The Note.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

The confessional window slid open. Behind the veil sat an old, balding man bespectacled in glasses twice again as big as his eyes. Seeing who it was, the old Father couldn’t help but let out a sigh. “What is it today Jonathan?”

“It has been one week since my last confession,” I push on, trying to ignore the tinge of pity in the Fathers voice.

“You are in here every week, my son. I thought we put an end to this last week.”

Bless the old priest, but he simply didn’t understand. Nobody did. When the first note appeared under my door, I was puzzled as to why nobody could see them but me. That alone may have made me crazy, but to actually tell people that I saw them weekly, and what was written on them had been a mistake. “I got another note this week”

“Yes, I know all about these notes. What troubles your soul is not sin.”

I leaned back in the confessional booth, trying to hide my face from the priest on the other side of the screen. I was not angry at him, but I knew my face would say otherwise. “This note was different. It didn’t give just the names, but the occupations and some information about each of them....”

“Did you stop taking your medications?”

I knew it was coming, but had allowed myself to hope that he would believe me. Old Father Justinian was a good man, a good Catholic priest. I’d known him all my life, but the word of a few dozen psychiatrists held more weight then our friendship. “I’m... I’m not crazy, alright?” My voice began to get louder even as I fought to stay under control. “Those pills.... those pills mess with me. I can’t eat... I can’t sleep. My hands always shake. I-I just can’t take them anymore, alright?!”

Father Justinian was silent, and I feared I had overdone it. He’d never had me removed from the church by force, but if you had a certified lunatic screaming at you through a tiny screen.... I wouldn’t blame him if he had asked me to leave. But old man Justinian just sat there, his blue eyes piercing into my own, searching my soul, perhaps to see if I truly was insane.

“I will listen,” he said after a few minutes. “If you promise to go back on your medications as soon as you get home. Agreed?”

What choice did I have? I agreed, fully intending to go back on my word. For the first time my conscience had decided to rear it’s head, and I needed to unload on somebody.

“It happened yesterday, at about noon...”

-~Sunday (Yesterday)~-
The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon when my alarm went off. I was already awake however, knowing exactly what day it was and what would happen. Seven-thirty two the blinking light on the clock said. The blaring sound was annoying, but I couldn’t bring myself to go into the bedroom to turn it off. I had taken my medication for the first time that week, and the final test of whether I was crazy or not was about to happen.

Eight-thirty and still nothing. Maybe it wouldn’t come if I was watching. Maybe it wouldn’t come if I was waiting for it. Maybe it wouldn’t happen because, like the doctors said, I was crazy. Either way, I wasn’t accomplishing anything by sitting here.

The alarm clock had stopped by the time I got up. Maybe the batteries had died. I got halfway into the kitchen of my small, slightly dirty and cramped apartment before the rustling of paper underneath the door caught my attention. I knew at once what it was. A small piece of paper, no bigger then a notepad. There would be two names on it, two addresses and two times. Under each name would be a brief description of what I was expected to do. Nothing more, nothing less.

Setting down the now forgotten tea-bag, I headed back towards my door. As expected, sitting on the floor was the piece of paper, on it the names and addresses. But wait, what was this? “ What the hell?”

I sit down, surprised by the change in the note. A name, a time, a place and instructions. There’d never been anything else but those simple bits of information. Always only a first name, never a last. Never an occupation, never any information about the people at all. It had been bad enough having to choose between the two when I knew nothing about them.

“Your success so far has been inspiring,” the note read. “I have decided to up th ante you could say. Before now you have been operating without any information about those you condemn to death. Not exactly a fair choice. I have rectified this matter. And don’t worry about the meds. I know you aren’t crazy. You will continue to get my notes, and will continue to see them even if you take the medications. Sincerely yours.”

As I read the note out loud to myself, I was struck by the detail in which the writer of the note knew my life. If somebody was to take a look at me, they might think I had a screw or two loose. But only somebody who had been following me, or watching would know about my medications.

The handwritten parts did not surprise me as much. The writer had never taken the time to write in his own hand, but he must have known that only I could read them, or he would not have risked so much.

I crumple the note up and put it in my coat pocket as I head out the door. The choice is clear, clearer then ever before. Save a Nun, or a crack addict. I’ve made my choice, and the faster I act on it the less time I have to think about it.

-~Monday (Present Day)~-
To his credit, Father Justinian listened to my entire story. Or the parts I told him. I knew even our friendship would be stretched thin If I had told him what had happened after I left my apartment. I left the church with no release on my guilt. Father Justinian did everything I expected him to, but I felt no better then before. I headed home, ignoring the odd looks I received. My hair all messed up, my shirt dirty and my jeans wrinkled. I knew I must look the part of crazy, but I didn’t care.

I am, after all, legally insane. I’m allowed to look the part.

I get home a quarter after eight, at night. I know what I intend to do, and everything is set. On the table are two newspapers, both open to different sections with different pictures and articles circled. A recording of a newscast playing continuously on my tv.

“Mother of three murdered,” the first newspaper reads. The name that reads below the grizzly picture is familiar. “Rita Johnson, a mother of three children, 6, 4 and 3, was found murdered in her downtown home Sunday night.” Rita Johnson was my crack addict, the one I had chosen not to save. It would not have been all that difficult, all I would have had to do was bump into her on the subway. But even before I left my apartment I had chosen who would die.

“Respected Nun found dead,” the second read. “Police found Joanne Ruddy, 63, a nun at Open Arms Catholic church, dead Sunday morning. The death sparked an investigation which unearthed a child pornography ring bigger then any in history.”

It was my first failure. Only save one. The note didn’t need to say it, it was clear I could not save them both. But always, always I’d been able to save at least one of them. This failure was unprecedented, and meant only one thing: I was meant to fail.

Maybe I had been expected to try and save the crack addict. Maybe, If I had taken the time to consider things, I would have chosen to save the twenty-three year old crack addict over the sixty-three year old nun. Perhaps I would not have failed if I hadn’t chosen wrong.

Was it a test? Had they all been tests? Was this the first wrong decision I had made? It didn’t matter. Never before had there been a death, other then those whose name was on the list, caused by my murderous inaction. The guilt was too much to bear. If religion couldn’t save me from the pressure of responsibility, then only one thing would give me release.

I pause the tape on the tv, glaring at the screen. The guilt will not go away. I cannot force these images to leave my mind. They haunt my dreams. They are there in my mind when I’m awake, and they are there in all their vividness when I close my eyes. “Three bodies found in a dumpster outside of a tavern on thirteenth street,” The title on the screen reads. “All three children, believed to be the bodies of Mia Johnson, 6, Albert Johnson, 4, and Anthony Johnson, 3, who have been missing since there mother was found dead Sunday night.”

It was un precedented. Never before had my actions caused innocent people to die. There faces are forever burned into my mind, so deep that they take up all my thoughts. It was my fault. No matter how you spun it, no matter how you looked at it, my choice had killed three children. These were the facts I kept from Father Justinian. There weren’t enough Hail-Mary’s in the world to make up for my sin. If I had told him what I did he would have turned me into the police. There is only one way out for me..

Maybe, somewhere out there somebody else has a note with my name on it. If so, they made the right choice. I climb onto the stool, test the rope to make sure it won’t break. I deserve to suffer, but don’t have the strength to slit my wrists. The stool tips, falls. My feet meet air, the rope tightens. No more guilt. No more pain. No more notes.