myself now, can I? 

VI:

Day 134.

I’m having dreams lately. I’ve had vivid imagination through my whole life, so this is not exactly news, but… I’ve spent half a year locked up without my usual distractions, so I’m guessing that my mind is digging up things that even I forgot about. 

I’m dreaming of my victims. And when I’m awake, I wonder what would their lives be if I hadn’t… Well, killed them. 

Victims. Funny way to talk about them. I’ve never considered them like that until Jesus pointed it out to me… Several times, throughout several conversations. I usually saw them as collateral damage at best. 

He said that I’m right. Just… I was the disaster. 

The murder of my father was, well, nothing personal. Years after years, when I started killing with my bare hands, I was sorry that I chickened out this way, that I didn’t take his life personally. He just started an itch that I could never properly scratch… 

I am still sure that God doesn’t exist. Or even if he does, he is some sick bastard, laughing his ass off in his mighty chair somewhere up in the clouds. 

But I am starting to think that… Maybe I ain’t god too.  

VII:

Day 278.

Dear Diary,

I’m tired. Jesus started blabbering again about how I need to spend some time with myself, now that I don’t have the luxury of cheap alcohol and hard drugs, so… Here I am. Spending countless nights with myself. Or afternoons. Or mornings. Or at whatever cursed hour he has to clean vomit and blood and god only knows what from the cold floors of this place. 

I don’t remember all my victims. My lawyer is sure that they are 93, the judge is sure that they are 93, at least, I am being charged with 93 murders, but… I don’t remember all of them. Some of them I didn’t even bother to dig graves for. I just cleaned them up, removed most of the evidence, and proceeded with my business. 

I do remember the flower girl, though. She was so, so beautiful… She looked exactly like my mother. The first time I saw her I swear, I felt like I’ve seen a ghost. She was unreal. 

We went out on a few dates. For her, maybe things were going well - I was, after all, intelligent, and I was a true gentleman when the woman in front of me was actually a lady, but… The closer I was getting, the worse she was looking. 

First of all, she used to drink. And, yes, sure, the occasional white wine here and there wasn’t a problem, but… My mother didn’t drink. It was hard enough that I had to get past the fact that her name was not the same, she dared to drink! And then, I started to show her music and a few films, and a book or two… She didn’t like them! None of it! She even called Elvis too old and boring! 

I had to. She had no right to exist in this world, looking like Her and deceiving Her memory in such a horrible way. 

Then again… As soon as she took her last breath, looking at me with those bright blue eyes, filled with horror… She stopped talking. And I was able, once again, to soak in the beauty that was rejected to me so cruelly. 

So… I had to give her a proper funeral. I took her to a meadow and I covered her in dandelions. I even read a prayer - my mom would have loved it, even though I never believed in that bullshit. 

VIII: 

Day 334. 

Dear Diary, 

It’s my birthday today. I’ve never been excited about it, but this year, Jesus made it special - he sneaked in a birthday cupcake, with a blue frosting - my favorite frosting, and with sprinkles, and a little birthday candle… 

I cried for the first time in many, many years. Maybe even in my life. 

I don’t feel guilty anymore. I don’t feel rage. I’m just sad. I’m sad that my life went the way it did, I’m sad that Jesus’s mother died, I’m sad that my mom died, I’m sad that I haven’t seen the sunlight in so many days… And I’m sad that I feel that way. 

Jesus lives in the same shitty world that I was born in. And yet again, he doesn’t run around, killing people. He smiles. He brings me cupcakes and pickles. He talks to me and he listens to the endless rants that I have. He doesn’t judge me - no, never. Instead, he speaks quietly and he carefully points out a direction in my thought trail that I apparently missed. 

If love existed in my heart, probably I would love Jesus. 

XI: 

Day 364. 

The judge finally made a decision. Took them a while, didn’t it? I mean, I even confessed to all the crimes they listed, so it shouldn’t be that hard… 

I just came out of the meeting. It took them this long because they wanted, they had to settle a precedent. 

Now Jesus is bringing me a Big Mac menu with fries and a big coke, and, of course, a blue-frosting cupcake for dessert. He is going to take one for himself as well - we are going to have a proper dinner, he even managed to convince the guard to let him into my cage. 

I will finally see Jesus’s face! And I will be able to hug him! 

And tomorrow morning… Tomorrow morning, I sit on the electric chair. 

Hope I meet my momma afterward.