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Sorry to ruin your plans for financial independence.
Author's Note: Again, this corresponds to the ficlet "Victims."
Victim #3: Criminal
By BJ Garrett
You have grown used to knowing your place in the world. You have adjusted to changing your mind-set every few years. Now you are a soldier, now you are a businessman, now you are the Secretary of Labour, now you are a drunk, now you are the Chief of Staff.
What are you but a criminal, really?
What have you done but commit acts against humanity? Humanity.
Do you have any left, or have you squandered it all paying your rehab bills? Playing poker in the basement.
You had thought to redeem yourself, doing this work. You had thought that all your crimes would be pardoned if you gave the country a good man. He is not a good man. You have committed fraud against your country. You are a criminal.
There are two people in the world who can wipe your soul clean, and one of them is dirty enough as it is. The other has gone silent. The confessional door is closed. No one will listen, no matter how loud you shout or how long you pound at the wood. It does not care.
No one cares, because you are a criminal.
Your poker companions tell you, those long hours in the basement, that you are a victim of a disease. That it's not your fault. You want to melt the chips with the force of the truth and drown them in it.
There are no victims, you would like to think. You would like to tell yourself that everyone gets everything that's coming to them, but the horizon goes dark of a sudden and you have to fly by your instruments alone, and your hands are numb.
There are no criminals, you would like to believe. You want to be taken in by the ramblings of your own party, convinced that it's society's fault and the elite's fault. That it is your fault.
So you are convinced?
Because you are a criminal.
Because you have killed, and you have hit, and you have bloodied the faces of those you love. You have bloody hands. Smeared red fingerprints on the glass, on the bottle.
You have become accustomed to knowing yourself, to being able to succinctly describe your inner Leo.
Does one word fit?
Criminal.
Can you adjust to that?
Can you walk in and out of the gazes of those who respect you every day with that word hanging over you?
Criminal.
Isn't that all you are?
A bad father, a bad husband. You were a good soldier, though, you never questioned, you went along, you did it with a grin and the shadowed desire for a drink in your eyes.
It is ironic, isn't it, isn't it, that the one thing you were good at--
The irony is obvious, you cannot bring yourself to insult your own intelligence by finishing it.
You consider confession. Just to shovel the words from your mouth into someone's ear, as if that would make it go away. As if that would give you strength. It would give you penance, they would give advice, and you could do it. You could serve your sentence, give your service, owe your duty. You do, you have been working at it through your crimes all these years.
The lives are on you. You never thought about killing before, but now you wish you had run away. You didn't. One more charge on the docket.
And now you can never run again: from all the things you've done; all the things you don't even realise you've done. There's really nothing left to do in this world but hang on.
So you do.
Then you pray no one recognises you for the criminal you really are.
We are victims of our own crimes.
End.
Author's Note: Again, this corresponds to the ficlet "Victims."
Victim #3: Criminal
By BJ Garrett
You have grown used to knowing your place in the world. You have adjusted to changing your mind-set every few years. Now you are a soldier, now you are a businessman, now you are the Secretary of Labour, now you are a drunk, now you are the Chief of Staff.
What are you but a criminal, really?
What have you done but commit acts against humanity? Humanity.
Do you have any left, or have you squandered it all paying your rehab bills? Playing poker in the basement.
You had thought to redeem yourself, doing this work. You had thought that all your crimes would be pardoned if you gave the country a good man. He is not a good man. You have committed fraud against your country. You are a criminal.
There are two people in the world who can wipe your soul clean, and one of them is dirty enough as it is. The other has gone silent. The confessional door is closed. No one will listen, no matter how loud you shout or how long you pound at the wood. It does not care.
No one cares, because you are a criminal.
Your poker companions tell you, those long hours in the basement, that you are a victim of a disease. That it's not your fault. You want to melt the chips with the force of the truth and drown them in it.
There are no victims, you would like to think. You would like to tell yourself that everyone gets everything that's coming to them, but the horizon goes dark of a sudden and you have to fly by your instruments alone, and your hands are numb.
There are no criminals, you would like to believe. You want to be taken in by the ramblings of your own party, convinced that it's society's fault and the elite's fault. That it is your fault.
So you are convinced?
Because you are a criminal.
Because you have killed, and you have hit, and you have bloodied the faces of those you love. You have bloody hands. Smeared red fingerprints on the glass, on the bottle.
You have become accustomed to knowing yourself, to being able to succinctly describe your inner Leo.
Does one word fit?
Criminal.
Can you adjust to that?
Can you walk in and out of the gazes of those who respect you every day with that word hanging over you?
Criminal.
Isn't that all you are?
A bad father, a bad husband. You were a good soldier, though, you never questioned, you went along, you did it with a grin and the shadowed desire for a drink in your eyes.
It is ironic, isn't it, isn't it, that the one thing you were good at--
The irony is obvious, you cannot bring yourself to insult your own intelligence by finishing it.
You consider confession. Just to shovel the words from your mouth into someone's ear, as if that would make it go away. As if that would give you strength. It would give you penance, they would give advice, and you could do it. You could serve your sentence, give your service, owe your duty. You do, you have been working at it through your crimes all these years.
The lives are on you. You never thought about killing before, but now you wish you had run away. You didn't. One more charge on the docket.
And now you can never run again: from all the things you've done; all the things you don't even realise you've done. There's really nothing left to do in this world but hang on.
So you do.
Then you pray no one recognises you for the criminal you really are.
We are victims of our own crimes.
End.