Sacrilege

Here it comes again.  The rage.  I can feel it pulsing in my brain.  Fed by all my judgments of the evils of the world, the stupid people who day after day do more damage than can ever be repaired, ruining lives, spreading the plague of hatred to those souls who were previously untouched and innocent.  They never stay that way for long.  I know I have to purge myself before I lose control.  Destruction can be controlled if you choose your target early and eliminate it before the urge takes over your higher functioning.  So that’s what I have to do.  Destroy.  Not the most PC method of self-control, but effective.

            It doesn’t matter what, it doesn’t matter how, it just matters that it’s something which was created and that I am the one who destroys it.  Call it my artistic expression of the life cycle machine.  Although perhaps art is the wrong term.  Art was made to be noticed, to be appreciated.  I pray that what I do is not discovered.  I have a hard enough time justifying it to myself, I don’t want an audience asking questions.

            Call it an addiction, if you must call it something.  My obsession-driven actions.  My inescapable prison.  My personal little hell.  We’ve all got our demons.  This is mine.

            I’ve been trying to keep a low profile lately.  Ever since I demolished that modern art sculpture in the park it’s been important to stay under the radar.  I hate the justice system too much to become a part of it.  So I need something small.  Something unnoticeable.  Something that only I would know the significance of.

            I’ve been walking the streets of the city for hours now trying to find it.  My legs are starting to burn, my feet ache, the sweat on my brow has since gone cold in the frigid November winds that pour down the streets.  I stop at the street corner watching the cars pass.  Cabs and commuters cutting each other off and cursing.  Honking their horns as if that sound isn’t so natural to everyone in the city that they don’t hear it anymore.  As if it would make a difference.

            And all this time I’ve seen more and more to fuel my rage.  It tends to work like that.  The angrier you are the angrier you become.  Like fire begets fire.  I need something to burn.

            And then I look up and like magic the answer appears: a church.  A cathedral, more specifically.  Filled with more religious propaganda than I can shake a stick at.  And I run across the street to fill my need, my cravings, and almost get hit by yet another overzealous cab driver.

            I burst through the front doors and remember that it’s a public place- there may be people here.  So I cautiously open the inner doors to the cathedral and am relieved to see that there’s no mass going on.  I scan the aisles and there they are: hymnals and bibles laid out for easy access.  I set myself down and grab a bible, bowing my head as if to pray while I leaf through it.  Pages have been dog-eared.  Extra pamphlets and sermons tucked away inside.  This is no new book.  This book has been loved.  Perfect.

            Discreetly as I can I tuck it into my coat pocket.  A quick bow to the front altars and I’m ready to go.  Back out into the cold November wind, onto the busy New York streets, into the fray, so to speak.  My feet find new purpose with the bible tucked safely into my pocket.  Would that I were closer to the piers.  But a side alley would do quite nicely.

            And on 45^th and 2^nd there’s a nice little back alley next to a Chinese restaurant.  The smell of fried dumplings fills my nostrils as I crouch to the ground and lay the bible on the concrete.  The leather-bound bible looks so significant.  Having been wielded by so many religious zealots over the years as the words of God I feel an immense satisfaction knowing that it can be destroyed.  It can be taken away from the world.  Granted one single bible won’t make that huge of a difference but at least that pew will be one book short next service.  The thought makes me smile.

            I strike a match and hold it to the inner pages.  The leather will be harder to burn but the paper pages should take up quite nicely.  And they do.  And I sit and watch them burn.  And then the leather cover starts to bubble and sizzle like real leather wouldn’t.  I should have known the catholic church would be too cheap to order real leather binding.  And my satisfaction grows with the flame.

            As I watch the fire grow I can feel my rage begin to float away with the ashes.  All the hatred, all the loathing, all the violent urges leaving me.  With the knowledge that I am taking something of value from the world.  That I am being so brash as to steal straight from the house of God.  If I didn’t know better I’d expect to be smited.  I look up at the sky and wait.  And as always, nothing happens.  And I can’t help but laugh.