In the Tears of My Saints

Chapter 14: What's Left of Me

Dearest,

Death came to me again last night. After all of these years, he finally spoke. He told me in no uncertain term that I am going to die today. Today is the day I die. He told me to let it happen.

“Don’t fight it,” he said.

That is why I have been writing to you . . . what it has all been about. I guess I just wanted to ease you into it. I know what you’re thinking, of course. It’s the same thing people (you included) have always thought about me: I’m crazy. I get it. And you’re right. I know I am. I’m not always in the darkness—I’m not in it now—and I usually understand my delusions. But the thing is, despite what I try to tell myself, I can’t rid myself of this particular one. All I can think is that it’s 8:08 in the morning on the day I am going to die. Right now. Today is the day. I don’t know . . . I’ve been writing all night and putting this small diary together for you—for me too, I guess. And the thing is, I just believe it. This will be my last day on earth. I am scared, sure, but, honestly, I am also curious to find out just how delusional I actually am. So, there you have it. That’s it. I’m done.

I probably should have told you this earlier, but your dad’s been calling a lot lately. He’s here in town and wants to talk. He’s been asking a lot of questions about The Story, but, knowing him, it’s probably not because he has any interest in my life. I should probably sleep, but I’m going to go meet him instead. If nothing else, at least, I’ll get to say good bye. I don’t think I’ll tell you about my visit from death, or the one from your dad, if I should live through the day. I’ll make up some excuse about getting milk or something—silly, but you know how I am. Let’s leave all that ugly past behind us. Supposedly, I have a few hours left of life, so I think I’ll go live them. You’re about to wake up—nine o’clock is the normal time, right? I’ll leave this little book on my desk. You’ll find it, or, I’ll live through the day, and all of last night’s work will be for nothing.

But if I don’t make it, and you are reading this while they put me in the ground, then remember, Dearest, that I love you, that I’ve always loved you from the moment I first held you in my arms. You are my Mercy, my reason, my saving grace. You are now, and you will be up to the moment of my death, the First, the Last, the Only Thing on my mind.

Forever,

 Me

Sunday: 10:28 p.m.

Once again, His Song is in control.

My eyes are closed, but I still see the six shapes lying beneath the black tarp. I am sitting in the front seat of Matt’s car. We didn’t wait for Paul. I would have liked to, but there simply isn’t time. If Jeremy is still alive, and if we want him to remain that way, then every second counts.

It was strangely easy to get Matt into the car. I suppose that he is as ready as I am. Neither of us could just sit there anymore.

I only said two words, “It’s time.”

Dramatic—like a line from a poorly written screenplay. He seemed to understand, though. We were out the door and on our way to Old Dave’s in moments. I suppose that there was no need to say more. I think that we both knew how this story would end the moment the full impact of the murders hit us. We just act. It’s like we are moving along a line of complete abandon. Yet it is exactly what we want. It’s destiny. It’s like fate and free will working in perfect unison . . . Where have I heard that? I wonder . . .

We have weapons. Not what I expected, but they will suffice. Each pistol holds sixteen bullets to a magazine, and we have three magazines apiece. However, from what Jeremy has told us in the past, Old Dave should only have eight to ten members on his security team. This should be enough then. There are four for each person . . . and then some . . . Amateurs, shouldn’t take more than that.