The Murder by Ethan Canter (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

right. But I lack strength, Father.”
“What church do you belong to?”
“It’s in the city.”
“There must be others, in the city. Why did you come here?”
“I’ve been traveling.”
He doesn’t shy from the priest’s probing look. In fact he opens himself to it, even putting in the effort to embellish a look of forlorn burden.
The priest looks into his eyes, follows the contours of his face, the lines of his coat, and with a compassionate smile sees the disheveled newspaper held tight under his arm.
“Well, we are all the children of God,” the priest says. “And He has chosen to guide you here in your time of need. We shall no more question His work, for it is divine,” and he gestures towards the small confessional laid against the wall.
The confessional is cold, and smells of wood and frankincense. The only light inside finds its way down through the latticework above his head. The priest slides back the wooden panel between them. Through the mesh screen he sees the priest’s face in profile, reciting a short prayer under his breath, crossing himself, and finally tilting his head towards the screen to hear his confession.
“Forgive me, Father, for I am going to sin,” he says, watching the priest’s face through the screen. “I’ve become a hateful man, Father. I’ve become a vengeful man.” He stares at his hands. “I feel no joy, no love for life.” His eyes wander and he recalls the face of the girl from the train. His lips soften, but it’s not a smile. “I’m misunderstood, Father. And judged – judged for things I haven’t done. Judged for things–” He clenches his hand into a fist. “My desires are not wrong,” he says to himself. He takes a deep breath and rubs his face with his hands. “Father,” he begins again, “my compassion has dried up. I’ve forgotten, to extinction, what it is to feel compassion. Others’ pain only causes me irritation now. Others’ pain disgusts me. I’m so full of hate, Father. I’m drowning from so much hate. The world is ugly and bare to me. I see it only in gray. I see it far away.” In the silence he hears the soft clacks of the priest fingering his rosary. “It doesn’t matter what I believe anymore – I see that clearly.” His eyes trace invisible memories in the air. “But without belief I cannot have faith. And without faith, reason is lost. So I’m left only with actions – I have become a man in the worst sense of the word, Father. I’m half dead – half dead and waiting for the rest of me to follow – but now I’m tired of the wait.” The priest steals a glance at him through the screen. “Don’t think of trying to talk me out of it, Father, because you won’t. What you must do is try to understand me.”
The priest leans his mouth to the screen and whispers, “It is to God, not to me, that you’re confessing. I’m just the witness. I’m just a channel for God. It is He that has the power to understand, and forgive.”
“I’ve not come for forgiveness,” he says sharply. “I submit to this ritual for your sake, Father, not mine. And as for God...it would be better if we left Him out of this.”
“It is to God that you are confessing – not to me,” the priest repeats with emphasis.
“I am not confessing, Father,” he barks. “I am telling.” He leans his face close to the screen and stares at the priest who won’t meet his eyes. In a sardonic whisper he adds, “It’s a subtle difference, I know. But I do expect you to become aware of it.”
The priest crosses himself for strength. Still refusing to look through the screen, he says, “If you’ve not come here to confess, then I think it best if you leave.”
“Would you run me out of your house, Father? And without even first hearing my confession?” The priest bows his head, his shame and his pity so easily evoked. “Can you not see the demons that afflict me, Father?” he says in a soft and sincere voice. “Can you not see how they’ve torn this heart? Can you not see how they bury my soul? But can you not also see a man, somewhere in my eyes, Father? Weren’t his intentions once good?” The priest keeps his head bowed. “Weren’t my intentions once good, Father?” he asks, tears welling in his voice. The priest crosses himself and mouths a silent prayer. “Look at me, Father. Please.” His voice is pleading. The invisible weight on his shoulders bends his back. His head hangs. He stares at the priest. “Please, Father.” Slowly, tentatively, the priest turns his head and sees, as though for the first time, his sunken eyes, his twisted brow, his sallow skin. The priest lets his eyes fall again. “What? What did you see, Father?” he asks. But the priest is silent. “Father? Father, please.” His mouth goes dry and his chest feels heavy. “I’m desperate, Father. Can’t you see that? Don’t you see I–” His eyes narrow. His breathing becomes labored. “There’s no air in here,” he complains. Pressing his face against the screen, he whispers, “It’s not a burden that I carry, Father – it’s something worse, something far, far worse – something your incense and candles will not cure. A compulsion, Father – that’s what I carry. A compulsion even you cannot exorcise.” The priest begins to stand. “Sit down, Father,” he says. But the priest doesn’t obey. “Sit down, Father,” he repeats forcefully.
“You have no right to speak like this,” the priest says.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he says. “Forgive me–” But the priest is already outside the confessional.
He pushes through the curtains. The priest is slowly walking away. He grabs him by the arm. The priest turns, calmly, sternly. “You are in the house of God,” the priest says, looking him straight in the eyes. “You said you came here seeking refuge, but you are only full of anger and blasphemy. He is a forgiving God, but you speak with the tongue of a devil. You are no longer welcome here. You must leave now.”
He lets the priest’s arm go, and watching him walk slowly and methodically back towards the vestry, feels suddenly weak and hollow – abandoned, left. He bends his knees and lets himself down onto the cold stone floor, his eyes dry as a desert, his heart closed as a tomb. Desperate but unable to weep, he whines, like an imbecile, staring up at the eyes of the bleeding Christ.

8
Words are empty, are meaningless, they rely too much on who’s listening...there’s really just no point in talking, he thinks to himself, pulling his collar up a little tighter around his neck. The wind is cold. It might snow. The sky is gray and heavy and hangs so close he can feel it just out of reach above his head.
It’s early. He buys a newspaper from a newsstand and tucks it under his arm as he walks. A woman runs past. A car horn sounds in the distance. A garbage truck lumbers along on the other side of the road, two men following behind tossing bags into the back of it. At the corner Jerry’s already waiting, the car engine idling.
“You’re late,” Jerry says, shifting the car into gear and pulling away.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, reaching for the seatbelt.
“Nerves?” Jerry asks.
“No,” he says, not finding the seatbelt. “Where’s the seatbelt?”
“Had to take it out.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask,” Jerry says, lighting a cigarette while he drives.
He folds the newspaper and stuffs it into his coat pocket. He looks at his hands. He takes the newspaper out again and slides it under his leg.
“You still wanna do this?” Jerry says, turning a corner.
He watches the snow hit the windshield, melt and get wiped away.
“‘Cause it don’t matter to me if you don’t,” Jerry says, inching his way into the intersection. “I mean, I ain’t getting anything out of it, you know,” he says, his head turned to watch the oncoming traffic. “I mean, I’m doing you a favor,” he adds, hitting the gas and peeling through the intersection. A car horn sounds behind them. Jerry checks the rear view mirror. “What I’m saying,” he continues, his attention back on the road in front of them, “is that I’m doing this gratuit – you know, for free.”
“Pull over,” he says.
“What! Here?”
“Just pull over,” he demands.
He stumbles to the back of the car. Jerry watches him in the side mirror. He stands for a minute, leaned against the vehicle, then falls to one knee, doubles over and vomits onto the ground. Jerry turns the radio on and looks away.

9
A car horn blares. He’s standing in the middle of the street. It’s cold and his coat’s not warm enough.
On the sidewalk he stares down at his hands. Rough flesh. Creases in skin made over time, and then worn in over time – now permanent, now a part of him. But not me, he thinks. These hands are not me.
Her face re-enters his mind – her closed eyes and uncombed hair. He wants to hold her. He wants to lay next to her and see if her softness could really make him forget everything.
Someone knocks into him from behind. A thin man in a thin suit says “Pardon me” over his shoulder as he walks on, disappearing into the crowd. Another reason, he thinks. Another piece of machine.
The cold wind pushes his collar back and sends a chill all through him. He pulls his coat shut and fastens the top button. My actions are not without reason, are not without good reason, he tells himself. The wind hits him again, and he feels a spray of rain on his face. The sky is dark and low and speeds past. Another gust of wind nearly pushes him off his feet. I’m not a bad man. He searches the faces in the crowd around him, but she’s not there. Of course she’s not there.
The wind rips down the street like a punch. People scurry for shelter. People turn their heads down and to the side. The air smells suddenly fresh and moist. He looks down the street. A dark blur follows behind the wind, making its way towards him. Rain. But not rain like spring. Not rain like green grass and molten windowpanes. Not rain like relief from the heat of a summer’s day.
He steps back as the rain hits the street. But I’m not a bad man.

10
The rain pounds the street like glass bullets. Gutters overflow. The fresh scent of the before approaching downpour is replaced by a musty stench coming up from beneath the city. He leans against a newspaper box under the cover of a line of shop awnings. His feet and hands are cold. His body feels heavy like a cage. The dense and damp air makes him cough. The evening appears without warning. Streetlamps come on. The rain fizzes and steams off their hot glass. Traffic moves slowly through the street, pushing the flood onto the sidewalk in waves. Lights flash and slash through the rain. People rush into cars, into taxis, into buildings. His stomach turns. The wind picks up again, tossing the rain down onto the street in blankets. Someone runs across the street against a light. A car stops fast. Another hits it from behind. A horn sounds endlessly. In the noise and commotion he kicks in the front of the newspaper box. With the evening edition folded under his arm he passes the two drivers yelling at each other in the rain.
Walking is good – it warms