Sinner, The

Walking down the road, it was cold and wet. I was young and alone,
but most of all I was confused. The rain was pouring onto my bare arms,
my tears soaking my cheeks no more than the rain itself. Today was no
different than any of the others, other than the miserable
weather.
He was equally alone, in a different sense than I. Consumed by his
riches, he sat in the corner of his mansion bedroom suite, reading, as
usual. The sunlight poured in his window, creating a glare off of his
moistened cheek. We were so different, yet so alike. Though, he was
rich, I was poor, he was poor as well in some ways, and I, I was rich
in my own ways. We were both poor in mental health, though, alone and
afraid.
"Mark, come here, someone is calling for you. Come down here, and get
the phone" a sharp male voice called out to him.
Mark ran downstairs to the first floor where the best phone was
located. It was here he liked to talk, with the view of the garden so
near by and vivid. The room itself seemed almost magical to him.
"Hello, Mark here, who is this?" he said, almost annoyed. No answer on
the other line. He hung up.
"Another hang-up, Mark?" the male voice returned. It was his
father.
"Yeah. It's probably that stupid girl again, she never leaves me
alone." Mark answered, referring to my cousin, Shauna. They were
ex-boyfriend and girlfriend. She was very bitter about their separation
and had no other more mature way to handle it.
In school, Mark never acknowledged me. He being rich and I being poor,
it made sense to me. He couldn't ruin his reputation I told myself.
However, no matter how I tried to understand, I always found myself,
eyes stinging with tears, wondering why he was never there for me when
they hurt me. They, they were my tormentors. Just about everyone in
fact. When you're poor, that's how they are, it doesn't matter how
badly hurt you are inside, or how interesting you may actually be, they
don't care. Mark was popular, he pretended to be one of them. He
tormented me in ways that they did not, just to feed his ego, and
depreciate his character.
In my house, no one called and my father never spoke to me. He was too
drunk to care enough, even to say a word to me. He didn't even have a
job anymore. We lived off of welfare and mothers life insurance. She
died when I was about 7 years old, I think. Not that I remember too
well, most of her sickness I blocked out of my memory. What I do
remember was how father was when she was alive and well. How my life
was then. We were comfortable. We could afford new clothes, and the
kitchen always seemed to smell like chocolate. Mother smelled nice all
the time. She was nice. She was our family, and now that she's gone, we
have no family. Not really.
Yesterday, I tried to talk to my dad. I was sick, I was throwing up
blood. I asked him for help. He stared at me like I was nothing. He
threw his empty beer can at me and glared. Not a word, not a care came
from him. I whimpered and continued vomiting, but I didn't bother him
again.
Back at Mark's house, Mark was crying again. Not really crying, but
more like, tearing. He had small tears streaking his cheeks. He paced
his bedroom praying. Don't ask me why he was praying, maybe it was for
forgiveness, he needed forgiveness. Mark knew that he cared more about
me than what he showed, and he wanted to be close to me. But, in his
own self-pride he ignored me and my problems and treated me just like
everyone else.
Mark picked up the phone, but in nervousness he hung it back up. He
put on his jacket and ran downstairs.
"Dad, I'm leaving. I'll be back later tonight. Save some dinner for
me." He called out. However, he was out the door before his father
could answer. He was looking for me again. Just like he did every
weekend.
He knew where to find me. I would be out in the woods again, over at
the north end of the river, where my little waterfall is. I was
there.
"Hey Sam, how are you?" he said, his voice more timid than the voice
that calls me names at school.
"Mark. I'm not doing that great, I'm a little sick" I said, I knew
that my voice sounded empty of emotion. I was confused, as always when
it came to him.
"Sorry to hear that. Lets go on a walk." he said, he pulled me up. I
almost fell down, I was weak, but he pulled me up harder this time. So
violent, I knew he was nervous. He was violent when he was nervous. He
was one of those people too afraid of weakness to show his true
feelings, so anytime he was weak, he pretended to be mad, or
violent.
We walked. I was slow, being sick. We talked about things that most
people don't talk about. Or at least, most kids our age. In a sense we
were more mature than most of the kids, or at least more intelligent.
Mark could've been somebody. He even held my hand. My cold shaky hand.
I had a headache.
What we didn't know was that I didn't only have a headache. I had a
disease eating away at my brain, slowly. I only had a year to live,
less if I kept eating the way that I did. Without money, you have no
food. That's about as much as a ate, nothing.
A month later, mark and I stopped going on our walks, he tormented me
more. One day, he finally went all out. He kicked me. He kicked me so
hard that blood came out of my mouth. The school exploded with
laughter. No teachers were around to help me. Then, I had a million
feet kicking me, as it felt. Almost everyone was kicking me. Then
finally mark bent over, spit in my face and said, "You'll never be
anyone, Samantha, no one could ever love you." the evil grin on his
face was what hurt the most. It looked as if he meant it. I looked at
him with the tears in my eyes and the blood pouring out of my mouth and
I hoped, I hoped to God, he knew at that moment how much I hated him. I
swear, all these years we've known each other and he betrayed me, I
never felt this way. All the love and caring that I held for him, which
was a lot, was gone. This time, I spit on him. My blood infested saliva
flew into his face. He was shocked.
Mark could smell the disease on my breath, he knew something was
wrong, but he couldn't hold back the rage he was performing. He
couldn't show to those people that he was weak, weak for me. He
couldn't let on that he loved me. He stepped back. My spittle was
bloody and wet on his cheek. The people told him to hurt me. He had to
get revenge on this&;#8230;this creature who defiled him so. He did.
He kicked me again. I was taken to the hospital for internal bleeding
and injury. But, I was considered at fault. 40 witnesses who hate me
said so.
A week later, I was weak. I could barely breathe. I had cancer, and
they told me that. But, they didn't know how bad it was. They had to
run more tests they said, and since they didn't have insurance, that
never happened. My father hated me more since the incident with mark. I
hated mark more every day. I wasn't going to take it anymore, so I
decided they had to learn. They had to learn they were wrong. They had
to experience the frustration I felt from their ignorance. People can
be so ignorant. They stick to their beliefs because they can't tell
them selves they were wrong. There's too much pride in the world. I was
going to teach them that. I had to ruin that pride. Kill that pride
which hurt me so. I killed them that afternoon.
I went to school as always. They again looked down at me, it seemed
worse than ever. I told myself that they wanted to die. They wanted me
to kill them. At the end of the day I walked around campus with a .9mm
and I shot them. I killed most of them and injured some. Most
importantly, I killed Mark, the one who had betrayed me. I had that
headache again, the one that I had that caused me so much anger. This
was the cancer eating my brain again. This time, it had gotten my
control. I felt like a rabid animal. I took out a match, and I lit the
school on fire after I ran out of bullets. Hardly anyone survived. Two
weeks later, they found out about my disease. I died before they could
do anything about it.
Now, I know I'm a sinner, but so were they. I deserve to be in heaven
just as much as they do. If you don't forgive me, then how are you the
merciful God I read about all my life?