My Brother's Keeper

Too late the morning

Flower frozen in night ice,

Grieving garden's sun.

"What's this supposed to mean?"

"It's a haiku."

"Need I remind you I'm the warden and you're the prisoner? Do you want to come clean on this or not?"

"Come clean how?"

"Writing is a privilege. They say we have to give you privileges but we can take them away too."

"I'm completely lost. Writing is a strain, it's very hard."

"Hard for you? How about your eight victims? How about their families? How hard is it for them? How would they feel to see you glorying in their pain?"

"That isn't about them."

"It's not? I can read the homonyms here. English was my major - unfortunately for you. 'Morning' should be 'mourning' and 'sun' should be 'son'. This is you mocking one of your victim's death."

"It's about me. Each night I die. After what I've done, how can there be hope? I killed because I was dead inside. But I only dug the hole deeper."

"Is that what the psychiatrist told you to say? I've heard all that crap before. If you want sympathy and forgiveness you're not going to get it here. You want to meet God? You're looking at him. I own your life. You see, I am my brother's keeper. And redemption is not to be had for a killer like you."

"I can give no argument. Everything is black."

"As black as a buried coffin, no doubt."

"I don't know what else to do. I'm not saying my writing has any value. I don't know what choice I have but to try and crawl back to the light. I'm not saying I deserve it."

"I'll be the judge of what you deserve. It is I who divines justice. There's a reason why I go home to a warm bed at night and you to a cold cell. Seems I need to make you understand that."

For good people only

"I understand I did my crimes."

"No! No! I don't think so. You are in my charge by the authority granted to me by God. I can do no wrong. But a slithering snake like you must stay in the dark - as dark as your victims' graves. That's what you need to understand."

"I'm lost, just trying to find my way. Sometimes, when I write, I feel I've done something. That I've made a connection. I'm not God. I have no way of knowing. It's probably wishful thinking. But it keeps pouring out of me."

"Filth! That's what keeps pouring out of you. I've been reading it for the past six months. And just for the record, I am God and know what is worthy and what is not. And I'm telling you, this is not."

"How can I know?"

"I'll show you how. Hanssen! Bring me a lighter." The guard stepping forward obliged from his front pocket. "I'm going to burn this notebook of yours and that will be the end of this now and forever. Through these flames I purify and make the world a better place. Now back to your cell!"

Hanssen spoke after the prisoner departed through the heavy metal door. "I thought you said one of your old writing contacts reviewed that notebook and thought it to be "shatteringly honest"."

"Yeah, so?"

"I though you was bringing him in here to let him know."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"I dunno. Because it's the truth?"

"The truth! The truth is he's a killer and must be made to suffer."

"I thought vengeance is the Lord's."

"Did I not say that by divine right I sit here? The Lord's vengeance comes through me. Do you want him to turn into some sort of successful writer after what he's done? How could there be justice in that? I am a stalwart of the Good Book. I am my brother's keeper."

"But you're not supposed to be, right? Nobody owns nobody, I always says."

"I don't know where you get that nonsense from but it's got to stop. You've got everything backwards, Hanssen. I own that bastard and every other prisoner in this place. How else would I be allowed to do that but by the grace of God?"

"Maybe God's got nothing to do with it and it's just people letting you do it."

"Enough of your idiocy! I don't have time to educate you. The total tonnage of what you don't know could fill a mountain. End of discussion."

Hanssen shuffled his feet. "Well, I know what I felt."

The warden by this time was writing with his head down, having already mentally dismissed Hanssen. "Nobody cares what you feel..."

"I guess that's good then, 'cause all I could help feeling when you was burning that book was 'Too late the morning.'"