I remember my childhood, as if it had been experienced by
someone else. Someone I barely know, I remember a fire.
They kicked me and beat me. But fortunately they didn't
know who I was, so they didn’t know where they could hurt me.
My stomach is empty.
My heart is like a dark, deserted room. My head is
rocking.
I wonder who they are talking about. The public
prosecutor is raising such a hue and cry.
I felt better in my cell. I counted the bricks. The walls
reflected my words and I replied to them. I could see I was the one who was
speaking. With every word I breathed.
Those people around me invent me on the spot.
But someone has got to take the blame.
“Give me Thy Guilt, I beg Thee.
I am but an orphan.
Who is my Father? Am I his Son?
I’ll take the
blame, because I understand guilt. I feel
it.“
A strange, cruel smile stuck on his face.
A court assistant
reads my statement. Words written years ago.
“There are no stars. There is only their light travelling
towards us.
I wanted to light a fire. A bonfire. A fire, visible to
all.
A fire that dwelleth in the eyes of all men, so that they
may see the night and the stars.”
It may be cold in my cell, but I feel good there, damn
well, despite the beatings. What fire
awaits me? The Purgatory or Heaven? Hellfire?
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