your
fury, and you swing and you swing and you freeze suddenly at the sight of a
silhouette framed in the door leading to the hallway, it’s Father Léo, one hand
against the doorframe, the other down by his side, Father Léo watching you in
silence, Father Léo suddenly looking so old, and the only emotion on his face is
one of disappointment, nothing more, and your chest is heaving, you are drenched
in sweat and melting snow, silence, the howling of the storm, then the priest
asks what you’re doing here, you drop the hammer then, bury your hand inside
your coat, pull out the revolver, and as you open the cylinder, as you spin the
cylinder, as you close the cylinder, you answer in a voice by now verging on
hysteria, that you are the instrument of chaos, and you raise the firearm and
you aim at the priest, your tongue moistens your lips several times, your arm
swaying from the effects of the alcohol, your teeth clenched to the point of
cracking, but Father Léo doesn’t move, he keeps his hand on the doorframe,
ignores the weapon, he looks at you, yes, you, and his voice is so slow, so very
very
- No, you are not the instrument of chaos. You create chaos. There is a huge
difference.
slow, you squeeze the trigger then, a deafening boom, in the room, in your
head, everywhere, your arm literally propelled backwards, a flash of pain in
your right shoulder, two or three seconds’ worth ofconfusion,
then you realize that Father Léo is no longer standing, he’s sprawled on the
ground, you blink several times, then you draw near, the bloodstain spreading
outwards on his white shirt above his solar plexus, his open eyes staring at the
ceiling, his left hand opening and closing on the floor, his rattling breath
growing weaker and weaker, ten seconds, twenty seconds, then the priest makes no
more sound, the priest moves no more, the priest is dead, you stare at him in
silence, and slowly a grimace distorts your features, a horrific blend of
hatred, appeasement and despair, you return to the room then, pick up the hammer
and start raining down blows on everything, punctuated not with your cries this
time but with a harsh keening emanating from a darkness from which nothing human
can emerge, your fevered eyes fall on the pack of cigarettes on the floor then,
you drop the hammer, you pick up the pack and you open it, a matchbook inside,
in no time you have lit several matches, you throw them into every pile of paper
and sawdust you see, a half-dozen small fires spring to life in the room, you
walk toward the front door, you open it, you glimpse a car parked across the
street, I imagine you hadn’t noticed it earlier on, you return inside then, in
two spots the fire has already begun to spread, you step over the priest’s body,
hurry up the stairs, enter the office, rummage through Father Léo’s coat, find
his car keys, then you open the top desk drawer, then the second, you come up
with a hundred dollars or so, you take the money, head back downstairs, step
overFather Léo again, this time you glance at him briefly,
then you cross the room already full of smoke, your gun, where is your gun, you
turn in circles, crouch, spit, there, it’s on the floor right there, you make
your way over, jam it in your coat pocket, finally outside, you tumble down the
rise coughing, you climb into Father Léo’s car and take off, in your drunkenness
your driving is erratic but fortunately the streets are practically deserted,
visibility is near zero, skidding, distorted view, a storm raging both inside
and outside your head, fifteen minutes, then you skid one too many times, hit a
pole, you get out, recognize the neighbourhood, it’s not far now, you run then
into the wind, whipped by snow, and you reach your building, and you enter and
you stumble upstairs, and you bang with all your might on Mélanie’s door, she
opens it to you, and
fury, and you swing and you swing and you freeze suddenly at the sight of a
silhouette framed in the door leading to the hallway, it’s Father Léo, one hand
against the doorframe, the other down by his side, Father Léo watching you in
silence, Father Léo suddenly looking so old, and the only emotion on his face is
one of disappointment, nothing more, and your chest is heaving, you are drenched
in sweat and melting snow, silence, the howling of the storm, then the priest
asks what you’re doing here, you drop the hammer then, bury your hand inside
your coat, pull out the revolver, and as you open the cylinder, as you spin the
cylinder, as you close the cylinder, you answer in a voice by now verging on
hysteria, that you are the instrument of chaos, and you raise the firearm and
you aim at the priest, your tongue moistens your lips several times, your arm
swaying from the effects of the alcohol, your teeth clenched to the point of
cracking, but Father Léo doesn’t move, he keeps his hand on the doorframe,
ignores the weapon, he looks at you, yes, you, and his voice is so slow, so very
very
- No, you are not the instrument of chaos. You create chaos. There is a huge
difference.
slow, you squeeze the trigger then, a deafening boom, in the room, in your
head, everywhere, your arm literally propelled backwards, a flash of pain in
your right shoulder, two or three seconds’ worth ofconfusion,
then you realize that Father Léo is no longer standing, he’s sprawled on the
ground, you blink several times, then you draw near, the bloodstain spreading
outwards on his white shirt above his solar plexus, his open eyes staring at the
ceiling, his left hand opening and closing on the floor, his rattling breath
growing weaker and weaker, ten seconds, twenty seconds, then the priest makes no
more sound, the priest moves no more, the priest is dead, you stare at him in
silence, and slowly a grimace distorts your features, a horrific blend of
hatred, appeasement and despair, you return to the room then, pick up the hammer
and start raining down blows on everything, punctuated not with your cries this
time but with a harsh keening emanating from a darkness from which nothing human
can emerge, your fevered eyes fall on the pack of cigarettes on the floor then,
you drop the hammer, you pick up the pack and you open it, a matchbook inside,
in no time you have lit several matches, you throw them into every pile of paper
and sawdust you see, a half-dozen small fires spring to life in the room, you
walk toward the front door, you open it, you glimpse a car parked across the
street, I imagine you hadn’t noticed it earlier on, you return inside then, in
two spots the fire has already begun to spread, you step over the priest’s body,
hurry up the stairs, enter the office, rummage through Father Léo’s coat, find
his car keys, then you open the top desk drawer, then the second, you come up
with a hundred dollars or so, you take the money, head back downstairs, step
overFather Léo again, this time you glance at him briefly,
then you cross the room already full of smoke, your gun, where is your gun, you
turn in circles, crouch, spit, there, it’s on the floor right there, you make
your way over, jam it in your coat pocket, finally outside, you tumble down the
rise coughing, you climb into Father Léo’s car and take off, in your drunkenness
your driving is erratic but fortunately the streets are practically deserted,
visibility is near zero, skidding, distorted view, a storm raging both inside
and outside your head, fifteen minutes, then you skid one too many times, hit a
pole, you get out, recognize the neighbourhood, it’s not far now, you run then
into the wind, whipped by snow, and you reach your building, and you enter and
you stumble upstairs, and you bang with all your might on Mélanie’s door, she
opens it to you, and
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