I’ve no idea why he chose to message me – perhaps because I was one of the few journalists who attended both trials? After his convictions for the four murders in Texas, his sentencing to three additional executions in Oklahoma was a tad anticlimactic for other national reporters.
But for whatever reason, he chose to send me the latest product of his creativity, which he entitled “Mealtime”:
“Blades like razors, so sharp they border on too kind,
filet the sheen right off the bone.
“Slitting into cuts already made,
then poke-poke-poke-poke and through.
“Sever, pierce, t-w-i-s-s-s-s-t.
“Stab and smear through white cords of sinew.
“Slish, slash, a blistering blast of bleeding,
glinting flashes, surgical steel slithering through skin.
“Jab, thrust, parry and part…. Ahhh, penetration.
“The sweet seduction of the slicing
criss-crossing in crimson.
“Carving the meat curling away,
brute sawing through gristle and cartilage.”
I’m uncertain if the next lines were intended as part of the work, or as a personal aside to me:
“But be patient in the presentation –
you’ve but once to prepare their anticipation.
You must first tell them the story of how you’ll take their life,
and slowly, calmly, before you silently unsheath your knife.”
As I read along, it took a moment to grasp his purpose – in his arrogance, he was instructing me in the art of telling the tale. I’m not familiar enough with the genre (stabbing people to death and spending quality time with the remains is not my thing) to judge the strength of his writing. I would not, however, challenge the depth of his passions in penning them to paper.
Nor should you question that I’ll sleep tonight only because he’s locked away in a maximum security cell one thousand, seven hundred and eighty-six miles from me.
Uhhhh, I think. I hope.
