One brother preached mercy; the other carries a .38. When the law is the killer, does justice require a sin?
Writer’s Prompt
The Penance of Lead
The neon sign of the “Last Chance” diner flickered, casting a rhythmic, sickly violet glow over the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the air tasted of burnt coffee and cheap tobacco. Joe Clemens sat in the corner booth, his fingers tracing the cold steel of the .38 tucked beneath his trench coat.
A year ago, Mike had stood exactly where Joe was now—spiritually, at least. Mike, with his Roman collar and his stubborn, saintly heart.
“Killing an animal that preys on the weak isn’t sin, Mike. It’s sanitation,” Joe had hissed during their last dinner.
Mike had just smiled that weary, patient smile. “Blood doesn’t wash away blood, Joe. Even if they are monsters, we don’t get to play God. Only self-defense keeps the soul intact.”
Two hours later, Mike was bleeding out in an alley, a “loose end” snipped by a man sworn to protect.
The door chimed. Detective Miller walked in, shaking the rain off his regulation tan jacket. He was the man who had filed the “unsolved” report. The man who had taken a brown paper bag from the Moretti cartel while Mike watched from the shadows of the rectory.
Miller took a stool at the counter, his back to Joe. He looked tired, mundane—just another civil servant grabbing a late-night cup of joe. He didn’t look like a murderer. That was the trick of the devil, wasn’t it?
Joe stood up. The weight of the gun felt like an anchor, or perhaps a cross. He walked toward the stool, the debate echoing in his head.
Self-defense of the soul, or sanitation for the city?
Joe reached into his coat. Miller caught his reflection in the napkin dispenser and started to turn.
The hammer is cocked, and the line has been crossed. How does Joe finish this? Does he honor his brother’s m
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