Father, Forgive Me
In reality it isn't that difficult to get away with murder, especially
if it isn't you who is doing the murdering. It is just a matter of
arranging for someone else to do the killing on your behalf, and that,
believe it or not, is child's play.
Of course it is necessary to select your instrument with care. Seek
out those who are looking for a firm, but affectionate, mentor. Love
is not necessary: empathy will suffice. Besides, love may distort the
purity of your intent and leave you vulnerable to irresistible urges.
Many a fine practitioner of the necrotic arts has fallen prey to the
vices that lay in wait for the unwary.
Beyond this simple discipline lies a more demanding one: patience. It
can take years to prepare a suitable candidate for their one act of
malice, their single, sublime moment, of destruction. They must never
know, or even suspect what lies in wait for them. They must go as
calmly as a sacrificial lamb to their doom. Therein lies the art, the
skill, dare I say it, the thrill!
With the preparation of the predator in hand, the selection of the
prey can proceed. Once again, patience is paramount. Undue haste or a
moment's carelessness can spoil the perfection of the kill. The timing
is all. From the moment when my killer first makes contact with their
victim to the moment when the act is consummated, must be
choreographed precisely.
Now, in my role as puppet master, I pull the strings, manipulating
situation after situation to ensure that what is to come will be both
startling and unexpected, and in retrospect, inevitable. It is all
part of the plan, all part of the structure I must construct so that I
can destroy it. Only thus can I find fulfilment.
As the time approaches, as the paths of my marionettes converge, I
prepare myself for the moment of sacrifice, for the second when worlds
will collide and mere mortals will be thrown from the comfortable
inevitability of their imagined futures into a maelstrom of
uncertainty. The moment when my work will be done and I can, and will,
begin again.
I have woven all the threads of Destiny in my hands into a tapestry of
exquisite colour and absolute perfection, a simulacrum of the
situation unfolding before me. They approach, my little actors, moving
along the curves I have drawn for them.
As one boy cartwheels down the stairs, the other stares after him in
amazement and I fall to my knees. Those around me believe I am wracked
with grief as my body shakes uncontrollably, but I know otherwise, and
I clutch myself tightly through my cassock.
