The Letter

              It was summer. The stifling air laced heavy with humidity rolled right off of the Mississippi River spoke well of that. It was almost as eloquent as the man with the megaphone and religious pamphlets that stood on the corner that shouted of lust, of adultery and the road to hell with fervor in his eyes and spit glistening slick on his lips.

                 Mad he seemed with hair shining slick with grease in the sunlight, stray strands trickling down his fat cheeks like ink. Large eyes protruded from his head with sickly yellowed whites and dirty brown irises, a gleam of something that just wasn’t quite right lurking beneath.

A lunatic in a too tight dress shirt with large sweat stains and an even larger stomach protruding over the worn leather belt that barely managed to keep his wrinkled slacks up.

A lunatic escaped from an asylum with delusions of being the next prophet. Delusions that made him believe he was better than everyone else, better than me.

Even though his face was just as red and dripping with sweat as everyone else who was brave enough to step foot outside and into the hellish heat, he was still better. Still grander than any human being. And therefore he was righteous in his condemnation of the rest of us.

All this despite the fact that as soon as the sun set he would abandon his post in favor of attending another sort of church.

A church that supported the same things he was so passionately against.

A church that worshiped the flesh and the desire that a simple sliver of soft skin could produce. This church in particular was devoted to the flesh of beautiful young women. All draped with gaudy and minimal clothing and parading about to the sounds of crackling music over old, worn speakers.

When the day was ending and the traffic was comprised mostly of people heading home for dinner and settling, he would attend service. A drink of some toxic substance in one hand and a wad of singles in the other he would sit near the stage surrounded by other sweating and squirming men. Smoke would surround him from the various cigarettes glowing in the dim light of the room; caress his cheeks with stained fingers.

For hours he would stay there with lust reeling in his righteous eyes and alcohol staining his pure lips, watching the women as they shed their clothes like they’d shed their inhibitions so long ago. Godly hands would tuck dirty money away, brushing for a single forbidden feel of sweet softness before pulling away and waiting for the next lovely one to come out.

They were dirty creatures with such black souls.

They were poor lost sheep who just needed to be guided gently back to the flock.

It all changed depending on the situation. He’d said both of those things himself while standing on the corner and shouting to the heathens who walked by to get in an early morning show.

Now though…now they were just faceless things with gorgeous bodies and no souls at all. Objects. Adornments. Cheap entertainment that was always available. They weren’t human beings, they weren’t capable of feeling. They were there to be used with no regard. It was the way he liked it.

I’d watched him for a while.

He was a common sight if you were to ever travel anywhere along the newly paved road during the summer while the cars flashed down the street surrounded by light and heat.

In the winter he seemed to hibernate, his beliefs not strong enough for him to catch a cold over. But during the summer he was always out there at least once a week with his pamphlets and that stupid f*****g megaphone.

Once he was right across the street from where I lived, shouting his usual rhetoric.

I emerged from behind the pawn shop only to be yelled at about divine retribution or some other such foolish thing. He was standing at the convenience store where I frequently went to buy cigarettes and where I had been heading in hopes of finding something that would pass as a suitable meal. The topic of his sermon was once more lust, adultery, temptation and all those other fun things. Perhaps that was all he spoke about because it was what he knew best out of everything else. Either way he caught sight of me when I crossed the street and tried to shove a pamphlet into my hands. I refused and he berated me as if I were a child, as if I were the worst scum to have ever walked the earth.

Sinner. Sinner. Sinner.

Hell. Hell. Hell.

It all blurred into one continuous negative tirade. And it made me angry. So very f*****g angry. Who was he to judge me ? I was sure even then that he was no better, if not worse than I. At least I didn’t hide who I was by religion. But from the way that he was standing out there, shouting so vehemently he clearly had to compensate for something, something horrible most likely. It didn’t stop him though, this secret guilt I was sure he must have had. Instead he just kept yelling at me as the heat radiated off of the side walk and the sun glinted harshly over the faded and graffiti covered buildings.

Hell. Hell. Hell.

Sinner. Sinner. Sinner.

It was only when a scantily clad woman with tired eyes and scarred arms walked by that his attention shifted from this little heathen and onto the more important scarlet woman. Now I can’t help but wonder if, after I’d disappeared gratefully into the air conditioning, he stopped his scolding of her and instead fucked her. It seems something he would do.

I remember when I found out he frequented the strip club just right down the street. Maybe two or three long city blocks away. An acquaintance had told me. And she’d heard it from a friend who worked there. We all had a good laugh at that. Righteous little preacher man likes to watch barely of age women take their clothes off. It was priceless really and it was definitely the high light of an otherwise dull summer.

It had faded from my mind until the summer had returned once more and he was once again out there. I couldn’t help but be intrigued by it. And more than a little bit annoyed. Hypocrite. The f*****g hypocrite. He had spent near half an hour telling me about my sins and my wrongs simply because I wouldn’t take that pointless pamphlet from him despite the fact that he was clearly more jaded than I! I would not stand for it.

Even then I knew that I would have to do something to remedy the writhing anger I felt whenever I saw and heard him. First though I had to make sure. I wanted to be absolutely sure that it was indeed him sweating and leering in the strip club and that it wasn’t just a story that a bored stripper had come up with to amuse a friend.

So I did the most logical thing.

I followed him.

The night had fallen, the yellowed streetlights were on and the sky was nothing but a black mass above. He went and put his pamphlets in his car, spending a moment running his fingers lovingly over the megaphone. And then he shut the trunk with a click that sealed his fate it seemed as he turned and headed down the street.

I followed him and he didn’t even notice. Far too focused were his eyes on the glowing, gaudy neon signs that announce the strip club. The moment he walked through the door, I could feel the giddiness rush through my body. A lovely euphoric haze brought on by the thrill of knowledge.

Stupid man. If he were going to attend a strip club the least he could do was pick one that wasn’t so near where he always preached, where anyone who happened to pass by him on the street could discover his hypocrisy. Like I had done.

Oh the fact that it was true, the he was actually that sleazy man I had been told about made me feel so wonderful. Among the very few things I can’t stand in life, things that just make me so furious I can’t rest until I’ve done something about it, one of the main things that could set me off into this rage was hypocrisy. I hated people who acted like they were the perfect example of what a good person should be like and then secretly did everything they spoke out against. Who condemned me because I wasn’t this ideal little religious sheep while they went and fucked and sinned freely.

I hate them.

I hate them so much.

So much…

With the knowledge that he was in fact a horrible hypocritical f****r, I decided to do something about it. My first thought was admittedly rather simplistic and much more time consuming than I wanted to do. It would be easy enough to get a picture or some such thing from the security at the strip club. I could blow it up and make copies, post them everywhere and watch in glee as his face twisted when he saw them. But something about that wouldn’t be satisfying enough. I need to do something more, something that would really drive home the point that he wasn’t a good man, the he was a hypocrite and hypocrites deserve to pay, be exposed in the worst way possible.

It was really a stroke of random luck that brought the idea to me. Without any intention of running into the preacher, I had gone to the convenience store once more, this time in order to satisfy a random craving I had. The preacher was just coming back from the club, looking highly smug and satisfied.

Well I couldn’t stand for that. Living in the city had prompted me to always carry something that could be used as a weapon in case something bad happened. It hadn’t proved needed yet but the feel of a can of pepper spray or (like in this instant) a knife, in my pocket was comforting. And now it looked as though it would finally prove useful as would my love of The Scarlet Letter.

“Um…excuse me?”

It was officially the first time I had really spoken to him, his attention snatched immediately despite my quiet tone of voice.

“Yes?”

A flash of guilt went through his eyes.

Oh dear. He must have assumed that I knew his dirty little secret. It was best to pretend I knew nothing.

“I’ve been thinking…I see you around here so much and I admit I hardly ever listen to what you say. But lately my life has been feeling…empty I guess you could say. You see, I’ve not been to church in years, since my mother died, but lately I’ve begun to feel bad about that you know?” The lie flowed easily from my lips and I could see them swirling around the other calming his fears.

“Well then I would say you need to get Jesus back in your life.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Would you mind…helping me?” I asked shyly.

“Of course!”

An invitation for a cup of coffee or something…stronger had the preacher crossing the street with me, heading towards my apartment. Such a vain man to assume that he was safe, simply because he was larger than me. It didn’t mean that he was stronger, that wasn’t muscle on his frame after all.

And he was doubly foolish to assume that he could handle his liquor especially when I added my little extra ‘ingredient’ into it. Because after a mere three glass of the admittedly cheap alcohol, he could barely support himself in the chair, his words slurring together into incomprehensible slop.

One little push on his shoulder and he tumbled from the floor and onto the cracked linoleum with a little grunt at the contact. From that point on I stopped listening to anything he said. It wasn’t important and soon the words died off as he began to lose consciousness.

It was welcome.

With him snoring away in blackness on the floor I was free to go about my business without him interrupting or questioning me. Free to take my time in carefully choosing the knife I wanted to use on him.

A slender blade and a wicked point called to me. The moment the knife touched my palm I knew it was the one that would serve to complete my task.

The sinner would be punished.

The hypocrite’s robe of purity would be ripped to pieces to reveal the filth beneath.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

That was the preacher’s first mistake. He was not without sin yet he cast many stones and one them hit me. I was not one to take being assaulted lightly.

As he soon found out.

Using the tip of my shoe, I nudged his shoulder harder and harder until he rolled over onto his back, a little mumble falling from his thick lips. However he didn’t wake up, not completely at least until the blade touched the skin and began to press in.

I knew how it must feel. A dull, barely there pressure growing gradually into a sharp pain that just worsened as time went on. And I was going slowly, drawing out the agony as much as I could.

The alcohol and drugs had weakened him to the point where all he could do was make quiet sounds of protest at the pain and the knife. As I began to slice through the flesh, watching it give way in such pretty red lines, I chuckled softly to myself. Maybe the justice wouldn’t be that great. I would let him live and he would have to let me live freely. No one would believe him. People would no doubt have seen him drinking at the club; his character would come to light. He would be ruined if he admitted to it. I would be free and he would be marked forever.

Marked with a simple of his sin.

Sin that would be announced whenever he removed his shirt, whenever he fucked those w****s of his.

A marking that I had so carefully carved out on his flesh.

A nice, pretty letter L that traveled from just between his collarbones to just above his hips. That bleed freely beneath my blade, spilling the tainted blood over the floor. A lovely little mark that called him out for what he was.

The blood didn’t even bother me. It would be easy to clean up. It was worth it anyway.

Sinners must pay after all.

Author's Note

Written for English 142, Intermediate Creative Writing. A story that was supposed to be based on the street we grew up on. Needless to say I didn't write about a true even.

Reviews

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I have to say, I really enjoyed the story. You went into great detail describing the main character, I could actually picture him. I think that I have seen this guy in Memphis! On Beal.