October 1955…

Walter's breath escaped his mouth in short gasps as he walked down the twisted stone stairs. This part of the building always seemed colder and it was hard for his 1'st grade mind to comprehend. He paused silently and glanced down at his muck stained school shoes. Months ago he had taken the trolley with his mother to Reagans shoe shop for his school uniform on 54^th and archberry, yet it felt like only days ago. The 12-dollar shoes had been so shiny and made him feel important when he put them on for the first time. But now, strangely, they made him feel disgusted and worn out. He began to proceed downward once again and let his hand aimlessly drag on the wall beside. The texture was rough against his soft palm and made him wince slightly in pain. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stared deep into the hall. There was a definite scent in this area that caused his nose to scream. The instant the musty aroma hit his nostrils, his heart would speed away in his chest. His ears would be filled by the pulsating beat, allowing nothing else to break its way through. He journeyed in as his shoes broke the virgin air with a strange copping sound. Farther and farther he walked, past three solid brown doors, until he came to rest directly under a light bulb that swayed ever so slightly over a red door. This was where he usually left himself standing. Like a ghost, he would step out of his body and allow his physical self to walk through this gateway. It was better this way. He wanted nothing of this room to be associated with him.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he began to nervously bite at his fingernail. The comfort he felt from this act was always very temporary, but nonetheless incredibly soothing against the raging storm within his mind. After a small cringe in pain, he pulled away and stared at his small pale hands. He hadn't even realized that his nails had been nearly chewed to the quick of his short fingertips from many instances just like this one. With a deep breath, he lifted a calm hand and gently rapped against the large thick wooden the door. Standing in silence with his head down, he gazed at his shoes once again for only a few moments when footsteps approached from within. The door slowly creaked open and he left his eyes glued down. Without saying a word or making eye contact, his legs slowly lifted and began pulling his body into the room. Like a puppet his movements felt as though an outside force controlled them. His mind became a blank slate and his abilities to think and reason were left at the door. As the invisible strings of routine were being pulled, his body unquestionably would follow its course as it had countless times before. The room was a place he found hard to forget. Frugally furnished, it had a desk against the far wall and a dark plaid cloth couch directly adjacent to it. That couch… he hated that damn couch. The mere sight of it filled his mind with every filthy swear word he could produce, begging to force its way out and break the calm air. He moved over to it and sat down. The shadow made its way over to Walter and softly laid a hand atop of head. "You know what a special little boy you are Walter?" the man asked through a soft husky whisper. Walter said nothing and continued to look down. The humming of the large lights above his head filled the air. As the man's hand began to slowly travel down Walter's body, he quickly shut his eyes as tight as he could. He found himself floating in the clouds away from everything around him. His body was filled with the buzzing sound, nothing could harm him where he was, not even this man. Walter always found this elevated place when he came to the room. Everything was a perfect tranquility from above. Usually after ten minutes when the man had finished with his lifeless body, he would fall from high aloft and come back to the cruel couch with a sickening thud. The comforting blanket of the droning lights would be slowly pulled from his body and the pain he felt afterwards was unparallel to anything he knew. As the man sat up from the sofa, Walter lay curled while clutching his knees. Most children his age would cry at what he felt, but not him. He did not know how. When he stood up, he immediately left for the door. Just as his hand made contact with the cold doorknob a voice pierced the silence.

"Remember Walter, I'm doing this for your own good…it's the only way you will ever learn. I want you to be my friend and telling anybody will only make things worse…you don't want to make things harder for your mother now do you? Lets just keep our special friendship to ourselves."

As he looked at his filthy disgusting shoes which at onetime had been something beautiful and new, he mustered all the strength and courage he had in his small frail body and mumbled, "Yes Father Ryan."

Walter Benett - A washed up Vietnam veteran whose life has been plagued by painful mental agony. His father dies at a young age leaving his mother with the difficult task of supporting the family. She works two jobs six days a week and is rarely there to show the unconditional love that Walter seeks. As Walter becomes a disciplinary problem, his mother has no choice but to turn to their local parish for help. The problematic alcohol abusing lifestyle he has adopted later in life directly contradicts and sets up a binary opposition to his strict catholic upbringing. He struggles daily with the unbearable memories of being molested by his parish priest and the blame he places upon himself. He attributes the horror he has seen in his young life to a lack of a sympathetic God which contributes greatly to his Nominalist outlook on life. He is vehemently against the Catholic institution and in turn becomes an easy target as he looks for alternative answers to life's trials and tribulations.

Father Lewis Ryan - is one of the leading religious figures in a blue-collar neighborhood. On the surface he appears to be a warm and gentle man with only the best intentions for his parish. His selfless efforts have made enormous contributions in battling poverty and raising money for the hungry. The Deacon has recognized his actions and he is viewed as a hero in many parishioners' eyes. However, below this superficial façade, he strays from many of the Catholic principles that he preaches. He serves as Walter's only father figure in the early years of his life. His relentless sexual abuse has completely warped Walter's sense of self worth and destroyed him as an individual. It is unknown how many have fallen victim Father Ryan's vicious "friendships."

Joseph Deville - the dark and mysterious figure who encounters Walter on a rainy Tuesday evening two years after his tour in Vietnam. As Walter hits rock bottom in a back alley way of a decrepit bar, Deville approaches him and offers a solution to his enduring suffering. Initially Walter is perplexed by this stranger's considerable knowledge of his past, and raises reservations. But when Deville insists he is from the neighborhood and is among numerous others who's lives have been shattered by the sexual atrocities of Father Ryan, he begins to listen. Although Walter does not recognize or remember this character from his past, he blindly accepts this as the truth and blames his memory loss on his years of heightened intoxication. Deville promises retribution and gives him a chance to finally move on with his life. With a handshake, he tricks Walter into waiving the rights to his future and damning him for eternity.

20 years later…

Thunder cracked and the rain began pouring down in sheets. The streets were deserted on account of the weather but this was completely inconsequential to Walter. The lights blindly reflected off the newly slicked avenue. He stumbled slowly down the cracked and broken sidewalk, sporadically lifting a soaked brown paper bag to his thin lips. A soft wind whistled down the narrow lane breathing life into the trees as they swayed back and forth. The green-line trolley clanked its way slowly echoing loudly as it passed by. Walter Clumsily stomped his way through piles of fallen leaves as they cracked and crumbled under his muddy boots. His body weaved with a mind of its own as he seemingly lurched without any purpose of direction. Every step of the way he was haunted by ghosts and memories of moments past. These streets had been all he had known for so long. He had walked them so many nights like this before, and every step hooked a vision and reeled it to his attention. Stopping suddenly at the street corner he glanced over his shoulder to Regans shoe shop standing directly behind him. The place hadn't changed a bit over the years. It was still the same designated family run store that stocked the town's parochial school uniforms.

The lifeless manikins stood motionless with beaming happy faces modeling the very same uniform that Walter had worn himself so many years ago. "Fake plastic smiles for a fake plastic town…," he drunkenly blurted out loud to himself. He staggered up to the window, squinting and trying to focus on the small black cross embroidered on the right breast of the shirt. That cross…. What the hell did that cross mean anyway?… It was all stupid shit. His legs wobbled like jellow and he placed a cold and clammy hand on the slippery display window to steady his balance. Slowly his focus shifted from the undersized display manikin to his own reflection in the windowpane. He watched as water slowly trickled down his cheek from his grimy and tousled hair. His face was aged well beyond his years. As he studied his reflection, he saw his the large rings under his eyes from a lack of sleep. Only at night was he tortured by his past. Sleep became the vehicle where painful visions were brought to life, each time with the same ferocity as the last. He went to battle with his demons every night when his head hit the pillow. Walter brought his hand to his cheek and scratched awkwardly at his unshaven face. He was a mess. The reflection began to slowly fade away as his warm breath pierced the cold air gently coating the window with a gray fog. Quickly snapping out of his short reflective hiatus, he turned his back and continued up the street.

He narrowed his eyes and peered down at the cheap silver watch loosely wrapped around his wrist. "11: 15… still early," he thought to himself. Just a few minutes later on his journey he found himself face to face with the old cathedral. It had been years since he had stepped foot inside that building filled by empty promises, but the smell of it was still fresh in his mind. Directly across the street was the old city tavern, Walter's true place of worship. Every night he would hold church in the back left hand corner of the bar, medicating himself and swimming in fluid lethargy. He clumsily tossed the empty brown bag and bottle at a trashcan 5 feet away but missed and the bottle shattered into pieces on the hard concrete. Forcing the weight of his body against the large red door, he wobbled his way inwards.

He drunkenly maneuvered his way through the half empty bar to his designated seat and sat down with a loud thump. "Well Walt, what'll it be tonight?" The bartender called out. Walter stared down at his bashed in knuckles and broke his silence as he grunted "ah surprise me… just make it strong." In an instant he was idly slumped over his half filled glass. Music came in waves from the old jukebox blending in with the few conversations around him. He stuffed his filthy hand in the basket of peanuts directly in front of him and cracked and pealed the hard crusted shells. After a few drinks, Walter's vision was notably impaired. He buried his face in his calloused hands as he felt the room spinning around him. Slowly a fresh college boy just a few years younger then Walter walked across the room and slipped some spare change into the jukebox. He meticulously searched through the song list when his eyes suddenly lit up as he made his selection. Don McClean's American Pie ricocheted off the walls of the room. The table of clean-cut young men were noticeably happy with the choice as they all grinned and began belting out each and every lyric. As he watched this jovial scene, resentment began to eat away at the back of Walter's mind. Who the hell did these kids think they were? What the hell gave them the right to be so godamn happy when this town had so willingly used him up and raped away his innocence? The only thing that separated Walter from the group of college students was a few years in age, and that had made all the difference. That was what landed him in the jungles… That was what had taken away any chance of a normal life… That was what had dropped Father Ryan into his world.

"I hate this godamn song," Walter mumbled in his slurred and sloppy speech. The bartender shot a glance over at Walter but paid little attention. The students completely absorbed in song didn't even notice his presence. "Hey you wanna turn this noise off, Barkeep?" He angrily screamed out. Once again, his objections were left completely unanswered. "And the three men I admire most, the Father Son and the Holy Ghost, they caught the last train to the coast, the day the music died." Suddenly enraged by the echoing lyrics, Walter hurled his empty glass across the room at the jukebox in a violent outburst. The glass shattered and sprayed across the floor. Completely shocked by his actions, a blonde haired boy rose to his feet. "You godamn crazy bastard!" He pointed and shouted to Walter. Just as his cracked and dry lips began shaping a response to the verbal abuse, he was ripped from his red stool and his body was forcefully dragged towards the back exit of the bar. His boots dragged languidly behind him leaving a wet snail like trail behind him as he felt insults thrown at him. The screams of the students began to mesh and merge together as Walter began to drift away. He closed his eyes tightly and let his body go completely limp as he felt their fiery hot balls of spit splash against his forehead. Seconds later the dark red door was flung open and he was viciously hurled against the cement wall of the dimly lit back alley. Letting out a soft cry in pain, his body slid unresponsively to the ground as the loud metallic smash of the door reverberated in his head. He lay motionless on the mucky concrete next to beat up rusty trash bins. The overpowering stench of rubbish surrounded him as he coughed and gagged on the putrid air.

The Encounter…

The rain beat down on Walter's limp body, soaking through his thick green jacket. Dark stains polluted the color, radiating out from days and nights long since forgotten. He cringed at the sour taste of booze that layered his throat. His body was overwhelmed by nausea as vomit began to erupt out of his dry mouth and roll down his chin like hot molten lava. Unable to stand upon his feet he gazed down to his wrist for the time. "Christ, its midnight." He thought to himself. What had his life become? Where had it all gone wrong? He didn't even know where to begin. At the end of the alley way he could see the stone church lit up under the bright street lamps. As the sheets of rain began to wash away the dirt and vomit caked on his body, the site of the church brought tears to his eyes. He had never been giving a chance. Nobody had been there for him, and nobody ever would be there for him. God was a cruel prank that had been constantly played out in his life. "If there is a God out there, then where the hell has he been hiding?" He whispered to himself. Sadness and sorrow attacked his body like a cancerous infection. He had truly hit rock bottom in his life. It was in the midst of these thoughts when the sound of footsteps snatched at his attention. He strained his eyes and made out the shape of a dark figure walking towards him. Walter's head bobbled up and down as he attempted to make out the outline of the large stranger. Mustering all the strength he could find in his battered body he whispered, "Who the fuck are you?"

The shadow stood silent and still. Walter quickly realized the man was a vet by the gleaming dog chains that hung limply around his neck. He was unable to make out any of the man's facial characteristics as he stood back in the shadows. "You don't remember me do you Walter?" The faceless voice whispered.

"No… I don't know who the hell you are?" He slurred angrily in response.

"Well I can assure you that I know you… Look at you, you have slowly become nothing more than a forgotten dream. You are a fading memory with nobody left to remember you, dying slowly with time. I know the memories that haunt you each and every day. I know the wars you wage every night in your sleep. I know your pain… I know it all too well."

Walter's facial expression morphed into a hardened glare as he spoke out loudly "Listen fellow… I don't think you have a damn clue as to what you're talking about. So why don't you spare me your religious bullshit and move on to the…."

"Father Ryan," the stranger stridently interrupted. He paused for a moment then began again. "I know what he did to you. I saw how he destroyed you. This is your chance for freedom. This is your opportunity to fly… This is your life, and its ending one minute at a time."

Walter lay bewildered and completely stunned. He had never uttered a word of his relationship with the priest to a single solitary soul. His heart began to race. How was this happening? How in God's name was this shadow peering into the depths of his shattered past?

"Relax... breath…" He spoke again. "Right now you are wondering how I know this much about you. You've never spoken these words aloud. You've locked this pain so deep within your soul and flushed the key down the peverbial toilet to be forgotten for eternity. My name is Joseph Deville. I know this much because I have walked the same damp hallways you have. I have trudged through the same muddy jungles you have. And I have wandered these same broken streets beside you. Many others have followed. You're searching through your catalogue of memories right now. Your asking yourself 'Why can't I remember… How could someone possibly know this much about me and I can't even recognize his name?' The answer to the question can be found in the shattered bottle of whiskey you left on the sidewalk just 45 minutes ago."

Without saying a word Walter closed his eyes and let his head slump gently against the cold wall. The thick beads of rain beat down upon his face washing away his tears. Was it possible? Had people and segments of his life been poured out of his memory into the dusty shot glasses he sought refuge in night after night? His mind raced with the beat of his heart. He suddenly became confused and disoriented. Yes… It was possible. His life had been thrown into a blender and churned out as one unified haze of recollections. Everything ran together. Nothing made sense.

"I'm here to help you take back what's rightfully yours. Father Ryan still sits in his little office in the basement of that filthy building right over there. Father Ryan still sits comfortably, wrapped in the protective cloth of the Catholic Church. Father Ryan…. is a godamn animal. It's time to find a place where you can shut your eyes and not have to see all the places you've been. It's this fuckin Catholic institution that drove you to Vietnam. It's this fuckin Catholic institution that has taken everything you know about yourself and destroyed it. It's this fuckin institution that has left you with nothing. You're looking for God? Your God doesn't exist!"

Joseph's words engulfed Walter as they reached their warm fingertips deep inside and massaged his tormented soul. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he was understood. The little boy who was dressed so proudly in his catholic school uniform and left to be forgotten forever in the dark hallway in the basement of the church was finally found. Clearing his throat and searching for his voice he asked in an almost inaudible whisper, "Who's going to believe me? Who is gonna believe a drunken bum like me?… Who's gonna listen to a nobody?"

"No, you've got it all wrong. Courts… they aren't for people like you and me. They are for uptown people with suits and money and lawyers with expensive cars. If you've got a pocket full of cash, you can buy court justice. You can make your own life. But street justice has no price. Justice is blind where the judge sits, but not out here. Out here, the bitch got eyes. You have the power to take back what God has allowed them to rape and rob from you. Understand Walter, that God does not like you. To God you are as insignificant as a grain of salt."

Walter's nostrils whistled as he breathed deeply listening to attentively. Joseph's words crumbled and collapsed the stone wall that circled his soul. He felt as though he would do anything Joseph asked. Staring deep into Walter's eyes he spoke,"Come with me, and you will never have to worry. Choose your destiny tonight, and finally conquer your nightmares."

Joseph extended his hand out to Walter.  He paused slightly, questioning the legitimacy of this man, but he quickly recognized that any route would be better then the one he had been walking his entire life.  Without saying a word, he reciprocated the stranger's gesture and extended his hand.  Joseph grabbed him with a smooth strong grip and with fingertips like tentacles he sealed his fate with a handshake.  As Joseph moved forwards from the shadows, Walter saw a fiery red glowing in the pupils of his eyes.  Staring in confusion, he suddenly felt a wave of pain sweep over his body.  Joseph's grasp increased drastically and a cry broke free from Walter's mouth.  Looking down, he saw fingernails digging violently into the skin of his dirty hand.  He gasped as blood began to seep from his aching hand.  Walter watched as a large drip of blood formed and slowly dropped like a tear to the ground.  Immediately after, everything slowly faded to black. 

It was Wednesday morning when Walter slowly began to open his eyes. The sun's rays sliced their way through the cracks of the blinds as he slowly began to awaken. The broken faucet that had been in dire need of repair dribbled and dripped relentlessly for months. As the pain of consciousness slowly began to take hold of him, Walter quickly gasped at the massive pounding he felt from all sides of head. He had been incredibly wasted last night and the memories of the events that took place began to flood his mind like a tidal wave. Had he dreamed it all? Did any of it actually take place? All the answers were brought to life when his eyes honed in on the large gaping wounds in his right wrist. He rolled sluggishly off his small mattress and shakily rose to his feet. The room was in complete disarray as the ringing of empty bottles and cans collided together. "What now?" he questioned himself. Immediately the large and intimidating footsteps of Joseph Deville were heard behind him moving into the room. Frightened, he turned and looked deep into the eyes that more closely resembled scorching hot coals lodged in his head. In a whisper he began, "You know exactly what you need to do…."

In all Beginnings there must be an End…

He sat perched on the uncomfortable cot in a strange silence. Bringing his thumb unsteadily to his mouth he began to bite and chew at his nail… Old habits die hard, but their strings of routine pull at you forever. He watched as a spider swiftly made its way across the small damp room like dry tumbleweed across the desert floor. The days weren't too bad. He spent most of his time lying and thinking. Not very much bothered him. Occasionally a visitor dressed in blue would casually saunter down the hallway, interrupting his monotonous schedule. He hadn't spoken much in the past few months. There was no explanation really; there just wasn't anything to say. People had given up on making him try quickly, and that was perfectly ok with him. He was entirely happy in his own little 10 by 10 foot world. The spider scurried its way back towards the cot and stopped directly in front of Walter's black faded boots. He crouched over and carefully cupped his hands around the small lively ball of moving legs. A smile formed on his face as the spider trotted and tickled gently in his large hands. He brought the fragile specimen up and held it against the beating heart over his thick blue denim shirt. All he wanted was something to love and care for. Walter gazed down at the squirming spider, when a voice suddenly ripped through the hall. "Lights out in cell block A!" Like a chain reaction the lights chased each other into the darkness.

He hadn't seen Joseph since the night they kicked his apartment door in and placed him in the cold and unforgiving chains. He insisted on his existence and pleaded that he had not acted alone… but nobody believed him. Nobody ever would. The doctors told him it had been a delusional personality created in his mind to deal with trauma experienced in his life. There had been no Joseph Deville, no handshake, and more importantly no pact. In other words, Walter was going to fry for the explosion in that cathedral. He tried not to think about it anymore. Whether he was real or not it didn't matter. There was a slot lined up in Hell for him whichever explanation he chose. Watching as a church full of innocent people screamed together in a smoldering mass or giving his soul to the devil. Either way, it just didn't matter. His body lightly rolled back on the cheap mattress and he lost himself in the blackness of the ceiling. "What do you do when God doesn't think of you as something unique and special?" He gave up with a sigh and closed his eyes. You just can't teach God anything.