The Diary Of Albus Rottingleaf

Third Series of Entries:

               In response to my actions I felt shame. Proceeding from the incident I saw Ahpapa return to my thoughts and with him a flood of old memories. These remembrances bore down on me with such immense pressure that I decided I would kill myself. Anything to obtain relief.

…

               My thoughts were so sharp and resolute that there was no juncture where I could step aside and allow the momentum to pass by. They were not occupied with suicide necessarily but with the goddess Fortuna whose fickle nature decides the outcome of our lives. Fate is unalterable and so if one is not destined to die, surely her hand would intervene and provide salvation. This orientation is similar, I imagine, to those who choose to play Russian roulette. When one engages in this pursuit they know afterwards if their life is to have any significance. One can only struggle to make the claim, after having been spared, that they have no destiny. The only opportunity available to the seriously downtrodden who still wish to avoid their purpose is to attribute their survival to luck. But luck is a very special thing too, and luck is worth living for. Imagine if at your local homeless shelter the price of admission was one round of Russian roulette. Do you think that the next morning as the survivors wandered out onto the street in shabby clothes that there would not be an air of gaiety? That each man would not walk with a spring in his step and reflect on his luck? Of course he would, because luck is one of the best things to be in possession of.

               I owed it to Ahpapa. For my crime against his loyal species my sentence was oblivion. Nothing else could cease the stinging sensation that lingered in the back of my head ever since the sawing of the stray carcass had begun. So hurriedly did I saw, attempting to overcome this headache, that my arms grew tired and I finished by breaking the dog’s backbone over my knee like a stick. I paced feverishly ruffling my hands in my hair trying to rid myself of the thought that the same thing might have been done to Ahpapa. With clammy hands and a perspiring forehead I cleaned the mess before retiring to my bed where I cried tears trapped from boyhood, ambient emotions concerning my beloved companion. My chest felt compressed. My forearms cramped sporadically. My mind was a disorienting whirlwind of nonsensical images, ideas, and conclusions until the approach of my own death revealed itself as imminent. The headache remained but I managed to sleep.

               I awoke with the unshakeable commitment that killing myself would be a proper course of action. The only peace I found was in the brief moments of concretizing my plan. I’m sincere when I say I wanted my death to be slow. This intimation not springing from the part of me that wanted punishment but from a thought that suffering has an innately spiritual quality. It’s obvious that suffering does indeed have a transcendental tinge, assuming it’s taken on voluntarily. For instance, there is a difference between fasting for a week and living in a ghetto where food is sparse. I had decided initially that I would throw myself under a train. I liked imagining the sensation of my mangled body contorting on the tracks to allow my final view to be that of the sky. The thought that my head would potentially remain perfectly fine further attracted me.

               I should mention here that I’m aware, and was aware then, of a contradiction between my proclamation of divinity and the sinfulness of taking one’s own life. And a further contradiction between saying that fate is inevitable and yet concluding that suicide was possible. All I can say on these accounts is that my eyes were downcast at this juncture, supplemented by slumped shoulders. I was insistent on carrying through this act of devotion and supposing I was met in the afterlife by a weary God I was reconciled that I may just have to convince him, after the fact, that my decision was justified, although my thoughts did not linger too long on anything but the actual perpetration of the act.

               I was happy to resume my walks that had been halted after the slain Courtney Mac unintentionally derailed them. They no doubt steadied my emotions. Being occupied now entirely by the train tracks, I walked up and down them for miles, occasionally stopping to watch the sturdy mass of steel clang by. Additionally, these walks had a quality of sobriety that my previous walks had lacked which helped me to plan getting my affairs in order. I had the enlightened idea to donate the money that I had accumulated in life, and that which would be accumulated after my death by the sale of my property, etc, to the maintenance of the herbage along the train tracks which at some points was in such a dilapidated state that it detracted from the enjoyment of my expeditions. I was proud of myself for this thought and often on my journeys I would plan specific instructions for particular portions that one without a keen eye like myself might fail to accentuate.

               My plan was disturbed cumulatively by the freshly made acquaintance with a worker who occupied a post at the station that I most frequently passed. And what started as a simple nod developed into serious discussions concerning the foliage that garnished the railway. His knowledge, which pleasurably surpassed my own, was so thorough that I felt a genuine revere for his input. My walks then became, in addition to a careful planning of which shrubbery should go where, an eager convention with my acquaintance concerning these updated convictions. I found that my thoughts only drifted to suicide for the duration that a train was passing, but even then it would drift right back to the greenery. I was so fond of these encounters that I eventually could not face the thought of causing my new friend any displeasure, him being clever enough to know that if someone died on the tracks it was surely me.

               Acknowledging that other than a still developing idea of what exactly was to be done with my money after my death, I had made no progress towards my end, I partitioned a part of the walk to be dedicated to thinking on this subject. Knowing that I could not kill myself by jumping under the train I was satisfied to conclude that jumping off a somewhat short cliff would produce the same sensation. Better yet, it was even more likely that my head would remain undisturbed and being in the wilderness meant I was unlikely to cause any unnecessary discomfort to a bystander. Also, in terms of settling any lingering affairs, I came to believe that the right thing to do would be to confess my transgression against Courtney Mac. A confession to the police would, of course, not improve their quality of life and so I only intended to share the information with her parents of whom the information would provide some comfort.

               I reflect now, cognizant with the albatross called hindsight, that any allusion to Courtney Mac to her parents was bound to alleviate nothing, but conversely jostle open wounds which were only just beginning to transition from gaping to delicate. At the time, though, I did see it as a sentimental act of clemency. I imagined them forgiving me, like a movie. And hugs? Why did I imagine they would hug me? Anyway, this act was placed on the agenda as well…

               After some research I located a sufficient cliff for my endeavor. It was about a two-hour drive from my house and required some walking but that was perfect for my intention. I made the preliminary trek just once to confirm that it was appropriate. The car ride was enjoyable enough once the rigmarole of suburbia was surmounted and the trees reclaimed the plains. The terrain grew rockier as the road ascended, the woods thicker. In the distance I spotted what I had seen on a topographical map of the area and parking on the side of the road I traversed the landscape as well as anyone to reach my destination. I stood at the top of the cliff which was not so high that I couldn’t clearly make out the sharp stones below. I contemplated jumping right then, seeing as it was a lot of work to get there, but decided that I owed it to Courtney’s parents to confess.

               I should make it clear that it was not guilt but a perverted sense of virtue that impelled me to drive to her house. I parked on the street and, walking to the front door, I noticed my throat was dry and so I hurried back to my car where I had a water bottle and took a sip. Satisfied, I approached again, debating if I should ring the doorbell or knock. I did neither but checked the door handle which produced no resistance to my twists. Inching the unlocked door slowly open, I peered inside and saw no movement. I walked in. Taking several more investigatory steps in, I was relieved to see Mr. Mac sitting at the dining room table. Although I was relaxed, his face was painted with confusion and alarm. He was partially bald on the top of his head with white hair covering what remained. His short stature was stocky and I would describe it as that of a factory worker. He was wearing a striped brown polo and sweat pants. As far as I could tell he wasn’t doing anything at the table but sitting, maybe reading a newspaper but I didn’t see one. I said something like, ‘hello sir,’ to which he muttered something and stood up. He was walking towards me when I insisted on trying to have a heartfelt conversation, I said, ‘you don’t know me but I have something to tell you.’ My discomfort grew because his mannerisms seemed unusual. He was teetering like every step cost a great deal of effort to remain upright and his breathing was not just heavy but panting. Remembering why I was there, I concluded that despite the awkwardness of the situation I would be dead soon (by way of a looming suicide) and so it didn’t matter the circumstances under which I confessed and so his slow approach was abruptly halted when I said, ‘I killed your daughter.’

               He grabbed a large knife from a knife block on the counter and attempted to lunge at me but his movement was so tense and unconventional that I vaulted around the island in the center of the kitchen that we had been slowly inching towards. I took a knife for myself, choosing a thinner one, and coming back around the island I grabbed Mr. Mac’s wrist that he had tried, lazily, to swing at my throat and I plunged the knife I had chosen into his chest. He wheezed and began falling. His short legs sent him bounding backwards and he freed himself from his proximity to me and the knife that until then remained in my grip against his chest, pushing the dining room table violently to the side as he fell. His strength was so faded, though, that he only struggled to shirk from one side to the other. I picked up the knife which had fallen from my hand and approached. Holding it firmly, I implemented several quick stabs to his torso to which he responded by crying out. I prodded his legs a bit, careful not to get too close as he had begun thrashing around. Finally, as he slowed I brought the blade across his neck and his eyes quietly shut.

               I was elated. I imagined he was a worthy adversary. That it wasn’t that he was slow and petrified but that God, having a grand purpose in mind, had granted me such strength and speed that I was able to overcome the obstacle. I washed my hands and the knife I had used in the sink and, wiping the door handle as I left, returned home. I hadn’t noticed how bloody my clothes were but I deemed it inconsequential after I packed them in a garbage bag along with my seat covers and the garbage man took them away that very same week.

               I was free from alarm due primarily to the fact that I hadn’t seen anyone while I was driving through the small neighborhood where the residence was. And that it wasn’t far enough away from my own house where I would have to pass any large establishments that might have higher quality cameras. The only potential possibility was that someone with a door bell camera might have caught sight of my vehicle, but I felt that the probability of this leading to the murder being solved was nearly zero. The only slight moment of dismay occurred when I watched the news coverage and the police had claimed to have a suspect. In the coming days, though, it was revealed that the suspect was a coworker of Mr. Mac’s who had followed Courtney to school a few times, having known where they lived, and had been subsequently issued a restraining order. Although this had occurred a few years ago the police, obviously having no other leads, followed up. But just as they had found in Courtney’s murder the man had an alibi and no amount pressure would propel him to confess.

               Feeling a significant weight off my shoulders. And similar to my secluded act with Courtney Mac, I felt very close to God. I was his son again. His arms were opened to me once more. Out of respect for Fortuna I decided to forgo my suicide and instead donate a moderate sum to the park service in my area which maintained the prairies, under the stipulation that they use a certain percentage for my purposes. I felt that this was adequate to redeem me in the eyes of Ahpapa and so was satisfied in the belief that my initial sentence was pardoned due to good behavior.

…

               The news coverage was insightful over the coming weeks. My interest grew exponentially, I dedicating serious contemplation to the change within me. Or I suppose it wasn’t a change but a discovery. I could not get over how beautiful Mary looked whenever they showed her. Mary, being Courtney Mac’s mom, Mrs. Mac, the widow Mary Mac, the heir apparent of my secrets. Who knew her better than me? Although, I grant, it was second hand knowledge, knowledge obtained by means of my relationship with her family. But now her family was obliterated. A world devastated. I was all that stood, the sole solidity in her life.

               To my fascination she looked tranquil. The glimmer in her eye which remained no matter how disheveled the rest of her appearance was. No matter how tired she may have seemed, the characteristic was unshakeable. I wondered if this attraction to her would remain in person, or if similar to how a movie star may seem enigmatic on screen it’s generally a disappointment to actually meet them, her image would sour. Either way I had to confirm my suspicion that her beauty was sincere. That I had granted a quality which by no other means but me could she have obtained. That this connection between her and myself was genuine.

               I was still young then, and other than Rachel, who I’ve mentioned briefly, Mary quickly became my life’s sole infatuation. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that my attraction would survive our inevitable meeting. I did conclude that we were in love, despite her never having seen me before, and often times I would confirm it by talking to the television and telling the news on a particular night to ‘show her if she loves me.’ And on several occasions this invocation bore fruit. Oh! I can still remember how my heart fluttered, that energized feeling in my chest, my light limbs. My walks along the tracks where the birds sang to me and the new shrubbery that was put in! I so badly wanted Mary to walk with me there. I conversed with her in my head, telling in a comfortable voice of my ideas to make the walk even nicer and knowing her pliant voice from the news and having listened so intently to it, it had become a fixture and responded amiably to me as she surely would have.

               I yearned to be with her but I was not so careless as to approach her so soon, and so several months passed in this state of elation where I walked and spoke to an apparition of her which accompanied me constantly. I planned with honesty, a life that she would find suitable. I did have some money, enough to leave this town which harbored so many sad lingering memories for her. She struck me as one who liked the suburban life and so I looked for real estate which was different enough to dispel what might be called past trauma but similar enough to retain the qualities that she preferred. I even assented to the idea of having children, despite no prior want. All in all, I imagined that our life was proceeding on a steady course.

…

               At this time, it had been two years since Courtney Mac’s death and just over six since Mr. Mac. Enough time had passed, I concluded, to approach Mary without being suspected of anything. I drove to her house in a state of excitement and reached it, as I had planned, at around ten-thirty in the morning. This would allow her to ask me to stay for lunch seamlessly, while also ensuring that she had not, herself, eaten yet. My hands were clammy and I dried them with great effort on my car seat, careful not to blemish my shirt, while sitting in her driveway. I thought it might be awkward if she noticed this so I hurried out and to her door. I knocked and when a man around my own age opened it, I was overcome with jealousy. My heart sank and I felt betrayed. I allowed, though, the possibility for a misunderstanding and so I inquired, much more aggressively than I intended, ‘what are you doing here?’ The man looked confusedly at me and said that he lived there. I sank, crouching down in sadness, before standing up and turning to leave. I took a few dejected steps towards my car but wanted a final assurance so I turned again and approached the man, who remained watching me, and asked, ‘so… you and Mary?’ The man asked who I was talking about and I nearly jumped for joy. I took his hand in mine to shake it and said, ‘She’s left then?’ And the man realizing what I meant, nodded. I ran to my car and cried. The swing of emotions being so substantial that I couldn’t help it.

               It took some effort to discover her whereabouts. I was worried that she was interpreted as a target for whoever killed her family and therefore relocated anonymously but besides maybe being careful it appeared to be a straightforward move. Still it was more difficult than I would have liked, especially considering that I was expecting to already have begun our life together. I started out searching her name which produced only a flood of articles stemming from the various interactions she had had with news outlets etc. After having no luck, I searched the marriage records to find her maiden name which was, ‘Herzen,’ and after searching that I found several names which I assumed to be her relatives. There were a few in the general area and I began making a six hour trek a few times a week, bouncing from one residence to the next (four Herzens in total). I would park along the street across from each residence and watch for around an hour before growing frustrated and moving on the next one.

               Requiring walks to retain my composure this process eventually developed into parking across the street and walking around the block for a few hours, allowing me to view the home several times. Having no success, I decided to knock on the doors and ask if Mary was home, which received confused responses similar to the previously mentioned gentleman.

               Expanding my search, I found a Herzen the next state over and one weekend I made the long drive to the listed address. At this point in my search I was so tired and frustrated that I parked in the driveway and immediately knocked on the front door. My mind drifted as I stood there and when the door opened it startled me and I almost yelled out. Regaining my senses, I observed the delicate creature who stood in front of me. I recognized her short nose as a feature of the Herzen clan, which both Courtney and Mary possessed. She looked slightly older and her brown hair had a tinge of gray which had not yet colored Mary’s. I took her as an older sister. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘Is Mary at home?’ to which the woman looked surprised but nodded and instructed me to wait a moment. My anxiety was substantial and the feeling of being reunited was beginning to overwhelm me. I imagined it was a similar feeling to a soldier who had gone off to war for a very long time and was finally at his front door where his wife was not expecting him but was nonetheless in a perpetual state of waiting.

               I was seized. Oh my heart nearly exploded! The curious, compassionate look she sprinkled on me. Mary! Her autumn hair catching the slight breeze that cooled my pale skin. Her voice that I knew so well! I was tongue tied, putting my hand on my forehead to feel if I had a fever. Catching myself in this act I quickly corrected it and put my hands comfortably on my hips. She had said hello and asked how she could help me which had passed without response for several seconds as I worked to regain myself. I finally asked if there was a place we could sit down and she ushered me in, allowing me to saunter by, her gentle hand gracing my shoulder as she pointed with the other to a table in the kitchen. I sat down, keen to my surroundings and noticed a few momentos from the kitchen where I met her ex-husband, including an apron that hung and a pressure cooker that was near the microwave. She again asked how could she help me and I could feel tears begin to swell in my eyes but I worked diligently to stifle them. I said, in a sad, questioning tone, ‘I can see that you’ve moved on.’ To which she looked confusedly to the doorway of the family room where I saw her sister sitting as we entered, but who was out of our view. I went on to say, ‘as was my intention… but I believe now we are free to be married.’ She looked seriously alarmed staring into my eyes and I was nearly crushed by her gaze. Her brow was furrowed but she softened it before she asked what I was talking about and I, growing rather scared that she would suspect me of being the one who killed her family, grew somewhat panicked myself. I said, completely unexpectedly, that I was a journalist and followed her story and that we had a lot in common, I said my family shared the same fate as hers, which didn’t make so much sense considering I was much younger. She told me to get out. I was devastated. I told her if she looked in my eyes and told me she didn’t love me anymore that I would leave. She said I was crazy but looked me brutally in the eyes and said she didn’t love me. I was not satisfied so I said, ‘anymore?’ to get a final confirmation to which she replied in the negative. I stormed out seriously upset and drove to a hotel where I stayed the night before driving home the next day.

               It was especially difficult because not only was our life together suffocated but her apparition, which I had grown so close to, had vanished as well. I pleaded with this companion, who was more real than the person I had just conversed with, to come back to me but my appeals were met with silence. As is the case with love, though, it was a learning experience. And despite our break, I was mature enough to concede that she was still as beautiful as ever.

               I could, at the very least, make the world a more beautiful place…