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J. Allen Wilson

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The Daddy Long-Back Letters Continued
By J. Allen Wilson
Posted: Monday, March 03, 2008
Last edited: Monday, March 03, 2008
This short story is rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent stories by J. Allen Wilson
· The Thanksgiving That Was and The Silver Star
· “Ceremony of the Gift”
· Twice Loved and Twice Left
· A Boy and His Journey
· The Death Of Josiah Johnson/ 2nd installment
· The Death Of Josiah Johnson
· The Daddy Long-Back Letters
           >> View all 37
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Shaking within, John picked up the letter and the cartoon drawing from the floor. Looking closely at the drawing and remembering that the mystery writer said it was a clue to his identity. John studied it more carefully. All that was on the drawing was a stickman chasing what looked like a butterfly. Not able to discern anything from the drawing, John put it and the letter in the nightstand by the bed and rose wearily from the edge of the bed. Staggering like yesterdays hangover he walked into a spacious, opulent room that served as the master bath. On each wall hung priceless 19th century mirrors. The floor was drawn into a demur floral pattern with imported Italian marble. He looked around the room which spoke volumes in style and taste that he had grown so accustomed to. Now he was on the brink of loosing it all unless he could figure out who had sent him the letter and what he wanted. He looked at himself in the mirrors at who he had become. Hitting the remote on the wall, John stepped out of his pajamas and into the 98 degree preset shower. The water felt good to him and he just wanted to drown the past that had suddenly resurrected the day before.


Finishing his shower, John hurriedly dressed and went downstairs for some coffee. Punching the button on the coffee maker he retrieved his Sunday paper from the door stoop. The air was cool and it looked as if it had rained the night before. Pealing back the plastic wrap from his paper he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Trying to forget his mystery man, John spread the paper out on the table. The headlines grabbed him like a ghost from the past.

“Unknown Ritual Killer Strikes City…Catholic Nun Crucified …Story on 2a”

John spilled his coffee….
***************************************

Chapter Two: The Sacrifice

Life is strange and sometimes confusing given the circumstances surrounding a particular day or event. If you are reading this now it only means one thing and that my last instructions were carried out as I had hoped. I on a personal level felt that these; my words should be heard and that I at last have my final say. While entreating the following passages, what one may find as strange and is no longer the accepted norm, but has rather become the norm. Some of you know me by name already and others, well I suppose there are others who simply do not. For those of you whose head has been buried in the sand for the last couple of years or has not even bothered to read a newspaper; let me steal a moment of your perfect isolationist life to introduce myself.

My name is Detective Daniel T. Velez formerly the pride of the New York City Police Department. If you will note; I did say formerly for it seems that the department and I weren’t quite able to see eye to eye on a few things, thus these impending thoughts. However, that is entirely another issue altogether which we may broach at a latter date. As I said, some of you will recall the events from the newspapers and TV coverage a few years back concerning myself and the horrid rag sheet captions “Sunday Sacrifices” and “Detective Suspect In case”. I also know the bylines the press fed to you as the absolute truth was nothing short of some misguided editors attempt to put another notch in his typewriter.

And then there are the lies the DA had to say. But now at last if you will but listen, it is my turn to speak. This is my story and this is the way things really happened. In this recounting of what took place, hopefully you will see that things are not always what they appear to be. But before I get started, allow me if you will to give you some background on who I really am so that what you are about to hear will have a more cohesive foundation. In other words I hope what I have to say will stick. Before joining the police force back in the early 80s I was by grace employed in the service of the Lord as a full time priest at Saint Vincent’s on the lower east side.

For as long as I can remember I always wanted to be a priest and do Gods work. I wanted to help the needy and be there to assist in bringing them into the spiritual beings of perfection that God made us. I was young then and an idealist full of spit. I truly believed and thought I could change the world because of the collar that I wore. Looking back now through the knowing eyes of age which may be short lived; I have come to realize that my utopia was not part of the visions that others shared. As a priest, I was able without fail to provide spiritual comfort for those who became victim to evil deeds. Yet for some reason that burned like Holy fire within my heart I knew this was not enough. All it took to push me out of the priesthood into the police force was the brutal murder of a young child near my parish at Saint Vincent’s.

For weeks after the child’s murder all I did was ask of God why? I never got an answer to my pleadings and soon I became disillusioned and bitter. I began to become more withdrawn and soon I saw the church I belonged to as being nothing more than a crutch that the weak leaned on to ease their own guilty conscience. It was then that I decided then I would do more than pray and comfort; I would help in a physical, rather than a spiritual sense to bring darkness to justice. In the ten short years on the force I accomplished much. I worked my way up from a patrol officer to homicide detective. I at last and for once felt that my life was of some actual worth.
So dedicated was I in seeing justice done that I worked almost non-stop and was according to my captain instrumental in one case by almost single handedly solving a series rapes on the lower east side where seven young women were viciously raped, leaving two dead.

I received a citation of merit from the mayor for this work and was on top of my world. Then after few short years of being a full blown Detective, I began to encounter severe and excruciating headaches. This was coupled with episodes of depression brought on by my sudden ineffectiveness. This left me once again bitter and disillusioned with the world. The headaches were so bad at times that I would actually have to leave work and go home to lie down. After several months of prompting from my captain, I did as the captain said and paid my required visit to the departmental doctors. They found nothing physically wrong with me and wrote it off to the stress of the job. One even suggested I take a few weeks off and go down to Mexico for some R&R.

I disregarded that as ludicrous. I didn’t have time for anything of this nature; I had a job to do, but it was becoming evident to me and perhaps the others around me as well that I could no longer do my job. It wasn’t long after my visit to the doctor that I foolishly in a vain effort to recover some of my lost glory that I started doing narcotics. I could easily get just about anything on the street. The drugs were nothing major or too heavy, just a little something to dull the pain in the back of my head so that I could perform my duty. Then about two weeks after I started medicating, the blackouts began.

I began to notice lapses in time that I was not able to account for and one morning to my horror I awoke in my bed naked and freezing. I was soaking wet and my clothes sat in a crumpled dripping pile by the door. That’s when it began all over again; that is when I began hating myself and the world around me once more. It felt to me as if the shadows I had fought against so hard all my life were consuming my soul. Too many years of dealing with darkness had left me empty. I had lost focus and I told no one. I was beginning to question my own sanity; nothing made sense anymore. I blamed God, I blamed man and I hated life…yep, Sunday’s have always been sacred. This is my story…this is my life.


Section One: The Awakening


The phone rang sharply jarring me from my dreamless night. I peered weakly through the corruptible haze of seconal and troubled sleep at the clock on the dresser. I wondered who would be calling, but I really didn’t care, I used to care. I wanted to go back to sleep. I wanted… I tossed back the covers and reached for the phone on the nightstand knocking over a half glass of Bacardi. “Damn!” I muttered to myself, that was the last of the rum. I gained my composure somewhat and answered the phone................. To be continued

 

 

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Reviewed by Ed Matlack 6/15/2008
I know this was a few months back that you wrote these two installments, but to be honest, i am glad it stopped with this one, as it does not catch my interest like the Josiah Johnson one has thus far...waiting for the next installment on Josiah with bated breath...Ed


Books by
J. Allen Wilson



Glimpse OF An Angel

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Whispers Of The Heart

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Before Darkness Falls

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