I did kill them, I’ll admit that. I murdered them all, one at a time, using the curved, sharp edge of a seven inch blade.
But I didn’t write those words.
The blood wrote the words long ago, and I read them. It was a sanguinary scripture. Destiny scrawled out.
People used to read entrails and see the future in the guts–this was like that. When I was a boy I looked up at the chalkboard and saw the blood dripping down the walls like runny jam. The words were already there. I saw the future in them, in their glistening shapes behind my teacher’s head. I memorized them over days and weeks and never forgot what they said. I knew the scripture forwards and backwards long before I ever contributed my hand to its diction.
You don’t seem to understand me. To understand it. You say that my fingerprints were found smudged in the gore, you say I chose to do it myself, taking their life from their throats and using my hand as a brush to paint my religion…I didn’t. I am beginning a long standing prophecy. You have to understand. My actions, my subsequent arrest…this isn’t an ending.
This is a beginning.
I didn’t write the words. The blood wrote the words for me, long ago. I only read them.
The blood is still out there, writing.
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