He was stuck in Brothers Karamazov. Couldn’t read anymore. The three brothers with distinct personalities and the old foolish father had given him headaches at night. Made him toss and turn. Did he have a good heart? A soul that was bound for Heaven? Or was he evil? Only looking out for his own good. A narcissistic approach to life. Putting himself above others. These spirits swayed back and forth inside of him. Good versus evil. Would he kill his own flesh and blood to attain a lover? On the right given night? Probably.

The rosary hung on the doorknob. It was given to him by monks in the Bronx. The wooden beads felt good in his hands when he held it. Moving his fingers from one ball to the next. He would often hold the small silver cross to his heart and pray for forgiveness of his many sins over the years. Vainly, he would pray for God to give him direction in his life. The fat man would pray with sweat rolling down his cheeks and forehead, Father in Heaven. Forgive me of my sins. Lead me down a path that is worthy of your love. Help me to overcome these sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…Amen.

Was he sincere in this prayer? His actions said otherwise. Around two o’clock in the morning, when coyotes howled and rats scurried through garbage cans, strange thoughts would enter his mind. Clouding out all rationale. He’d stare at the rosary and then at the butcher knife on his desk. Cleaned and polished. Every bit of blood wiped off it from the night before. Father, forgive me of these sins, he’d say, then examine the knife even more. The wooden handle was easy to grip. The blade was dull, but it did the job. The devil was inside him. God had left long ago.

The fat man would dress for the night wearing dark pants and a black tee-shirt with a blue jacket. He washed them every day; very particular about getting every bit of blood out of them. Spots on his jeans. A smear on his jacket. Drops on his black wool hat. Shoes polished. This was his outfit for murder. The killing of the innocent lamb. After he was done, his heart went out to them. A victim was a victim was a victim. He killed without prejudice. And, a prayer was said for each soul that had passed. God forgive them. And take them into your home, he said silently, then he threw the body into the trunk of his car and drove off. Deep into the woods of Ohio, he would drive. Listening to country music the whole time. The Highway Men was his favorite group. Willie, Johnny, Waylon, and Kris; a song about reincarnation. He sang along as he drove his Dodge off highways onto backraods made of gravel amongst tall pines and oaks. Didn’t bother burying the body; just threw it out there for someone to find. Then, take off like a ghost in the middle of the night. Praying for forgiveness. Laughing while Dolly sang of her coat with many colors.

The Brothers Karamazov sat on his desk. He could not finish it. Murder is one thing. Completing a task another. Sliding a blade into someone’s gut is easy, he thought. Seeking truth is hard.