I have once again written a piece (this time on my own) for the incredible Indigo Spider’s Sunday Picture Press
For those of you who have not read her story titled After the Beginning: Deaths Flowers that was posted on May 17, 2011, I encourage you to do so immediately after reading my piece below. If you were to read it before reading mine, I doubt you’d return to read my piece. It’s writing that, we as readers, can only dream of coming across. Magnificent is an understatement.
For this week’s challenge, I chose to write about the inspiration I got from looking at the photograph taken by Jiunn Kang Too titled He Comes With The Rain. You can see both visual prompts here: Sunday Picture Press II.
After posting the piece below, Indigo Spider asked if she could write a second part to the story. In fact, she had already and asked if she could post it! I was very excited by that proposition and thoroughly enjoyed what she wrote. Please visit her site (link at end of story) to read the 2nd part to this piece.
HE COMES WITH THE RAIN
He comes with the rain. Or maybe the rain comes with him. Either way, they are inseparable.
It will all makes sense once you know who he is. That will be soon.
I only know because of what I used to do. I was the only one in the city who knew his secret. I was sworn to protect it with my life. I lied. I have always lied. Now one other knows his secret. Soon, many more will. You included.
Until recently, I was the lead investigator for the Jiunn Too Police Department. I headed up a precinct of two hundred thousand citizens. Only the Mayor, Chief of Police and President of the country knew what I really did while my wife, kids, friends and associates believed I was a computer systems analyst.
My name is Leong Zhi.
Yes, that Leong Zhi also known as the Red Line Butcher. Twenty –two years. Fifty-five victims. You have seen my picture on television. You have seen their pictures too, I am sure. As I am sure that you have only one question to ask me.
But that is not what this letter is about. The answer to your question is far too personal, too private for me to answer without having you sit across the table from me, looking into my eyes. Yes, like they did. I will tell you that much.
And no more. You will take my words, were I to write them down, and twist and turn and pervert them to suit yourselves. I will not allow that.
Rather, I want to return to the gentleman I mentioned in the beginning of my writing. It is raining, see, and so I know he comes. He comes for me.
When I was lead investigator, I was tasked to provide shelter for him. He would visit twice a year. His arrival was always kept in the strictest confidence between the President and me. He only ever stayed a day each time.
His work was at night. In the early evenings we would sit down for a meal, usually vegetable and noodle soup.
It took four years to strike up a conversation. Can you guess my first question of him? Of course you can. It is the same one you ask of me.
In the ensuing twenty-four years we have known each other he has never answered that question. He will tonight. I will ask him again when I am out in the mud, the dark, the rain; on my knees with his figure looming over mine. And he will answer me, because he knows I will take his words to my grave. He is my executioner. He will wash away my stains on this world. And when he leaves with his rain tomorrow, everything will be clean again.
Don’t forget to click over to He Comes With the Rain Part II to read more.