twice.
She remembers all of these things now, as she often does, and adds some final words to her prayer.
“Thank you God, for helping me, and for listening to my bad fucking mouth and my dirty thoughts, and for letting me say what I need to say so I can stay on the path. Amen.”
Dirty words and evil thoughts were her secret things, and you can’t stay clean with secrets so God let her spew her bile and never blinked, however raunchy things got.
She stands up and goes to shower. No work today, but discipline was the key to her life now. Waking every day at the same time, not letting herself sleep in or be slothful. Sunday through Friday she ran a mile. Saturday she let herself off on the running, but she still got up, showered, had her coffee, and then went to the church to volunteer.
All of which, she reflects, helps keep the real secret, the true dirtiness inside her, at bay. That one terrible thing when she’d—
A knock at the door startles her from this thought. She frowns.
Who the hell is that?
She grabs a bathrobe and checks her face in the mirror, chastising herself immediately for this vanity, knowing that this is one habit she’ll never break.
She opens the door without peeking through the peephole. It’s Saturday morning, and this is Simi Valley, after all. One of the safest cities in the nation.
The man has a gun and a smile. He levels the gun at her face and walks forward, causing her to backpedal.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you dead,” he observes, calm, cool, collected. He closes the door to the apartment.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, voice trembling.
He puts a finger to his lips.
“Shhhhhh…I have something for you, Rosemary.”
He reaches into a jacket pocket and lifts out a bag. She recognizes it right away, of course.
Cocaine, sweet, beautiful, delicious cocaine.
“It’s okay, Rosemary. God will forgive you for this, so long as you give yourself up to Him before I kill you. Remember: God is love.”
She feels the old familiar demon rise inside her, even now, even after all these years, even with a gun in her face. She feels the truth that she so often reflects upon: she was a Jezebel born, not made.
Dear God, I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared, but even so, I want that coke so fucking bad, and (she can’t be dishonest talking to God, not now not ever) it won’t really be my fault because he’s making me do it so that’s kind of a relief because it sort of lets me off the hook, you know? Forgive me for that.
On the heels of this, puzzlement:
How does he know I’m a coke addict?
She struggles to remember if she’d seen his face at her Narcotics Anonymous meeting, or at her church.
No, she thinks. I would have remembered those eyes. Those awful eyes.
“Come now, Rosemary,” the man says, his voice almost gentle. “We have work to do.”
Does it matter, Lord? Does it matter that I never would have done this coke by myself? Even though I really want what he’s giving me, doesn’t it make a difference that I didn’t go looking for it?
Rosemary had always felt the presence of God while praying, but never His voice. This time was no different. God didn’t speak to her, but, as always, God was there.
He was there when she snorted the coke at gunpoint, He was even there when the end came, with all its darkness.
God never spoke, but He was there, and it was enough. She knew He heard her last thought, her final revelation.
Yeah, it does. It does make a difference. In fact, it makes THE difference. Our Father, who art in heaven, God oh my God, I love you so.
She would have died smiling if she hadn’t been in so much pain.
11
IT’S A LITTLE PAST NOON AND I AM ON THE PHONE WITH AD Jones.
“Similar crime?” he asks. “Here?”
He doesn’t groan, but I know he wants to because I feel the same way.
A killer who hops municipalities is a whole new monster. A man dedicated to his craft, a traveler, spreading the wreckage of his acts across multiple
She remembers all of these things now, as she often does, and adds some final words to her prayer.
“Thank you God, for helping me, and for listening to my bad fucking mouth and my dirty thoughts, and for letting me say what I need to say so I can stay on the path. Amen.”
Dirty words and evil thoughts were her secret things, and you can’t stay clean with secrets so God let her spew her bile and never blinked, however raunchy things got.
She stands up and goes to shower. No work today, but discipline was the key to her life now. Waking every day at the same time, not letting herself sleep in or be slothful. Sunday through Friday she ran a mile. Saturday she let herself off on the running, but she still got up, showered, had her coffee, and then went to the church to volunteer.
All of which, she reflects, helps keep the real secret, the true dirtiness inside her, at bay. That one terrible thing when she’d—
A knock at the door startles her from this thought. She frowns.
Who the hell is that?
She grabs a bathrobe and checks her face in the mirror, chastising herself immediately for this vanity, knowing that this is one habit she’ll never break.
She opens the door without peeking through the peephole. It’s Saturday morning, and this is Simi Valley, after all. One of the safest cities in the nation.
The man has a gun and a smile. He levels the gun at her face and walks forward, causing her to backpedal.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you dead,” he observes, calm, cool, collected. He closes the door to the apartment.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, voice trembling.
He puts a finger to his lips.
“Shhhhhh…I have something for you, Rosemary.”
He reaches into a jacket pocket and lifts out a bag. She recognizes it right away, of course.
Cocaine, sweet, beautiful, delicious cocaine.
“It’s okay, Rosemary. God will forgive you for this, so long as you give yourself up to Him before I kill you. Remember: God is love.”
She feels the old familiar demon rise inside her, even now, even after all these years, even with a gun in her face. She feels the truth that she so often reflects upon: she was a Jezebel born, not made.
Dear God, I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared, but even so, I want that coke so fucking bad, and (she can’t be dishonest talking to God, not now not ever) it won’t really be my fault because he’s making me do it so that’s kind of a relief because it sort of lets me off the hook, you know? Forgive me for that.
On the heels of this, puzzlement:
How does he know I’m a coke addict?
She struggles to remember if she’d seen his face at her Narcotics Anonymous meeting, or at her church.
No, she thinks. I would have remembered those eyes. Those awful eyes.
“Come now, Rosemary,” the man says, his voice almost gentle. “We have work to do.”
Does it matter, Lord? Does it matter that I never would have done this coke by myself? Even though I really want what he’s giving me, doesn’t it make a difference that I didn’t go looking for it?
Rosemary had always felt the presence of God while praying, but never His voice. This time was no different. God didn’t speak to her, but, as always, God was there.
He was there when she snorted the coke at gunpoint, He was even there when the end came, with all its darkness.
God never spoke, but He was there, and it was enough. She knew He heard her last thought, her final revelation.
Yeah, it does. It does make a difference. In fact, it makes THE difference. Our Father, who art in heaven, God oh my God, I love you so.
She would have died smiling if she hadn’t been in so much pain.
11
IT’S A LITTLE PAST NOON AND I AM ON THE PHONE WITH AD Jones.
“Similar crime?” he asks. “Here?”
He doesn’t groan, but I know he wants to because I feel the same way.
A killer who hops municipalities is a whole new monster. A man dedicated to his craft, a traveler, spreading the wreckage of his acts across multiple
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