Blue Moon Sweepstakes: Angel Recovery

I'm starting to get used to the blood on my hands. I used to be squeamish as a child. Heck, I used to be squeamish 3 days ago but it's weird how circumstances will change that. The blood on my hands is not of my own but of a priest. Not a crooked priest you read about in the papers, a true man of God.

It wasn't something I wanted to do but given the chance I would have done it again. The only thing I would have changed is his eyes. I should've never looked into his conveying eyes. Artistic posers love to use the cliché "The eyes are the windows into the soul." I'm sure when that saying was new and fresh it had profound meaning, but it has since been overused by wannabe poets who can't come up with an original thought themselves so they somehow find personal accomplishment in studying the vision and creativity of others.

There's a guy I went to school with my entire life. He is oblivious to his place in reality. He believes in himself unconditionally. He would always be where the cool kids were, not welcome but still there. Basketball, never making a basket but always insisting on taking the last shot, of course it never went in. Then he tried break dancing. He always dressed the part but he had no moves. After high school ended I saw him a couple years later and had the pleasure to meet his next incarnation, Mr. Artistic. The artistic guy is good costume for a poser. All he has to do is remember a couple things that real artists have said and plug as many of those quotes into the conversation as he can and that should pass the first impression test solidifying his place in somebody's mind as a deep and profound thinker. Of course I know this guy and my first impression of him came years ago way before the beret, coffee shops, soul patch and low prescription glasses that slightly impair his vision which (might I add) is the real reason he doesn't drive despite his claims of not driving to be green . He produces no art but is currently working on becoming left handed. Any way it's people like this who have pummeled the profound into cliché.

Today I was able to appreciate the full scope of the quote, though I would prefer to have been able to live my entire life in ignorance. This priest was a man I've known and feared my entire life. He was Father King our family priest.

I grew up in a large family of 17. As you can imagine my siblings represent a vast population of different personalities. Some smart some dumb, some good some bad, some affectionate some distant. I am number 15 of the set. The first batch, (the older ones) were better behaved. This was because mom and dad were not overwhelmed while raising them and had more energy to give them love, attention and proper discipline.

I'm sure you are trying to figure out why a couple would have so many children, well let me explain. My parents were strict Catholics. There are people who fight every day to make abortion illegal because they see the termination of a fetus as murder. Others will argue that life doesn't start until much later. Strict Catholics (like my parents) believe that life starts much earlier. Wasting sperm is unacceptable. No condoms, no pulling out, no masturbation. Nowadays its common practice to alter one's beliefs to fit into one's lifestyle, and my parents altered their lives to fit their beliefs. My father accepted responsibility for every sexual urge he ever had and raised all 17 of us. He raised us poor but was always there for us. I am not so religious. Of course that was against my parents efforts.

Every weekend we had to go to church and Sunday school. The early kids were good about it, but as my parents got older and the numbers grew, those of us born in the double digits were too much for my parents to handle on their own. One week we fought to stay home from church and won. That was the first Mass our mother ever missed. Later that day my mother got a call from Father King. He told her he noticed her absence and asked if everything was alright. My mother broke down in tears and explained the hardship we kids were causing. We didn't like to see mom cry but we felt powerful and that was nice. The next Saturday night we organized what to do to get out of church again. We anticipated that mom would come off extra strong but as long as we resisted she would break. Sleep didn't come easy for us that night as we anticipated a great battle followed by another victory. The next morning we were awakened by the unmistakable and out of place voice of Father King. During his services he spoke with such power. He had a voice of a giant. I'm serious, he sounded like he had Gigantism. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had God on his side. There was no resistance. We all feared him and did as he said. He brought us to the church before any masses had started. He sat us down right up front and gave us our own private service about honoring our parents. His powerful voice boomed over us, his eyes forcing themselves through ours. I retained nothing he said but was scared straight.

As he died before me he forced his eyes to meet mine. I looked through his "windows" and witnessed what was once full, empty into a hollow shell. I killed an innocent man. This will haunt me for the remainder of my life, but it will have all been worth it if my actions can save these little girls' innocence/lives.