Like everyone, he had been born into light. The birthing process had shed eternal darkness on his mother, but it was light that was his first experience among the living. Blinding light, and being struck. A harsh awakening. One fraught with foreshadowing of what was to come. Everything about it was a portent, a sign of what inevitably would lead him to his current predicament. Strapped to a gurney with three lines of fluid about to be entered into his body until he was dead, dead, dead. It was almost tragic that all he could think about was how badly he had to piss.
Had he not been so worried about his urinary discomfort it may have occurred to him to have his life flash before his eyes. He could have spun forward from his birthing to being potty trained like a puppy. Having his nose rubbed in his excrement when the none to gentle hands of a man hateful at life and to drunk to exhibit good motor control failed to put on his diaper properly. Then being beaten by those same work hardened hands until he had been trained to shy away from any touch as if it were meant to be a blow.
as he twirled forward he could watch the young boy, already to shattered emotionally to cope with the rigors of learning being beaten by a surly nun that had years of pent up sexual frustration driving every blow. He could watch as the boy failed to read and was hit, failed to write and was hit, failed, failed, failed, and was hit, hit, hit until the blows no longer made an impression on his thoroughly broken psyche.
Imagine his joy at seeing the young man experience his first human contact that was not threatening to him. the casual delight he would’ve taken in looking back on that first rape so many years ago. She wasn’t atttractive when he started, and she wasn’t alive when he was through. He learned though that in the silence and the darkness he didn’t have to be hit. He didn’t have to be controlled. His first sense of accomplishment an act that others called monstrous. Had he been able to read he would have been able to consider the horrors he perpetrated. Read about the empty liqour bottle he had used to crush the mandible, and the cross he had used for acts of sodomy. He couldn’t. All he did was go home to bed with a slightly warm feeling. A feeling of strength. Of comfort. Power.
He could have cascaded forward through a life of vagrancy and malice. Of violence and sexual deviation so horrifying that it would make the people he came in contact with in Joliet cringe at the halting, stuttering retelling. His greatest moments of success each a little more ghastly and provocative than the next. He would not be able to see that he was infamous, because all the things that made that so were beyond his education, his intellect that of a boy of 8.
this hauntingly tragic reclamation of all that he was, and all he had destroyed were denied him though. A full bladder made the last pathetic moments of his life just one more torment.
He didn’t spend the last moments of wakefulness begging forgiveness for the things he had done. He didn’t even know they were wrong. What he did was to repeatedly state his final desire in life. “i have to pee. I have to pee. i have to pee.
precisely a nanosecond after he returned to the darkness that had granted him peace prior to birth a merciful god granted his last request.