It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 107: Chapter VI (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

Trapped in the hospital waiting room, having tried his best to stir something within his soul for the better part of a few hours—not a record even by his standards—Alan Carr had to admit that the whole undertaking was a pointless exercise. Something beneath him. Something Bud would have done. Feelings, he understood, are as moronic as the people who bask in sentimentality.

As he stood in the waiting room, shaking the countless hands of brusque police officers, all of whom acted out their supposed sorrow with the same grace as a bear in a tutu atop a ball, Alan Carr vacillated between the desire to maim and mock.

Pointless, melodramatic, bullshit, thought the Great One, taking one pat on the shoulder after another. 

And what was worse? That it was for the fat one he stood vigil? Or was it the constant touching of unfamiliar people? Or the fact that all those fuck-ugly boys in blue with the same aftershave and five o'clock shadow insisted on calling him 'son'?

All of it! he knew. All of it bothers me. I wish I could burn this whole place down. Fuck it. Watch them all writhe as the skin melts from their face. I wouldn't mind that noise. I'd enjoy it!

The Superintendent, Terrance P. Walsh, was the first of the superiors to arrive, and he insisted on telling the family that it was the pride of his career to have had Alanna in his department. Niamh did not take well to the past tense and, in response, became so inconsolable that nurse had to cajole her into a private room to calm down. Feeling guilty, the Superintendent fell into the terrible habit of repeating the phrase, 'she's a hero', as if he had memorized the line.

As if that excuses the fat cow for getting herself shot!

The Police Commissioner himself came next, and he was at least more tolerable. When he arrived, he took Alan and Colin to one side, and in a voice reserved for someone considering a run for higher office, tried to impart on the men how 'brave' their relative had been for efforts in bringing a 'madman' to justice.

So they think he was mad?

Would you prefer them think he was rational?

What would they call him if they knew his reasoning?

They do not care to know.

Why couldn't he have just buried it?

Let him go, Alan Carr. Could haves and should haves and what ifs will drive you crazy.

He should be mourned.

No one mourns the mad. Be better than Danny McKeen.

I was always better. I will be forever better. But still—

'She's currently stable,' the surgeon told the room in a somber tone in the wee hours of the morning, and the news that his sister was still alive was greeted with a thunderous cheer that seemed to Alan a bit overdone.

'A miracle!' said several officers.

But the surgeon shook his head, and his eyes landed on the trio of Alan, Colin, and the Commissioner, who took the relations by their shoulders and held tight. God forbid they think of fleeing him. 'It's not that simple. The bullet did considerable internal damage. Her stomach—'

'What's the likelihood she survives?' cut in Colin, who had remained surprisingly alert throughout this whole ordeal. 

Moments before Mrs. Fitzgerald had burst into the bar with her bellowing news of what had just transpired up at Curly's, Alan had been wondering how he was going to manage to shift his grandfather home. Colin, somewhere between drunken reminiscence and sleep, had shown no inclination to use his legs. Usual for him. But at the crash of the door opening, and Mrs. Fitzgerald's piercing howl of death, (it was first assumed that both Danny and the detective had perished, and it wasn't until several minutes after the arrival of the EMTs that a pulse was discovered on the latter), Colin sprung to his feet and sprinted off to support his own child. It amazed Alan then, and even still in recounting the moment to the Author, how competent Colin Malone could be in a time of true need, especially considering he carried a body weight more of liquor than water.