Silent Night
Midnight Mass
LIAM
After hours of sitting out here in the weather, stalking my next target, I concentrate on the howl of the wind. It brings with it a peacefulness that washes over me reminding me that after tonight things will be different.
The December chill penetrates through my layers, but I push aside any discomfort and maintain my unwavering focus.
I’ve spent countless nights out in the elements on a perch much like this one.
Part of the job is dealing with the weather.
I can’t control it and refuse to let it bother me.
With my rifle aimed at my target, I’ll patiently wait it out.
The balcony gives me the perfect vantage point, and until the ideal moment presents itself, this is where I’ll be.
The liturgical vest this man wears won’t cleanse him of his sins, regardless of its symbolic representation.
It often shatters the faith of those who believe in his sacred vows, leaving behind traumatized victims who feel betrayed by the unthinkable actions carried out by this false man of God.
He manipulates the innocent into trusting him.
The drug dealer on the corner is more trustworthy than this piece of shit.
This religious leader hides behind his claims of divine righteousness, threatening believers with eternal damnation should they go against the will of God.
It is he who is damned. When he reaches the pearly gates, he claims welcome believers, the God he serves will surely cast him aside.
I didn’t want to believe the man who has gained the trust of so many was a fallen priest. Evidence doesn’t lie. The undeniable truth hit me when I discovered a hidden box in his closet.
The time has come for him to confess and repeat the Hail Mary prayers that he commands others to do when their souls are marred by sin. If the God he believes in is real, then I hope his desperate pleas are swallowed by the void, never reaching his ears.
The wind picks up and I watch as Father Brisard prepares his message for midnight Mass.
It’s all done in vain. He won’t be around to deliver it.
Tonight, he’ll learn what happens when you die with a massive, unforgivable stain on your soul.
May the afterlife he preaches about be worse than imagined.
His thirty-two years of service have ruined many lives, and justice is long overdue.
The rain begins to fall, quickly transforming into a rhythmic symphony that energizes my spirit, fueling my determination to finish the job.
Over the past week, I’ve dedicated my time to studying Father Brisard, paying close attention to the rigorous ritual he undergoes prior to donning his cloak of dishonesty.
It’s only fueled my pledge to bring an end to his reign of terror.
It was hard witnessing him groom his next unsuspecting victim.
Afterward, watching him retrieve his box of sins and pleasure himself at the thought of adding another to his broken fold.
It made me sick and if I’d had my rifle with me, I’d have ended him then.
I watch and wait.
My firm grip on my weapon doesn’t falter. The weight of my vow to end him makes my finger tingle.
It ends tonight.
The sense of urgency to act drives me to tap into the patience my mentor instilled in me.
It’s unsettling to think that the priest and I have this in common.
Acting on impulse is the best way for us to get caught.
We’ve taught ourselves the importance of patience.
Our victims need that false sense of security before we rip it away in a moment’s time.
The difference is, my victims are receiving the retribution they rightfully deserve.
His are forced to relive the hell he drags them through against their will.
He got caught once. Received a slap on the wrist and then sent away to a remote location where he underwent therapy.
Spent two years there. Once he was cured—which I’m a firm believer there is no cure for his sickness—he was reassigned to a parish in desperate need of a priest. The church moved him regularly, making those in authority just as guilty.
Maybe one day I’ll be hired to take them out as well.
As Father Brisard moves through his home behind the church, my scope remains on him.
It captures all of his last moments. Stays on him while he showers.
Follows him while he dries off then covers his body in nothing more than a dark green silk robe.
Tracks him to the kitchen, where he cooks a simple meal while singing along to the Christmas music playing over his speakers.
Maintains a close eye as he plates his food and witnesses the good Father blessing it before he eats.
With each ticking hand of the clock, the end grows nearer.
My mind drifts as I watch him enjoy his meal.
I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about.
Is he going over his sermon for his faithful congregation?
Preparing himself to give each one their yearly blessings?
So many attending tonight’s Mass aren’t regulars.
The church’s doors are only graced with their presence on this sacred night.
It’s a tradition more than a religious experience.
Do they assume it will save them? If so, why?
As the rain turns into snow, I remain vigilant. It doesn’t take long for it to fall faster. Soon the wind shifts directions, causing the white fluff to swirl in its descent.
My patience pays off when Father Brisard does what I’ve been waiting for him to do. He opens his closet, reaches inside, and grabs the hidden box. Turning to his dresser, he sets it down before disrobing, leaving him naked. After taking a deep breath, he opens it.
I’ve left him a surprise inside. He won’t find it right away.
It’ll take him a few clicks of the clock before he stumbles upon the photo I took of him, just like this, with a note behind it.
Carefully, I tucked them between the others.
A subtle message that his filthy, nauseating secret has not gone unnoticed.
As I watch, my stomach churns. He diligently devotes himself to studying each one, making sure not to overlook any detail.
The absence of faces makes identifying the victims nearly impossible, but he’s aware.
As he studies them, his eyes dilate, giving his thoughts away, before reverently placing them face down on the dresser.
He can’t hide how perverted he is in his undressed state.
Fury has my trigger finger twitching. Fire burns behind my eyes, making me clench my jaw tight as I do my best to wait. Gritting my teeth, I steady myself, eagerly anticipating the right time to unleash my rage and eradicate this scumbag.
The moment he discovers my gift, I inhale a cleansing breath. My face relaxes again, but not his. Father Brisard’s morphs from a flushed red to a chillingly ash white, extinguishing any trace of the disturbing thoughts he’s conjured in his mind.
I don’t care that he can’t hear me. They never can, but I enjoy talking to them, nonetheless.
“That’s right, Father. Your sins have finally caught up with you, exposing the truth behind your righteous facade, just like you’ve prophesied.
Did you assume you were above those you teach?
Because you’re not. And this is your day of reckoning. ”
Drawing in a deep breath, I mentally prepare to take the shot. Only a few seconds longer and all this will be over.
“Turn around, asshole. Look at me.”
It’s as if he can sense me calling to him. He shifts and turns, his eyes finding the opening in the curtain, giving me the perfect view. Even though he can’t see me, his gaze is piercing as I read his lips through my scope.
“Lord, have mercy on my soul.”
“I don’t think so,” I whisper before pulling the trigger.
With bated breath, I follow the trajectory of my bullet as it travels through the stillness of the night, covering a distance of two hundred yards, and ultimately shattering the glass of his bedroom window before finding its mark in the center of his skull.
The priest crumbles to the ground, my gifts still firmly in his hand.
Adjusting the scope with a grin, I focus in on the yellow notecard, capturing every detail of my carefully crafted message.
Merry Christmas, Father Brisard. May the devil dance on your grave while he drags your sick soul to hell.
The church bells chime in the distance, their melodic tones echoing through the streets on the south side, marking the arrival of eleven o’clock. A reminder that midnight Mass will start in an hour.
Once my bag is packed, I exit the newly constructed office building opening after the first of the year. It was the ideal spot for me to position myself. Far enough away that it will take the authorities days, if not weeks, to find.
The utility van I borrowed will make it easy to slip away without arousing suspicion. Add in the hard hat atop my head and my worn local gas company uniform, making me look like the unfortunate repair man out on Christmas Eve fixing a problem that couldn’t wait.
I toss my bag in the back before jumping in the van and driving back to the lot I borrowed it from.
Once I’ve parked in its original spot, I meticulously clean it, ensuring every surface is spotless, before reactivating the live feed on the cameras protecting the lot.
The cameras have repeated a loop caused by a technical glitch, allowing me to come and go undetected.
Now that everything is all taken care of, I walk to my rental car parked a few blocks away and head back to the church to attend Mass, just like every other Catholic raised citizen in this tight-knit community.
Returning to the scene is frowned upon amongst those in my business.
But I’m not worried. No one knows me or will recognize me should we ever meet again.
I’m the master of disguise. A ghost amongst the living.
Arriving a few minutes late, I take my seat next to a middle-aged gentleman who wears a perpetual scowl. Can’t say I blame him. He’s had an awful year. I would know since he’s the man who hired me. He’s never seen me before, heard my voice, which is why I’m unconcerned about this encounter.
I lean over and quietly ask, “Where’s Father Brisard?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He grumbles as he stands when instructed to do so.
We repeat a few rote phrases that are interrupted when a scream echoes into the chapel from the alley. During the bishop’s address to the diocese, a nun burst in from behind, her face devoid of color, and in a state of panic, she announces.
“Father Brisard is dead!”
The audible gasps that travel through the sanctuary are almost deafening. Within a matter of seconds, the atmosphere in the room shifts, filling with whispers and confusion.
I glance over at the man beside me and notice a sly smile forming on his lips as he snickers under his breath. “Well, well, Merry fucking Christmas to me.” Amidst the congregation’s wails and chatter, he silently slips out of the pew and sneaks out the backdoor.
Bowing my head, I clear my throat as I close my eyes, hoping those around me will mistake my actions as reverence. “Merry fucking Christmas, Jonathan. Glad I could help.”
After a few moments, I lift my head, replicate the cross motion that I’ve seen others perform before joining the line exiting the building.
I’m not Catholic, but it seems like the right thing to do after tonight’s events. Not that I expect it to save me, because I don’t believe my soul can be saved. I’m simply a self-appointed vessel, put on this earth to do what so many others refuse to do.
Was it by this God? I doubt it, but it doesn’t hurt to show respect.
Mass has been canceled, and the focus has shifted to resolving the chaotic situation in the parish.
Time to call it a night and go back to my hotel. Perhaps I’ll find a willing woman to help me channel the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.