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True Last WordsThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Daniel | |
| Friday, 11 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      Let me tell you what really happened. Not what the newspapers say happened or what the state says happened. they weren't there. I was. This will be my last chance to tell anyone. You may not believe me, but that doesn't change the fact that what I'm about to write is true. "Truth" is less complicated than most people think. It's universal. Some folks think that all that matters is our perception of the "truth" Our perception is what gives "truth" substance, brings it into creation. Bologna. It doesn't matter if I say the sky is blue and you believe with all your heart that it's turquoise, the color remains constant. What's "true" isn't influenced by our perceptions. It just keeps on being "true" despite them. For instance, almost everyone who has ever known me now believes that I'm a murderer. Most people who first meet me are intimidated right off the bat because I'm big. Not just big, very big. I have a thick beard and enjoy wearing my hair long. I ride a motorcycle when the weather permits, and have more than once been approached by and Outlaw or Hell's Angel, greeting me like I'm a member of their fine organizations. But "truthfully" I'm a pacifist. I don't like watching slasher films with gallons of fake blood in every scene. I never even played football in high school, although the coach nearly got on his hands and knees and begged me. I knew that if I played, I would eventually end up hurting someone by tackling too hard or blocking too aggressively. I was a gentle giane. Everyone who knew me said so. Although I had plenty of friends, mostly because with the right ID I looked old enough to buy beer, I never had many girlfriends. Most girls were shy around me, and I couldn't really blame them. It's hard to be close to someone when they're towering over you like a mountain. But not Tracy. She didn't find it difficult at all. I met her in my senior year of high school. She was a junior. I can still picture her so clearly. I had gotten a summer job working in my Dads' auto body repair shop. Her mom came in looking to have a new bumper put on. She had apparently rear-ended someone earlier that week. Tracy stood behind her mother, wearing a pair of little shorts and a pink tank top. She looked around the shop with interest, especially at the various tools that were hunt up on the walls. Finally, her sparkling eyes came to rest on me. I must have started blushing when she caught me staring at her, because she immediately walked up to me and we started talking. Before she left, we had a date for that weekend. That was all it took. We were inseparable from that day forward, and married the next year. After she graduated she went on to the local community college and began working on photography. She had two passions in her life; me and that camera. I never bothered trying to determine which came first. Meanwhile, I started working full time at my Dads' shop, and I got pretty good. Customers were happy with my work and often referred their friends to us. Two years later, Tracy gave birth to our son, Ethan. He was perfect in every way. He wasn't big like his Daddy, for which Tracy repeatedly thanked the gods before, during, and after delivery. But people insisted that besides that one detail, he was a carbon copy. I couldn't disagree. And so, life went on. We weren't rich, but we didn't go hungry. Tracy landed a job at the local newspaper and Dad made me a full partner in the shop. We finally saved up enough money to buy a little two-bedroom house on the ouskirts of town. It was our little piece of heaven. Then came Andy. Andy was our friend and neighbor. His daughter was about Ethans' age and they quickly became playmates. On weekends, we would ride motorcycles together, or watch the game at the other's house while sharing beers and cheers. I never caught the side glances he shot at Tracy, or the way he would make excuses to be near her when she went to the kitchen or outside to smoke. One night, while I was away on business, he raped her. He was high and drunk. He said that he got confused. He thought he was making love to his own wife in their own bed. Apparently she liked the rough stuff. I just thank god that Ethan didn't wake up to find him on top of her. Tracy' wouldn't go to the police. It was a small town and she was afraid of how people would talk. She did tell Andy's wife. They seperated for a while but made up a few weeks later. Even though I had never fought anybody, I told Tracy that I would beat Andy to within an inch of her life, closer if I could manage it. And I meant it. I would slit his tires, burn his house, do anything that I could think of to hurt him back for what he did. But I never used the word "kill." She stopped me. She said it wouldn't undo anything , and he had a little girl to look after. I begged her to get some help, to talk to someone. She adamantly refused and withdrew further into that cocoon of solitude that she had begun to wrap around herself. She would stay in her room for days. I was now sleeping on the floor in Ethan's room. She wouldn't come out for meals or to see her husband or son. She had never let me touch her before we were married, and I couldn't imagine what she was feeling now, having been violated by a man we both trusted. I locked up all of the guns, knives and prescription medications in the house. I was terrified that she would use them on herself. Then, one day, it was over. I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs being prepared and found her humming softly to herself as she went about her tasks. Although I was no slouch when it came to housework, Tracy had always insisted on keeping an immaculate and ordered home. She greeted Ethan and me warmly with a kiss and chatted away about this and that, the irrelevancies of a quiet community where the local baseball team makes front page news. After Ethan went to school, we made love for the first time in months. I recall every motion, every touch. That morning I went to work with a smile for the first time in a long time. It was midday before I learned that Andy was dead. It didn't take long for the police to focus their investigation on me. I had told only a few friends about what had transpired, but that was enough for a motive to reach the detectives ear. They centered on me as their prime suspect, and then found the evidence to support their theory. I was a troublemake, they said. In "truth" I had caused a stir years by calling attention to the fact that my business had been broken into three times, and not once was a full investigation performed by the same detectives who were now implicating me. I had no respect for the law, theys aid. I had to come to court last summer when I received my one and only ticket for going 15 miles over the speed limit. I had no consideration that I was putting my life and the lives of others in peril. And, ofcourse, I had a motive. They brought me in the next day for questioning. They said that if I just told them what happened and signed a piece of paper that they would cut a deal with me. I might even be out in time to see my grandchildren being born. I said that I didn't do it and I wasn't signing jack. So then the trial began. It wasn't a sensational drama like on television, with new evidence being introduced at the last minute to prove my guilt or innocence. In "truth" it wasn't even a trial at all, just a formality. It was ruled over by a judge who dozed off in the closing arguments, while a court appointed attorney, who seemed more interested in getting home early for dinner than preserving my life, gave a half-hearted effort at defending me. It didn't take long for the local jury to announce a verdict. Two years later, I was served with the divorce papers as I sat in my cell. I didn't blame her. She had to move on and support our son. He never came to see me. I wouldn't allow it. So that's how it really happened. No matter what you may hear from the local townfolk, or what you may see on Dateline or any of those other news shows who did interviews on me. That's the "truth" of it. I have to go now. It's nearly midnight and I hear footsteps. I can only hope that one day, my story with be heard and believed. But that'll be small comfort to me. When they ask me if I have anything else to say, just before the deed is done, I will sit there silently and shake my head. These are my last minutes. These are my last words. Copyright 2008 Daniel |
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