Murder Confession of an Innocent Man
By Duane Hewitt
Fiction
Copyright 2016 Duane Hewitt. All Rights Reserved.
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“I plotted the death because there was nothing else left for me to do. The reason will become self-evident; and anyway, I am not normally given to lengthy discourse. If I were to speak of offence then, yes, there had indeed been offences and a great many at that. Yet offence in and of itself does not always lead people to plot a murder. As for such things as loyalty and devotion, who among us can speak about the purity of devotion. I for one do not believe that the human species is given to pure devotion, because devotion is demonstrated by the fullness of commitment – and I would have to ask, is such a thing even possible? Husbands, wives, lovers, and the best of friends do not live by devotion. The continuation of pure unadulterated devotion is, in the heart and mind, not possible between people.
“Let us speak of her beauty; she was an angel of exquisite perfection; the very excellence and flawlessness of womanly splendor as can be envisioned. Truly, I would ask if any man could have imagined just how supremely beautiful she was – and that beauty emanated throughout her very being; it was her essence; as if touched by the hand of God. And in speaking this way, one must then wonder, if this is true, why then would I plan and proceed with such a thing? Yes, why – but as already alluded, the answer to this must be self-apparent.
“This question of ‘why’ is simply another method of uncovering that thing called motive; the very spine of a planned death. Though the word “murder” has been used here, it is not a word I like; it is not accurate – and, moreover, I feel it is not fair. After all, murder is a crime, but a planned death? That is a very different thing. But this is not my place to judge; leave such things to higher powers.
“If you will permit, I would ask that you allow me the opportunity to cover some details, some history, which I assure you, is in order here… I first laid eyes on her on that early spring morning beside a most beautiful park in Niagara. The specifics of the date and time don’t matter. She was resplendent in her heavenly beauty. And yet, what caught my eye was the exquisitely divine feminine form. Her shape was like that of none you have ever seen. She was perfection that surpassed comprehension! On that particular day, she was dressed in a beautiful flowing gown that shimmered in the day’s light, flowing down to her ankles, with a timelessness of fashion and grace that was as perfectly matched to her as she to it. Her lovely golden hair careened down her back and shoulders – and the hues in her hair matched the gown oh-so perfectly.
“I was captivated from the moment I first saw her. She did not see me, at least not immediately, but I certainly saw her – and she held me spellbound… mesmerized! I stood there, at the end of the street, enchanted by the perfection that was her. I tell you, you would have had to have seen… perfection, sheer perfection in beauty. It was a moment that would forever be seared into my mind. The day was only then coming alive as tiny bits of sunlight danced off her hair and shoulders, and as little eddies of the dew-touched morning gave way to the day’s light. She was surrounded by flowers, I remember that well; and it was not just where she stood, but how she stood: A long series of flower beds and hanging blossoms decorated the area, adding a charming, eloquent magic that complemented her incredible splendor.
“How long did I stand there admiring her? To be truthful, I don’t know. I have no idea, though it felt that time had ceased. It was then that I knew I loved her – like someone you have waited all your life and longer to meet; as if across time and space and, suddenly, the moment is upon you! And what you experience is beyond love.
“I did not approach her – oh, no! That would have been far too vulgar for such a wondrous creation as she. No, no, no… I waited to allow time and circumstances to converge and play out their little game of destiny. After all, I could wait. Had I not waited out an entire lifetime already? An eternity! Little did it occur to me that she, too, had been aware of me in that first moment!
(The man stopped speaking for a moment, as if to collect himself. Then he continued.)
“I do not say that I am delusional. I do not say anything. Does a delusional mind not also function, as needs be, in the reality of a mostly delusional world? And what is the world but a mask of more glorious realities that stand beyond our reach? For where, I ask, might beauty such as hers belong? Not here! Oh, no – not with the ugliness, the disease, the wars, the crime, and the hatefulness of this awful species. No, I tell you, she herself never had any place in this most despicable world.
The confessing man paused momentarily. Then, pressing closer to the crisscrossed wood hatch of the confessional, spoke almost in a whisper but with extreme clarity:
“Speak to me now, Father, without the mask of the confessional – please. You have known me all your life, I ask of you. Let us speak openly.”
The priest stepped out of the confessional and met the man in the openness of the empty church.
“You see, Father,” continued the man, “one does not lay eyes on an angel of God without some deep knowing, some trepidation that comes with having lived a life of offending that same God through a lifetime of sin. That angel – on that day – was a message to me; a message about my soul’s dirtiness; about the life I’ve lived…”
The man hesitated. A tear streamed down his cheek. He took out a tissue and wiped it away.
“I cannot begin to tell you what it is like to stand in the purity of God,” continued the man, “to see the nakedness of your soul when measured against the beauty of pure good; of the exquisiteness of such purity. That is why He sent her to me – His messenger. Seeing her was enough.”
The man stopped. His eyes roamed the inner walls of the church. He turned around and picked up his hat, a crimson silk scarf, and an overcoat. His head was hung low. The priest knew that now was the time to speak.
“Consider this before you leave here,” said the priest, making an effort not to sound too desperate on the man’s behalf, “you came to see me today – to make a confession – but understand something: If it’s true that you did see an angel of God, and that messenger was sent for you, do not be so quick as to assume it is a harbinger of punishment or bad things to come. I sense that you have been given a blessing – an opportunity – and that now…”
The man cut him off.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, and he continued to walk away slowly.
The priest persisted.
“You came to me and you told me you had a confession to make, and that it concerned murder,” continued the priest, “do you not think I didn’t know what you meant by that?”
The man continued walking. The priest knew he would never see that man again.
“Do not kill the man,” the priest called out, “but yes! – kill what that man once was and live anew. Perhaps,” concluded the priest, “you will have the blessing of seeing many more angels in a new, purer life!”
There was a brief moment when, high above, a small dove, which had found its way into the church’s inner rafters, fluttered and returned to its nest.
The man, stopping just before reaching the high domed doors of the church, hesitated as if in thought. He turned and, with an upward glance to the dove, smiled and started back into the church.
The end
Copyright 2016 Duane Hewitt. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied or transmitted by any means whatsoever without the prior written approval of the author. Duane Hewitt asserts his rights as the author to this work and its plot, themes and characters, under International Copyright and Intellectual Property Laws.
