Echoes

Questions

A reverberation of subtle footsteps filled every room of the church as Father Daniels sauntered towards the glossy doors of the entrance, when one of the tall doors opened with great sinew, introducing a dark-clothed stranger. With a face written with askance, he noticed the wet running shoes, the dirty black jeans with the fraying bottoms, the plain tight-black sweater, and a relatively dark face; a dark face of sweat and dirt and wide-feral eyes. His shaky presence wasn’t easily grasped—Father Daniels’s experience of over twenty years in the church had not trespassed on anyone like him; he stood stupefied and silent as the man took a seat in the back row, took his arm out of his sweater’s front pocket, and began throwing his brown shoulder-length hair behind his ears, while his other arm stayed in the other sweater pocket, appearing to be holding tightly onto an object.
          “Do you attend the church?”
          The man sat up, reached his hands into his jean pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels, menthols, and lit the end with a rusted Zippo.
          “What difference does it make?”
          “First off, I’m going to have to ask you to put that smoke out, or go outside,” Father Daniels proclaimed in a soft-spoken manner, which resembled a quiet-reserved homosexual. Father Daniels walked towards the man and placed a doctor’s hand on the man’s shoulder.
          “Christ has to indulge, too,” stated the man, blowing a large cone of smoke from his mouth, throwing the butt on the ground and stomping on it with Doc Martins, watching the butane-blue smoke twist like an upwards water slide into the pure air of the church.
          “What is your name?”
          “What difference does it make? It could be Jesus or it could be Damien. Whichever works for you, pops,” the man said, staring down at his cigarette butt, which was still drugging the air.
          “It is a simple question. My name is Father Daniels,” the Father said with a soft voice; the same voice thousands of others of his nature shared. “How old are you?
         “It is . . . Timmy,” the man spoke in hesitation, searching the golden pillars, and the grand paintings. An insidious flash struck Tim like the first sharp-ice of lightning.
          “Timmy what?”
          “Timmy Tits. And I’m twenty-three.”
“Is that your real name?
         “So, how does this church afford all these luxuries, do you just pilfer the seeds in the money hat, to blossom this gold, this . . . this droll nonsense?” Tim shook with impudence, lifted another smoke, and held up his Zippo.
          “Put the smoke out.”
         “Gladly, just answer me a few questions, Father,” Tim spoke, taking a drag from his smoke, exhaling a city of blue poison. “I’m up, at three in the morning, I’m browsing through this rubbish on the television, you know, the Jerry Springer’s and the porn infomercials, and it never fails—never fails.”
          “What doesn’t?” Father Daniels interrupted, both intrigued and annoyed.
         “I see a charity fund run by this church. The commercial is brilliant, though, I have to hand it to the church. Great casting. There’s this philistine with a thick moustache in Ralph Lauren clothing, showing viewers the sufferings in some third-world country, and the whole thing is to make the viewer feel indolent for not helping the world. Yet, here I am, in the very church that leaves hundreds of late-night viewers forlorn, and all I see is gold in a palace of ignorance, hypocrisy, and lies.”
“          Timmy, be honest with me for a second—what is your last name?”
          “Why is it of great importance? Are you going to call the police?”
          “No. Never mind. How’d you get the name Timmy Tits?”
         Tim started walking impatiently towards the front of the church. He could feel the groan that Father Daniels projected from behind his stride.
          “Listen, if you’re not going to cooperate and you just come in here talking malignantly, I’m going to have to wish you to leave and hope God can help—“
         “Cut the bullshit right, Father. My name is Timmy Tits because before I looked like this, before I stopped eating meat, I had man tits; not to mention bad acne that is not something to be vaunted alongside high cheek bones, Double-D breasts, and fake-blond hair accompanied with a surfer accent. I’m not fastidious, there’s just so much I can take, so much of this life of God-filled promises, until the vapid reality sinks in, and what’s left? This gold church, starving people two blocks down, and a reality that you choose to ignore?”
          Scratching his hair impatiently, Tim walked up to Christ’s crucifixion, one of the most child-friendly images for the children of the church. One of the most brutal acts of murder, but the only acceptable one, Tim thought to himself. He thought of the Christian families, his friends’ families, and how they disallowed even PG films, but around their necks was Christ impaled on a cross.
          “I believe if you attended Church, and got to know God, your views would change,” Father Daniels stuttered, showing a face of indescribable emotion.
         “Don’t throw the close-minded guilt on me, Father, I’ve heard it. Unlike you, I have read more than your bible, I’ve read others; I’ve read atheist philosophy; I’ve read theist philosophy. What you stand for is nonsense—a onetime cult, now bigger than law. And if you believe for one second religion was not a key factor in the terrorism of 9/11, I feel for you.”
          “Look,” Father Daniels said, approaching Tim who was facing towards Christ’s crucifixion with his back hardened to Father Daniels. “Take a philosophy class; tell this to someone else, I did nothing to deserve this harassment. I would like you to leave.”
         “Oh no, Father, I haven’t gotten to why I came here in the first place.”
         “I think you have already done enough.”
          “Answer me this, Father: if life is so glorious in the after world, why is suicide such a crime? If one wants to be happy and commits suicide to go where happiness is promised, it’s a crime.”
         “God loves everyone, Tim,” Father Daniels said, tripping over what to say next.
          “What good is that if it doesn’t make me happy? I don’t know God. His existence is implausible. All I want is to be is happy. I’m sick of Timmy Tits,” a worn Tim spoke, as he reached for a smoke, but stopped.
          “Listen, Tim,” Father Daniels replied, quite callous now, still slightly reserved.
         Tim turned around, faced Father Daniels, speechless, took his hand from his sweater pocket, sprang up a pistol, pointed it under his chin, and, with a glare of vehemence that weakened Father Daniels thoughts like a demonic force he had never dreamed of, it was over. Crimson-black blood poured from Tim’s nose without stopping, the blast from the gun stole the church of any spirituality, and Tim’s crash to the ground had his head spilling out chunks of what could be best seen as brain tissue; a burnt-black tinge amongst a puddle of red that had many shades—the pool was a pink-red shade that looked like blood from an Italian film; the dark blood, still pouring from Tim’s nose, remained dark; and the mixture of chunks of flesh from the brain threw wet-burnt chunks onto a palate of an expanding pink-red puddle of blood.

Offers

Father Daniels left the church after the officers finished their questions and the body of Timmy was taken away. The church was to be closed for several days, the blood still fresh on the floor, and a semblance of death still lingering. Walking out of the church, Father Daniels stopped on the stairs and took a look at the church as though it were his last; focusing on its bronze window-frames that bordered the most angelic-holy paintings he had seen, not just in the outskirts of Portland, but in all the United States.
          Leaving the church steps, Father Daniels walked with a slow-droll stagger towards his recently purchased Lincoln Town Car. It was the only baby blue one of its kind in the city, something that made Father Daniels feel important, as though the Father status were simply too trivial. Taking out his keys, Father Daniels stopped in his tracks, and took a look down the street, admiring the Burnside Bridge that leads to Old Town Portland. Just overhead of Father Daniels a downpour of bullet rain fell and soaked him in seconds. And, before he could get to his car, his shoes were sinking ships and his socks were torn and sodden. Staring, languishing at the gorgeous other side of town, where the sky began to clear to show soft-pastel yellows and oranges, in haphazard fashion, Father Daniels threw his keys across the street, landing them in a cup of water at the end of a sidewalk. He was sure the keys would be vacuumed down into the gutters of Portland. He knew where he wanted to be.
          The rain continued its war, the streets were rivers, and the thunder and lightning took turns playing tricks on each other. With a tongue out, looking delusional in a vacant city, Father Daniels drank from the rain that fell from his clammy-ash hair.
         Now on the bridge, the sky held rain in abeyance, and Father Daniels could already feel the sun burn his nose. Although walking like a carouser, Father Daniels felt his fear of heights drown as he looked at the boats rushing through the forest-green river below, and the bums on the park by the Saturday market, covering themselves in brown newspapers, moving just to adjust their beanies; yes, he was that close now. Befuddled, clearly, but with only the drink of tragedy; the strongest poison a man can drink, and the greatest twinge man can’t fool himself away from.
         Beautiful. Beautiful Portland in mid-afternoon, old-city streets, town cars, hippies, Chinatown, clean air, abundance of beauty on every corner, enough allure to influence an artist for a lifetime. Not that North East Portland was bad; the houses strangled in roses, the maroon-brick walls of old buildings, and the bohemian lifestyle that admirably partnered with the older citizens’ lifestyles was great to most, but Father Daniels thought differently; he wanted out of Portland. The city was too open for him; the only thing keeping him there was the church. Now the love affair was lost.
         Like a drunk in God’s armour, Father Daniels arrived downtown for the first time since he was a child; he first avoided the city and slid his fragile 90-pound body near the river. Inhaling the cold air from the water and exhaling it like cigarette smoke, Father Daniels rested his elbows on the black-cold steel of the fence, and put his hands into prayer, only for them to drop like clay. He began to sob. The salty warmth of his tears felt blissful on his hard cheeks that the cold had palmed. Turning around, wiping the tears from his face, Father Daniels stared directly into the sun.
          “Hey, Father, you okay?” A passing jogger questioned, still jogging while staying in place.
         “Should I be?” Father Daniels replied, with morose force, turning away from the sun and the jogger. He began walking obliviously through the park, crossing the road to the Saturday Market, still blinded from the sun.
         “Hey, Father, having a hard day?” A childish voice spoke with prurience from under the Burnside Bridge. Father Daniels turned around to see a woman wearing tight black pants that looked like faded leather, a loose rose-splashed silk top, and a faint beauty hidden under a leather face. The woman had to be in her 30’s or 40’s.
         “Pardon?” Father Daniels asked, bewildered, but interested.
         “Two and I’ll do anything,” the woman said, approaching closely, crossing her feet as she walked, licking her lips as she smiled.
          “Two?”
         “That’s two-hundred dollars, sweetie, and I’ll do anything. My place, a hotel, whatever you want.”
          “Your house?”
          “You got it, honey, follow me.”
          “Can I have your name—no, no, excuse me; may I have the honour and approval to know your name?”
          “It is Tracy,” Tracy giggled, waving her small leopard-print purse in cartwheels through the air. “I’m clean, so, you don’t have to worry. I saw Dr. Saunders last week, she’s great, says everything is fine for business.”
         “Yeah?” Father Daniels continued walking up Burnside until they reached Ninth Avenue.
          “Take a turn here,” Tracy said, grabbing the Father’s hand. “How old are you, anyhow?”
         “I don’t know.” Father Daniels announced, face of stone, convinced like a newborn. “I think forty-seven, but . . .”
          “But what?” Tracy was now chewing gum, loudly, mouth open, glossy lips smacking.
          “I’m forty-seven.”
          “Hey, you’re a young one, don’t be so down. My place is just up here.”
          Tracy dragged Father Daniels along to the back of a deli shop. Tracy took out hundreds of keys, but unlocked the gate that blocked the entrance door with the first try, and was lucky with the door as well.
          “I didn’t realize there were places like these,” Father Daniels questioned, walking up the stairs to a skinny hallway that overwhelmed him with the sense that he was on an unsteady ship.
          “Places like what?” Tracy snapped back.
          “Apartments above shops. This is new to me.”
          Father Daniels followed Tracy into her room. The apartment was old and messy with butterscotch carpet, peeling-yellow walls, and mountains of dishes on the counters and on the floor of the small kitchen to the right of the entrance.
          “Go ahead, make yourself at home, I’ll be back,” Tracy said, trailing off to a room, her lustful voice back.
         Stepping over crushed beer cans, stained-yellow dishes, and dirty utensils, Father Daniels went into the small living room. In the corner right there was a small television that had to be at least thirty-years-old; connected to it was an old Nintendo system. He took a seat on the soft-brown couch and relaxed. The walls of the room were covered with band posters, marijuana flags, and newspaper clippings of random headlines. Father Daniels had never seen anything like it.
         “Okay, come in here,” Tracy shouted.
         Father Daniels got up and began walking out of the living room and into Tracy’s bedroom. Her bedroom was dark and bohemian—hippy paintings were hung all over the walls, peace signs were painted on the dressers, and Basquiat-inspired graffiti was in abundance. Standing in the middle of the room next to a red-velvet bed, Tracy—in only fishnet stockings and underwear—waved Father Daniels towards her. Tracy looked like a courtesan in her black lingerie, with her kinky hair hanging down to her nipples, and her excessive use of dark eye shadow.
          “Sit down.”
          “O-Okay,” Father Daniels stuttered.
         “So what do you like? What do you want me to do?” Tracy added, sounding bored.
          “Oh, I don’t know, I—”
         “Do you want to tie me up?” Tracy asked, reaching down to grab a long rope. “Or would you prefer handcuffs?” Tracy added, swinging cuffs in front of her face.
          “I-I don’t . . . Whatever you like, really,” Father Daniels mechanically spoke, his face turned away, staring out the bedroom window.
          “What’s wrong, sweetie? You’ve never done this before?”
         Tracy got up on the bed, lied down, and spread her legs—closing them, shutting them, closing, shutting.
         “Yes, this is my, my first time.”
          “Don’t worry honey, let Tracy do the work, she knows what all the guys like.”
          Tracy sat up and moved towards Father Daniels, who stood at the end of the bed like a statue, and grabbed him by his collar, throwing him onto the bed.
         “Um, uh—” Father Daniels murmured.
         “Take your clothes off, sweetheart, I have other clients waiting.”
         Father Daniels just lied on the bed looking through the ceiling. Tracy, embittered, sat on her knees and began taking the Fathers clothes off. Father Daniels was lost in oblivion, with eyes vacant like those of a junkie.
          “Now it’s my turn,” Tracy added as she began taking off her bra slowly, letting it fall down her chest. She then started rubbing her fingers on her chest’s snowy skin, starting from her hardened goose bump nipples, down to her belly button, then down into her black-lace panties. A soft moan came from Tracy as she began rocking back and forth, fingering herself, licking her left nipple with her right hand holding her C-cup breast to her face. Biting her wrinkled lips, she moved closer to a recumbent Father Daniels, and started playing with his rising cock, almost kneading it as though it were clay. Not a moan came from Father Daniels.
          “What do you want me to do to you? Anything, name it?”
          “Anything,” Father Daniels answered, with a deadened voice disconnected from thought and feeling. “Fuck me. Ride me. Anything.”
          Tracy smiled, rolled down her panties, and lifted one leg over Father Daniels. He observed her trimmed pubic hair that had a consistent brown line of hair—thicker than the rest of the hair—that ran all the way up to her belly button. She had a few light-brown spots under her pubic hair and a few on her lower body that contained startling-gothic pallor.
          Father Daniels now felt his cock absorb wet warmth that drugged him with immediate euphoria. As Tracy began flexing and moving her ass, Father Daniels let out a muffled groan. Tracy continued on, the patchwork of needle tracks on her arms now showing as she held Father Daniels’s shoulders down with her arms, throwing her head back and forth, battling Father Daniels’s increasing grunts with her own.
          The sex was over quick. Father Daniels’s groans at climax were a mix of pain and pleasure. Tracy went along, likely faking, and got off his now sticky and soft cock and walked out of the room and took a right into the washroom. She had a tall ass with perfect curves; the type of ass you see in swimsuit posters. Father Daniels watched her leave and then took a look at his own body; a starved-Buddhist figure. His dick, he noticed, had become smaller as the years passed. Not that it was of great importance, for he was never married and the only time he maintained a relationship was for two weeks in junior high. He was no longer a 47-year-old virgin.
         “Gear in the headlights,” Tracy mumbled as she walked back into the room, the greens of the city breaking through the bedroom window, scintillated on her silky-damaged body.
          “Pardon?”
         “My gear is in the lights of the city. On the windowsill, behind the left curtain, can you grab it for me?”
          “Gear?” Father Daniels had never been so bewildered.
         “Yes honey, my syringe and spoon, and the sweet Henry.”
         Confused, Father Daniels didn’t question, and walked over to the small bedroom window, felt behind the left curtain and grabbed onto a silver box.
          “Thanks dear. You know this thing is real silver? Yup, my mother gave it to me when I was just a young girl.”
         Tracy lifted the top of the box off and pulled out a needle, a piece of tinfoil, a spoon, and a set of matches. Father Daniels watched from the side of the bed, still naked, his cock shrinking from the glacial air sneaking through the inch opening of the bedroom window. Tracy sat down on the bed beside Father Daniels, asked him if he would be kind enough to hold the spoon for her; he nodded his head. His hands shook, not from the cold, but from a sudden surge of anxiety. Tracy placed the brown substance from the tinfoil onto the spoon, sprayed water from her syringe over it, gently lit the bottom of the spoon with a match, and threw in a small piece of cotton. The liquid turned to a yellow. At that point Tracy shot out rest of the water from the syringe into the air and dabbed the tip of the syringe into the cotton and drained the spoon of all its liquid.
         “You don’t mind if I use your belt, do you?”
         “Go ahead,” Father Daniels replied, still holding the spoon out as though he was about to serve a child pudding.
          Tracy came back over and sat down at the end of the bed. She tightened the belt on her upper-left arm, began tapping her forearm, and then let out a sigh of relief, and in went the needle. Father Daniels looked away. Tracy ditched the gear onto an antique table that sat at the far left of her bedroom, next to an unframed Jackson Pollock print, and came over to Father Daniels and collapsed in defeat onto the bed.
          “Are you okay?”
          “Yes, perfectly perfect,” Tracy said quietly, looking at the ceiling as though it were a beautiful landscape. “Come lie with me.”
          Tracy got off the bed, fixed the sheets in a hurry, puffed up the pillows, and took a spot on the right side of the bed. Father Daniels put himself under the blankets next to her while she remained naked and exposed above the covers.
         “Father, I have to ask you some things,” Tracy pleaded, with an innocent-schoolgirl charm. Father Daniels didn’t say a word.
          “I keep waking up each day, you know, and I don’t wake up to tomorrow, it’s always yesterday. Sometimes the same faces, but mostly the only difference are the faces; are those faces enough to live for?” Father Daniels remained silent. “Sometimes I hope this dragon kills me, you know?”
         “How much for the night?”
          “What?”
         “How much would I have to give you to buy you for the night?”
          “Oh, uh . . .” Tracy thought for a moment, studying Father Daniels. “It would . . . It would have to be at least one thousand.”
          “Okay. I’m going to run down to the market and get some more money and condoms.”
          “Honey, I have millions,” Tracy laughed, opening her bedside drawer to expose a drawer full of Lifestyles.
          “I-I don’t like those ones. I want to try something different.”
         “You didn’t use one last time, don’t worry about; besides, I’m on birth control.”
          “I’ll be back,” Father Daniels said in a rush. He grabbed his clothes, assembled his army gear to the way it was before, and left the apartment.
          There was a grocery store opened down the block so Father Daniels decided that would be his best bet. He entered nervously, like a robber, trying to hide himself to get to the pharmacy. If people were looking at him with quick suppositions, he wasn’t aware. Father Daniels picked up a pack of condoms without giving them a moments glance—they were chocolate-mint flavored—and then started walking towards the checkout—but something stopped him. Walking towards one of twenty tills, Father Daniels turned at the last moment, and went off into the meat section. He walked down the aisles, running his fingers on all the frost-covered meat packages until he arrived at the utensil section. A large butcher knife caught his attention. He turned around, looking at the scene, grabbed the knife and put it in his coat’s inside pocket, then went off to pay for the condoms.
          “Is that all?” The teller asked with a hint of sarcasm; her thin eyebrows were raised high in the shape of a rainbow, her eyes were scraping the top of her eyelids, and her jaw moved frequently as though she just swallowed an entire bottle of Adderal.
          Father Daniels nodded his head, handed her extra money, grabbed the box and went out into the Portland night. The rain was back, the sky now purple, the roses pugnacious against a wind that slowed down only to hit back stronger after a moment of silence. Father Daniels ran from the weather and the passing faces, arriving behind the deli in seconds. He stopped behind a parked VW van, huddled and took out the knife he had stolen. He tore the plastic covering off, touched the blade with his finger, looked up to the first room, into the window, where he saw Tracy’s naked figure surrounded by a golden glow. Hiding the knife back into his coat pocket, Father Daniels rang up to Tracy’s apartment, and told who it was.
          “Did you stop and get the money?”
          “Yes. Can you please let me in? The rain is tumultuous out here.”
         A buzzing sounded and Father Daniels walked into the building and walked up the stairs to Tracy’s apartment. Reaching into his coat pocket, he gripped the handle of the knife, knowing he hadn’t any money.

Choices

Knocking on the door, Father Daniels let go of the knife, and stood composed. Tracy answered the door, swinging her hair back, and walking into her living room. Father Daniels closed the door and made his way into the living room. The iniquitous atmosphere was suffocating; Tracy was slouched on a recliner in the corner, staring into the television where a hyper black and white cartoon played. Tracy looked anything but self-conscious, with pupils buried beneath an explosion of brown and green, causing Father Daniels to feel insecure as well.
          “Are you going to sit down, or just stand there?”
          Father Daniels took a seat on the couch. He reached into his pocket, delicately studying the handle of the knife.
         “You got the money, I assume?”
“Yes. I can give you $300 right now if that is okay.”
          Tracy looked slightly irritated, tired; her voice sparked with uneven pitches, causing her to repeatedly cough up flam, just to swallow it back down.
          “Yeah, sure, just throw it on the table, whenever,” Tracy added.
         Tracy got up, lit a smoke, and walked out onto her small balcony, leaning over the rails, discharging her smoke into the air, the smoke shooting out like a flashlight trail that failed. Father Daniels got up, walked calmly over to the balcony, and leaned his elbows on the railing next to Tracy. The view from the balcony was beautiful in the night hours; the abundance of yellow was evident all around, the vivacity of the old city was fresh to Father Daniels, and the interesting characters that occupied the street below were all teenagers, smoking joints, laughing, causing no harm. How was it he found a hooker in the afternoon? Was she even planning on shifting at that hour or did she just see this weak prey?
         “Want a drag before I put it out?” Tracy questioned. Her eyebrows were raised, her eyes wide open, and her pupils contracted even in the dark.
          “Can we go back to your room? I’m not fit for the cold.”
         “Sure.”
          Tossing the smoke from the balcony, Tracy led a half-dead walk into her room, Father Daniels following. The life that was in her frail body that was so mysterious was now gone, replaced with the stubborn walk of a dying soldier. Tracy fell down on the bed.
          “What do you want to do?”
          “I was thinking of . . . Of—”
         “Of what?” snapped Tracy.
         “Tying up,” Father Daniels managed to get out, with a muted voice.
          “You want me to tie you up?”
         “No. I want to . . . tie you up.”
         Tracy rubbed her eyes, ran her hands all up her cheeks, and then scratched the back of her head. She got off the bed, reached down to the floor, threw the rope on the bed.
          “Lie down, relax, give me a moment.”
         Grabbing her silver box, Tracy mulishly walked out of the room and to the bathroom. Father Daniels took of his jacket and put it on the floor under the bed. Reaching in his pocket, he grabbed the condoms, took a look at them, grabbed one, and threw the box on the ground. He tore the wrapper off the condom package, thinking of imagery that could get him hard, but nothing came up. But, just in time, Tracy came walking out of the bathroom, walking seductive and euphoric; he was getting somewhere. Father Daniels threw down his pants, then his shorts, and stood bottomless in front of Tracy.
“          Jesus, you’re eager,” Tracy laughed. “Are you going to take your shirt off, too?”
         Father Daniels began undressing the rest of his clothing, his dick rising slowly. Tracy undressed as well. She looked perfect from a distance; her glowing whiteness like a sign of purity, the bordering lights a sign of an angel. He was now hard, and tried to put on the condom, failing miserably, damaging the roof of his cock.
          “Need some help, big boy?” Tracy laughed. She walked over to Father Daniels, who was now shaking, and reached onto the floor to grab the condom package. “Chocolate mint? Seriously?” Tracy erupted in laughter. “These things are no good, but whatever works.”
          Tracy put the condom on like a true professional, fell on the bed, raised her arms up to the bedpost, spread her legs, and shook her head at the rope. Father Daniels grabbed the rope, and effortlessly tied her arms to the bedpost, as though he was now the pro.
         “Wow, do they teach you that at church? What have I been missing?” Tracy mused.
          Father Daniels got into position, feeling moderately sick looking at his dick look so awkward in a latex wrapping, but moved up and in anyway. This felt different; the base of his dick was hurting as he pushed, and the sudden euphoria that piqued in the roof of his cock was taking forever to arise. He kept fucking her though, getting increasingly more violent. Tracy’s eyes were looking up in pleasure, as though she just saw Jesus, and her moaning was hushed—she was biting her lip so hard it began bleeding. Father Daniels started to get faster, and harder, lifting her legs up, getting in as far as he could. Tracy didn’t say a word but began moving her arms violently. Father Daniels wasn’t sure if this was a sign of pleasure or if she wanted to be untied. He made a few quick last thrusts and came, feeling his semen hit the room of the condom and slide back onto his cock, coating it in sludge. He got up and left the room.
          “Hey, can you come untie me so I can have a smoke?” Tracy shouted from the bedroom. Father Daniels came back, still naked, his cock looking like a mutant; a slimy green. “Can you untie me, sweetie, I need that smoke?”
         Not saying a word, Father Daniels walked over to the side of the bed, Tracy looking on disoriented. Father Daniels bent over, reached inside the pocket of his coat, caressing the knife’s handle, lionizing it as though it were Christ’s, he silently took it from the pocket, now gripped tightly in his palm, and stood up.
          “Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck is that for!”
          Tracy began moving around like she was possessed. Father Daniels just hovered over, like a nefarious cult-leader, emotionless. Tracy continued to bounce and kick, but Father Daniels grabbed one of her legs, and got up on the bed, managing to get in-between her legs.
          “I’m just cutting the rope off.”
          Father Daniels’s voice was so assuring that Tracy stopped her kicking. Father Daniels then reached up near the bed post, only to move the knife down level with her lips. He gave a pitiless look into what little was left of Tracy’s eyes. By now Tracy was kicking again, even shouting. Father Daniels slammed his hand over her mouth, likely breaking a few teeth, then softly and quickly slit her throat, like he had seen in the movies. The cut was deeper than he had expected; her eyes started winking erratically, and the cut caused an in cave on her throat, from which black blood gently poured out, showing no signs of stopping. The blood was running all down her body, covering her tits, sliding off her body and staining the bed, and even drew its line down to her cunt. Father Daniels got off the bed, and looked at what he had just done. Tracy was still softly bleeding from the neck, her eyes appeared to have life in them again, and the blood on the bed surrounded her—it even appeared that blood was draining from her vagina.
          Dropping the knife, Father Daniels walked over to the bed and untied her. He searched the room for the handcuffs he had seen her wave seductively earlier. They couldn’t be found lying anywhere. Thrashing like a policeman through a murder suspects house, Father Daniels found no sign of the cuffs anywhere in the room, and decided to search rest of the house. It wasn’t long until he found them in the bathroom drawer.
          With the cuffs in hand, Father Daniels walked back over to the bed, grabbed the rope, and took a look at Tracy’s current state. The blood had stopped, she was turning blue, and yet her eyes had enough life to make it look like she had that life, not just with her death, but until her death.
          Father Daniels went back into the backroom, sat on the toilet, and took a shit. Without reading material, he picked up the tinfoil package that sat next to a blow-dryer on the sink counter, and examined it. He finished with the bathroom, stood up avoiding toilet paper, and went into the living room carrying a fix kit, rope, and handcuffs. He sat the heroin, the cuffs, and the rope, down on the table, went into the kitchen and grabbed a pack of matches from the top of the fridge,—he saw hundreds of them inundating the top of the fridge the first time he entered the apartment—grabbed some cotton from an unopened Tylenol bottle, broke the cotton into a smaller piece, and went off to the bathroom to search the garbage for a syringe. He found plenty, and just reached into the battlefield blindly and grabbed one, and walked back into the living room. He sat down with all the essential tools—playing out what Tracy had done earlier. Father Daniels set everything up, and didn’t even bother with a belt. Sinking into sinless skin, filling holy veins, and vanishing to heaven, Father Daniels was deceased.
         With the needle still in his arm, Father Daniels walked with a nodding head to the balcony, where he leaned over the rails and puked down onto a newer Honda. The group of kids surrounding the car began yelling, dusting what little puke that got on them off, and threatening whoever did it. Father Daniels grinned, removed his needle, and threw it weakly down towards the car. If the kids said anything, Father Daniels was too pinned to know.
         The rope and the handcuffs sat on the living-room table, with a white glow around them, like something from a classic film-noir. Father Daniels left the balcony door open—kids still throwing threats—and picked up the rope. He went back onto the balcony, tied one end of the rope onto the rail as tightly as his shaking hands could, and formed the other end into a noose. He walked back into the apartment, picked up the handcuffs, and walked back to the balcony. He struggled to get his neck into the noose, but managed, tightening it enough to choke him and leave him dead right there, but he loosened it a bit and grabbed the handcuffs. He put his arms around his back and tried, in a stoned uncertainty, to get the cuffs on. He managed, if not too tightly. Now he had no way to loosen the rope at the last second. He knew once he jumped, it was it, and a last-minute decision was not possible.
         God, if you are sincere, grant me this. Please grant me this. The future is petrifying; I just experienced it. And if you shall grant me this heaven, as I have not found it on earth, sweetly take me there. Many times I have called your name in disconsolateness and you have not answered. My entire life has been spreading your word, but I haven’t heard anything; I no longer have anything to spread.