Against God (9 page)

- We’re not a discussion group for sharing, we’re here to act. Those who join
aren’t required to explain why they’re
suffering. It doesn’t
matter. What does matter is doing something to offset the suffering. Because we
are defined not by what we say but by what we do.

around him, you’re skeptical as you observe him, still dissatisfied, still
tormented, then you return downstairs, back to the other room, Mélanie still
intent on her work, you watch her from a distance, your face confused at first,
as though a fissure, a crack was about to open and release something from
within, but finally your features harden and you turn on your heel, Father Léo
is standing there, he has come downstairs, he has followed you, he looks at you,
you pass him and you spit out your words

- Your boss is a liar and a double-crosser.

without stopping, he doesn’t react but a glimmer of compassion appears in his
eyes, you hurry outside, it’s storming now, you start to walk, your eyes full of
snow, reach a major thoroughfare, a convenience store nearby, you enter, no
customers, the clerk barely looks up from his iPhone, it doesn’t take you long
to spot a surveillance camera behind the counter, you leave immediately, fifteen
minutes by foot to the next corner store, you enter, tiny interior, a lone
customer pays at the counter, you scan the room for a camera and find none, you
approach the counter, finally the other customer leaves, the Asian clerk smiles,
you pull out your gun, take aim, demand all the cash in the register, the sales
clerk is nervous but controlled, hurriedly he
gives you all
the bills in the register, you stuff them into your coat pockets, then stare at
the clerk, still aiming at him, you hesitate, finally you hit him with the grip,
he crumples to the floor, moaning, half-stunned, you rush out, you walk through
the storm until you find a taxi, during the cab ride you count the money,
140 dollars in all, the taxi stops in front of Le Losange, you pay, step out,
walk inside, Guylaine is behind the bar and this time she seems to recognize
you, even calling out that you look like a snowman, a lone customer, a woman in
her fifties playing the slot machine at the back of the room, you sit by a
window, the server approaches, you order a beer, your voice surly, Guylaine
walks off, you start thinking then, you look conflicted as though trying to
convince yourself that what you’re about to ask isn’t a good idea, Guylaine
returns with the beer, you ask her then what happened to Mélanie, the server
doesn’t understand, you try to be more specific, you know something terrible
happened to Mélanie recently, but you don’t know what, Guylaine is surprised,
she doesn’t know either, she adds that Mélanie has always come across as
unhappy, showing up at the bar every night, often to get drunk, but if something
serious happened recently, that would explain why she’s hardly been by for the
past week, then Guylaine returns to the bar, and you drink looking outside, and
you stare into the emptiness, and you seem to struggle with conflicting ideas,
harrowing thoughts, and the hours pass, and you drink, beer, shooters, two other
customers appear, sit down together in a corner, and darkness slowly
overtakes the streets, the snowstorm continues, Guylaine
brings you your ninth beer, you grab her arm then, ask her what you should do,
she gives a start, doesn’t understand, and you insist, your voice thick
and

- What do I do now? Sit here drinking ’til I’ve got no money left? Leave and
shoot some stranger? Throw myself off some damn bridge? What the fuck do I
do?

broken, Guylaine tries to free herself, the first signs of panic showing in her
eyes, and just then you see Mélanie through the window, in the snowstorm,
crossing the street, walking toward her building, you stand up then, start
pounding on the window, pounding so hard she finally turns around, shelters her
face from the snow, recognizes you, but Guylaine has had enough, she tells you
you should go, Mélanie is already inside the bar, you make your way to her, your
gait unsteady, waving your arms with a dramatic flourish, you sneer as you ask
whether she’s spent another day renovating that frigging house, being the
do-gooder, deceiving herself that life has some kind of meaning, the other three
customers look at you embarrassed, Mélanie watches you draw near, you stop once
you’re up close, then she answers, without the slightest trace of irony or

- I’m happy with my day. I feel I’ve done some good. For me, that’s got a whole
lotta meaning.

mockery, you hold her gaze but you have nothing to retort, you bite your
lip, all of a sudden you retrieve your coat, all of a sudden
you head for the exit, and behind you Mélanie’s gentle voice, telling you she’s
there, she will always be there, no matter what you do, you turn to her, her
calm, her certainty, her eyes full of compassion sending you into such a fury
that you kick at a chair on your way out, in the street, the storm is raging,
you look for another taxi, cursing, staggering, swearing at everyone and no one,
you find a cab, you give the Youth Centre address, the driver seems concerned by
your condition, but he says nothing and begins to drive, he tries to engage you
in conversation about the weather, but you don’t answer, your crazed eyes
staring at your feet, your shaking hands between your knees, a vein throbbing in
your temple, stop at your destination, you grab a twenty and a ten that you
throw at the driver, step out, struggle up the slight snow-covered rise leading
to the front door, slip, fall, get back up, turn the knob, the door opens, a
moment’s astonishment, as though you expected it to be locked, then you enter,
the room empty but the light’s on, painting finished, the decorating further
along, you roam through the room, turn in circles, sway, look at everything with
your crazed eyes, tools, plywood, cans of paint, CD player, a stray pack of
cigarettes, old newspapers, forgotten coat, freshly painted walls, new
furniture, and your eyes glisten with hatred, and you pick up a hammer leaning
against the wall, and you start swinging at the walls, the furniture, breaking,
smashing, demolishing, you cry with each blow, so loudly that you don’t hear the
noise above and on the stairs, too swept away by your
fury, and you swing and you swing and you freeze suddenly at the sight of a
silhouette framed in the door leading to the hallway, it’s Father Léo, one hand
against the doorframe, the other down by his side, Father Léo watching you in
silence, Father Léo suddenly looking so old, and the only emotion on his face is
one of disappointment, nothing more, and your chest is heaving, you are drenched
in sweat and melting snow, silence, the howling of the storm, then the priest
asks what you’re doing here, you drop the hammer then, bury your hand inside
your coat, pull out the revolver, and as you open the cylinder, as you spin the
cylinder, as you close the cylinder, you answer in a voice by now verging on
hysteria, that you are the instrument of chaos, and you raise the firearm and
you aim at the priest, your tongue moistens your lips several times, your arm
swaying from the effects of the alcohol, your teeth clenched to the point of
cracking, but Father Léo doesn’t move, he keeps his hand on the doorframe,
ignores the weapon, he looks at you, yes, you, and his voice is so slow, so very
very

- No, you are not the instrument of chaos. You create chaos. There is a huge
difference.

slow, you squeeze the trigger then, a deafening boom, in the room, in your
head, everywhere, your arm literally propelled backwards, a flash of pain in
your right shoulder, two or three seconds’ worth of
confusion,
then you realize that Father Léo is no longer standing, he’s sprawled on the
ground, you blink several times, then you draw near, the bloodstain spreading
outwards on his white shirt above his solar plexus, his open eyes staring at the
ceiling, his left hand opening and closing on the floor, his rattling breath
growing weaker and weaker, ten seconds, twenty seconds, then the priest makes no
more sound, the priest moves no more, the priest is dead, you stare at him in
silence, and slowly a grimace distorts your features, a horrific blend of
hatred, appeasement and despair, you return to the room then, pick up the hammer
and start raining down blows on everything, punctuated not with your cries this
time but with a harsh keening emanating from a darkness from which nothing human
can emerge, your fevered eyes fall on the pack of cigarettes on the floor then,
you drop the hammer, you pick up the pack and you open it, a matchbook inside,
in no time you have lit several matches, you throw them into every pile of paper
and sawdust you see, a half-dozen small fires spring to life in the room, you
walk toward the front door, you open it, you glimpse a car parked across the
street, I imagine you hadn’t noticed it earlier on, you return inside then, in
two spots the fire has already begun to spread, you step over the priest’s body,
hurry up the stairs, enter the office, rummage through Father Léo’s coat, find
his car keys, then you open the top desk drawer, then the second, you come up
with a hundred dollars or so, you take the money, head back downstairs, step
over
Father Léo again, this time you glance at him briefly,
then you cross the room already full of smoke, your gun, where is your gun, you
turn in circles, crouch, spit, there, it’s on the floor right there, you make
your way over, jam it in your coat pocket, finally outside, you tumble down the
rise coughing, you climb into Father Léo’s car and take off, in your drunkenness
your driving is erratic but fortunately the streets are practically deserted,
visibility is near zero, skidding, distorted view, a storm raging both inside
and outside your head, fifteen minutes, then you skid one too many times, hit a
pole, you get out, recognize the neighbourhood, it’s not far now, you run then
into the wind, whipped by snow, and you reach your building, and you enter and
you stumble upstairs, and you bang with all your might on Mélanie’s door, she
opens it to you, and suddenly she’s frightened, as though at the sight of you in
this state she knows what is about to happen, you shove her then, you enter and
close the door, you grab Mélanie’s hand, you drag Mélanie to her room, you push
Mélanie onto her bed, Mélanie crumpling onto the mattress, begging you no, panic
in her voice, and you strip, without a word, now you’re naked, you’ve got an
erection, you order her to strip, but she refuses, still begging you to stop,
you mustn’t, don’t, you mustn’t, you swoop down on her then, in a fury you rip
off her clothes, she starts to struggle but your fist connects with her left
eye, she goes limp then, half-conscious, and you stretch out on top of her, you
penetrate her violently, her dryness, a cry of pain, her body stiffens, then
your to-and-fro, your savage
piston moves, and your grunting,
and your lowing, but soon your vigour is lost, and you cry in rage, you
intensify both in ardour and violence, but nothing helps, your member too limp
now to continue its ravages, you stop then finally, still lying on Mélanie who
struggles weakly, your face buried in the mattress by her head, a terrible
retching, your stomach turns over, you roll onto your side and finally you
founder, shadows, nothingness, perhaps you’ve passed out, perhaps you’re asleep,
it doesn’t matter, the fall is the same, and when you open your eyes again,
sunlight filters through the bedroom’s half-open curtains, you sit up on your
elbows, splitting pain in your head, sounds from the next room, Mélanie appears,
wearing not her workclothes but clean jeans, a woolen sweater, she sets a tray
down on the mattress next to you, toast, coffee, a large glass of cranberry
juice, two pills, you stare at her stupidly, she stands there, her hands clasped
in front of her, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her left eye black and
swollen, no reproach in her gaze, no anger, only resignation with perhaps a
shadow of hope emerging, finally she speaks, suggesting you wash the pills down
with the glass of juice, an even voice, no intonation, and you obey, you swallow
the pills, you drink half a glass, docile, the clock on the desk reads nine
thirty, Mélanie explains that she didn’t want to leave you alone this morning,
that she’ll go to the Youth Centre this afternoon or tomorrow, you sit up on the
mattress, you examine her in silence, incredulous, bewildered, she adds then
that she told you, she will be there, she will always be there, no
matter what you do, no matter what you’ve done, you lower your head then,
rub your forehead, and you yourself seem surprised to hear the words that

- I’m sorry . . .

cross your dry lips, silence, then a small smile appears on Mélanie’s lips, and
the hope in her eyes is no longer just a shadow but has taken on a tangible
form, real and alive, an incongruous ringing, the telephone, Mélanie leaves the
bedroom, you stare at your breakfast then bite into the toast, chew diligently,
suddenly a cry from Mélanie, followed by an agitated discussion, then she
reappears in the bedroom, beside herself, on the verge of tears, she explains,
her words tumbling over each other in her hurry, that was Guy, one of the group
members, the Youth Centre was torched again last night, a burned body was
discovered in the rubble, perhaps Father Léo, the police don’t know yet, now her
tears fall, she paces the room, exclaims how terrible, how awful, the project
was so important, near completion, and the corpse, Oh, Lord, that corpse, and
you look at her, and you are petrified, and you can’t swallow the food rotting
in your mouth, and for the space of a second Mélanie examines you in shock, as
though a grim doubt has just crossed her mind, but she shakes herself, declares
she wants to be with the group, share her sorrow with the other members, she
leaves the room, you push away the breakfast tray then, fold your knees up
close, hug them tight, your face contorted, Mélanie returns,
wearing her coat, anguish, sorrow, but great resolve as well, she says
she’ll be back in an hour or two, but she already knows what the group’s
decision will be, she has no