Breaking Point (Chapter 1)
We all have a breaking point... a point when even the best of us can become capable of the darkest deeds... this is the story of one man who has reached that point.
A heavy sigh engulfed the room as I sat back, unable to shake the images that have bombarded my mind for days now. Everything from that night till now has been nothing but a blur to me. Every action only an attempt to wake up from this bad dream, was it a dream though? How I wished it was, but I knew deep down it was the truth and no matter how much I didn’t want to accept it, it had happened. It had happen right in front of my very eyes and I was helpless to stop it.
I couldn’t bare it any longer and shook the memories from my head finally freeing myself from the grip of insanity. How long have I been sitting here, minutes? A few hours maybe, I couldn’t even tell anymore. All I knew is that my eyes were heavy and my lack of sleep this week has left me with bags under my eyes that would be visible from a mile away. I came here looking for answers and all I’ve done is come up with more questions. More whys? More hows? I rubbed both hands across my face while taking a deep breath, trying to release even an ounce of the stress that was currently weighing me down.
The alter was about ten feet from the first row of seats were I found myself; it was dressed with a white lace cloth and in the center sat a bible. The book was shut and for now it would stay that way for my attention was locked on the candle to the left. God’s presence is symbolized through this candle they say and the answers I want only he could give, but would he? Did he even care? Did God even exist? I could feel the rage building up inside of me, spreading like a poison slowly through my veins.
I gripped the cross of the rosary that was partially wrapped around my wrist in my hand with immense pressure, I had expected it to shatter into splitter in my very hand, however the small wooden rosary was more durable than it appeared. My heart was beginning to beat faster and I could feel the boiling blood spread to my finger tips as my hands slightly began to tremble. I felt like jumping up out of this chair and turning this chapel upside down, but my attention was diverted to the two heavy wooden doors as they swung open.
An older white gentleman probably in his 70’s walked in with a glum look on his face, I had turned to face the man who was responsible for breaking my concentration and my eyes were burning an uneasy whole through him. His frown made the wrinkles that have taken over his face that much more apparent. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a thin black sweater and black dress shoes, the thin sweater did nothing to hide the man’s gut.
Oh how I wished I had a donut to throw out the door so he would leave and I could think in peace again. I was forced to squint from the light of the room reflecting off the over sized glasses he wore. I turned my head away hoping he’d simply walk to the other side of the room and leave me be, but like everything else this week I wasn’t so lucky.
"Judging by your face we both have a lot on our minds."
He stood a mere foot from my face now and disrupted my train of thought like it was his given right to invaded my personal space. I didn’t respond or even acknowledge the man in hopes he’d go away, but of course he decided to sit directly next me. I didn’t even turn to look at him, yet he continued to speak and for the first time in my life I was wishing I had been born with no sense of smell. The aroma of decaying flesh and cheap booze was taking my nostrils hostage.
"Father Connolly says God always has a reason for his actions, but sometimes I wish he’d just let us know what they were, don’t you? I mean I love her so much and who knows how much longer I even have with her."
I couldn’t help but to roll my eyes, why do old people insist on telling you their life story. I didn’t care about this man’s problems, why should I? I was here to deal with my own issues and now I have to listen to him babble. I never bothered to face the man, but out the corner of my eye I could see tears in his eyes.
"Melissa was so full of life, so beautiful and now she can’t even leave that nursing home. The cancer has stripped my wife of her life." He paused for a brief moment fighting back the whimpers in his voice. "I just want to know why?"
I couldn’t understand why this man was so shocked. Judging by him she must have been old and that’s life, you get old and you die. What did someone forget to teach him this simply fact of life. We weep for the youth of the world, not the decrepit and feeble minded? He raised his hand and wiped his tears away. I continued starring at that candle trying to get back to my own thoughts, but suddenly I found myself fighting off my gag reflex as his warm breath hit my face and the halitosis smell worked it way into my nostrils as he went on with his pointless rant.
"She is my reason for living and without her I have no idea what I would do.
My hand was rubbing against the stubble of my chin; while my breathing was now deeper and more erratic. I was fed up with the annoying babble of this idiot and I had no intention on listen to another second of it. I need to find a way to make him leave, I had more important things to address in my life and his sob story was taking away my time. I want to wrap my hands around his throat, I want to squeeze till his eyes popped from head but I decide there was probably an easier way. So for the first time I spoke.
"It seems absurd to me that you would be here then."
He looked at me confused like a deer looking into a set of headlights of an oncoming car. Maybe it was because I doubt this man ever thought I’d participate in this conversation, then again it could have something too with razor sharp attitude the comment came with.
"Shouldn’t you be with her now enjoying every last moment?" I paused for a brief second letting the statement sink into his thick senile skull, before I spoke again.
"A good husband would, but no you’re here whining about how this affects you. She’s the one dying not you, so why bother worrying about how you feel. She could be lying in bed now taking her final breathe to say your name and are you there?" I could see the water building in his eyes
"No! And why is that? Because you’re here worrying about what you’ll do when she’s dead. "
I was starring directly into his tear filled eyes, a sight that would make any man uncomfortable, but for me it had a very different reaction. One I, myself don’t quite understand, but my eyes were wide and blazed with anger. The old man quivering lip wasn’t helping the situation in the least; it simply begun to feed the inferno that was burning my soul away with each passing second. My voice was now deep and raspy; filled with hate and utter disgusted for this pathetic excuse for a man.
"This crying crap is making me sick, act like a damn man!" My voice echoed throughout the chapel.
He was shaking and I knew it had nothing to do with his wife and everything to do with my current demeanor; personally I like the feeling, the power… his pure helplessness; in fact I was savoring the moment as I rose to my feet.
I couldn’t bare it any longer and shook the memories from my head finally freeing myself from the grip of insanity. How long have I been sitting here, minutes? A few hours maybe, I couldn’t even tell anymore. All I knew is that my eyes were heavy and my lack of sleep this week has left me with bags under my eyes that would be visible from a mile away. I came here looking for answers and all I’ve done is come up with more questions. More whys? More hows? I rubbed both hands across my face while taking a deep breath, trying to release even an ounce of the stress that was currently weighing me down.
The alter was about ten feet from the first row of seats were I found myself; it was dressed with a white lace cloth and in the center sat a bible. The book was shut and for now it would stay that way for my attention was locked on the candle to the left. God’s presence is symbolized through this candle they say and the answers I want only he could give, but would he? Did he even care? Did God even exist? I could feel the rage building up inside of me, spreading like a poison slowly through my veins.
I gripped the cross of the rosary that was partially wrapped around my wrist in my hand with immense pressure, I had expected it to shatter into splitter in my very hand, however the small wooden rosary was more durable than it appeared. My heart was beginning to beat faster and I could feel the boiling blood spread to my finger tips as my hands slightly began to tremble. I felt like jumping up out of this chair and turning this chapel upside down, but my attention was diverted to the two heavy wooden doors as they swung open.
An older white gentleman probably in his 70’s walked in with a glum look on his face, I had turned to face the man who was responsible for breaking my concentration and my eyes were burning an uneasy whole through him. His frown made the wrinkles that have taken over his face that much more apparent. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a thin black sweater and black dress shoes, the thin sweater did nothing to hide the man’s gut.
Oh how I wished I had a donut to throw out the door so he would leave and I could think in peace again. I was forced to squint from the light of the room reflecting off the over sized glasses he wore. I turned my head away hoping he’d simply walk to the other side of the room and leave me be, but like everything else this week I wasn’t so lucky.
"Judging by your face we both have a lot on our minds."
He stood a mere foot from my face now and disrupted my train of thought like it was his given right to invaded my personal space. I didn’t respond or even acknowledge the man in hopes he’d go away, but of course he decided to sit directly next me. I didn’t even turn to look at him, yet he continued to speak and for the first time in my life I was wishing I had been born with no sense of smell. The aroma of decaying flesh and cheap booze was taking my nostrils hostage.
"Father Connolly says God always has a reason for his actions, but sometimes I wish he’d just let us know what they were, don’t you? I mean I love her so much and who knows how much longer I even have with her."
I couldn’t help but to roll my eyes, why do old people insist on telling you their life story. I didn’t care about this man’s problems, why should I? I was here to deal with my own issues and now I have to listen to him babble. I never bothered to face the man, but out the corner of my eye I could see tears in his eyes.
"Melissa was so full of life, so beautiful and now she can’t even leave that nursing home. The cancer has stripped my wife of her life." He paused for a brief moment fighting back the whimpers in his voice. "I just want to know why?"
I couldn’t understand why this man was so shocked. Judging by him she must have been old and that’s life, you get old and you die. What did someone forget to teach him this simply fact of life. We weep for the youth of the world, not the decrepit and feeble minded? He raised his hand and wiped his tears away. I continued starring at that candle trying to get back to my own thoughts, but suddenly I found myself fighting off my gag reflex as his warm breath hit my face and the halitosis smell worked it way into my nostrils as he went on with his pointless rant.
"She is my reason for living and without her I have no idea what I would do.
My hand was rubbing against the stubble of my chin; while my breathing was now deeper and more erratic. I was fed up with the annoying babble of this idiot and I had no intention on listen to another second of it. I need to find a way to make him leave, I had more important things to address in my life and his sob story was taking away my time. I want to wrap my hands around his throat, I want to squeeze till his eyes popped from head but I decide there was probably an easier way. So for the first time I spoke.
"It seems absurd to me that you would be here then."
He looked at me confused like a deer looking into a set of headlights of an oncoming car. Maybe it was because I doubt this man ever thought I’d participate in this conversation, then again it could have something too with razor sharp attitude the comment came with.
"Shouldn’t you be with her now enjoying every last moment?" I paused for a brief second letting the statement sink into his thick senile skull, before I spoke again.
"A good husband would, but no you’re here whining about how this affects you. She’s the one dying not you, so why bother worrying about how you feel. She could be lying in bed now taking her final breathe to say your name and are you there?" I could see the water building in his eyes
"No! And why is that? Because you’re here worrying about what you’ll do when she’s dead. "
I was starring directly into his tear filled eyes, a sight that would make any man uncomfortable, but for me it had a very different reaction. One I, myself don’t quite understand, but my eyes were wide and blazed with anger. The old man quivering lip wasn’t helping the situation in the least; it simply begun to feed the inferno that was burning my soul away with each passing second. My voice was now deep and raspy; filled with hate and utter disgusted for this pathetic excuse for a man.
"This crying crap is making me sick, act like a damn man!" My voice echoed throughout the chapel.
He was shaking and I knew it had nothing to do with his wife and everything to do with my current demeanor; personally I like the feeling, the power… his pure helplessness; in fact I was savoring the moment as I rose to my feet.
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