The list of sinners

...Celia...

I don't know how many times I have called Vicky and she still doesn't answer me. It's late now and the only thing keeping me company on this night is the light on. Suddenly, I hear a knock on the door. It's late and I wasn't expecting anyone at this hour. I hesitate for a moment, sitting on the couch. Curiosity carefully envelops me as I approach the door hiding someone behind it.

"Mr. Rodger!" I say, surprised as I open the door.

"Celia, my daughter, am I bothering you ?" he asks awkwardly.

"Oh, no, not at all," I say.

"I wanted to give you something."

He hands me a small box. I take it and feel something inside it is really heavy.

"What is this for?"

"I wanted to give you something for your birthday," he says.

A smile starts to form on my face as my hands tremble when I hear those words.

"Mr. Rodger, how do you know my birthday?"

"Oh, I have my ways," he says. "By the way, my real name is Jonathan Thompson."

I furrow my brows, not understanding what's happening. The heavy silence that draped over me like a suffocating cloak began to echo the beats of my heart.

"I tried to forget and start a completely new life with my arrival here," he began. "I got married, had a daughter, but they left me only because they were told I was sick after my ex. I was left alone, rejected by everyone, unwanted above all. My heart turned cold and my soul twisted. I made a list of sinners. I decided to fake my own death. Changed my name. Made interventions so I wouldn't be recognized. Chose a profession that helped me find other sinners, to punish them. I used a knife to instill terror in the city. With a knife, I painted this city red. In every life I extinguished, I felt a sick pleasure. Their fear, their prayers not to kill them, their screams... they pleased me."

His entire face morphs from a maniacal smile to a sick, psychopathic one. My eyes can't tear away from Mr. Rodger's face. I was paralyzed. I couldn't gather myself from what I was hearing as my body trembled like a leaf. I don't know how to react but I try with all the courage I have to keep all senses vigilant.

"Rebecca was a prostitute who worked as a waitress in a night club," he continued. "She would come almost drunk every night and could barely make it to the room. Deborah, a dirty lesbian. Savannah was having an affair with one of your professors. Alan, a drugged psychopath. Not to forget Cole Martinez, whom you helped me with and I am grateful. Robert, a low-life thief... Dylan Hill... a shameless liar and greedy pig at the same time. Then your Jenny... just like her mother, they left me alone. What child does this to a parent, no matter how bad they are? Who?"

"Wh-what about Tian?" I ask, shocked. Why... why didn't you mention her?

"Oh, Tian... I remember him," he says, staring beyond my back. "He didn't actually do anything and wasn't part of my list, but he did something that could ruin all my efforts. He saw me, so I had to gouge his eyes out."

"You killed him for nothing?!" I say with a trembling voice. "Just like my mother?"

"Your mother?" he asks. "Oh, my naive Celia. We were meant for each other, but she betrayed me with your father. Everything would be perfect today if he hadn't come between us."

"My mother never loved you," I say with tears in my eyes. "She only loved my father from the beginning."

"That's just one side of her story..."

"No, she wrote about it in her diary. You were never important to her. She only did what was necessary. She helped you when you needed it."

"That's what she wanted to tell you," he says, nervous. "She was a sinner. Just like all of them."

When Donovan rejected me, I couldn't help but draw a parallel with the murderer's situation. I understood that just like the murderer, I had a choice. I could let my pain consume me, making me bitter and resentful. Or I could find a way to heal, to strengthen and move forward. But unlike the murderer of my mother, I chose the latter. Although I still feel the sting of his rejection, I found a quiet understanding. We all have our fears, reasons, and doubts, and they have a dizzying impact.

We emotionally assign those we love to certain positions, in our internal landscapes. However, they were never asked if this was a role they could play? Sometimes it is us who create our disappointments, or more precisely their disappointment from these emotional roles we have assigned them. Other times they took on a commitment they couldn't fulfill for reasons beyond their control. Whatever the case may be, the result is equal to abandonment. We can soothe it with our logic. And if not, then we can see it through our perspective. Just like Mr. Rodger.

"Our sins are a matter of divine justice and not of sick human minds," I say, annoyed. "We are all sinners who judge others for sinning differently. And you... you are the worst sinner of them all."

His eyes widen in fear. He lunges forward quickly, and precisely then his eyes follow the glint of the knife. I don't have time to react as terror has paralyzed me. I feel pain in my abdomen and realize that within me a sharp, icy, and merciless tip has already entered. A gasp escapes my lips to join the sole witness of this night, the air.

"You are weak, Celia," he said as he twisted the sharp tip inside me. "Just like your family. You don't deserve to exist in this world. Not in my world."

He pulls the knife viciously. I release a sharp cry. With one hand, I manage to lean against the wall, and with the other, I clutch my wound as blood escapes between my fingers. I try to ask "why," but those few words are lost as my strength begins to falter.

"Your father took my love once," he added, watching the knife mingling in blood. "Now, he will lose his a hundred times over."

Every breath I take feels shallow and doesn't fill me with air. My knees buckle under the weight of my body. My body feels like it is in the hands of an invisible force that only pulls me more and more violently. My feet become obstacles, tripping me. I see Mr. Rodger, whatever his real name may be, walking away towards the stairs.

It's ridiculous how often we think of ourselves as righteous, virtuous beings, untainted by sin. We like to believe that sin is something reserved for others, for those who have fallen from grace. But the truth is, deep down, we all carry the weight of our transgressions.

It's easy to point fingers, to judge and condemn others for their mistakes. We create this illusion of moral superiority, as if we are somehow exempt from the flaws and mistakes that plague humanity. But the reality is that we are all sinners in our own right.

Some sins may be more obvious than others, but they still exist. They may be the little white lies we tell to spare someone's feelings, or the jealousy we feel when someone else succeeds. It could be the anger boiling inside us, or the selfishness that guides our actions. We may not fully grasp the extent of our sins or the impact they have on those around us.

I find myself leaning against the wall, between labored breaths and pains. I feel the need to scream as loud as I can, where the doubt I have beneath me shakes. I hold a lot of anger inside me. Anger for lost lives. Anger for my naivety. I need to scream. To scream for help. To scream for relief from the pain and every time I open my mouth, nothing comes out but silence and tears. But what's the point of screaming when no one will listen to you?

Right at this moment, I manage to make peace with the storm of suffocating emotions. The last tears flow, and a slight smile reappears. My heart had delivered its message, already, despite my refusal to listen. It's a bitter pill facing the ending time, but those few moments and people I met make me not feel so much bitterness. And as life passes before my eyes, I feel that the only thing I want in these moments is Donovan's presence. I wanted to engrave with my black pen, his image under my eyelids, to just see him in an eternal rest waiting for me.