To Shanshu
I was Catholic once. I went to a good Irish Catholic grammar school and went to confession every week. I was Catholic once. I don't think I am anymore. Life isn't about dying. Not until you die, that is. But even so, I am frightened of dying. Really dying. The Catholic in me knows what awaits him after he's left this earth. Father O'Connelly never stopped warning me about it. Neither did my father or Sister Mary Patrick my grammar school teacher. Funny. I never believed them when I was living. I had to live a life of real sin before I understood them. Not the sin they would preach about, true. Not whoring or drinking or gambling. I am sure now that that isn't enough to damn one's soul. Ironic.
But I am also afraid of living. I am certainly not living now. I live a mockery of life. I must offend whoever is "up there" whenever I refer to myself as living. This is not what He meant by living. Those who live walk in the day. Those who live have beating hearts. Above all, those who live, breathe. Seems simple. So maybe I am not afraid of living. Maybe afraid of existing. Of walking each night helping those who need help while really I see not them, but those who I killed. In every child I see my sister Kathy; in every family I see mine; in every young woman, I see one of the thousands I murdered, raped, or drove insane. In every young man I see walking the streets, hanging out with friends, I see myself, my old self. He, I, had no idea. No idea of anything.
In between death and life, I am afraid of sleep. They come to me in sleep. Crying, screaming. The worst is when they are confused. They don't know why I am acting. . .why I am not loving, why I am not living. No, I lied. The worst is when they trust me: Kathy, inviting me in half crying and half weeping. She is so sure that her older brother has come back to her – an angel. Buffy, asking me how "she was". She came to me seeking comfort and love and acceptance, and whether or not I took advantage of her position is beside the point. I was the one who crushed the heart she held out so readily before her. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I. . . In sleep I am vulnerable. In sleep I need protection and there is nobody there to give any.
I was Catholic once. Now I don't believe in anything but Hell.