Sticks and Stones

His bloodied, trembling hands had the skin of his knuckles peeled off. Emmet was a nice guy. Polite to his neighbors, a law-abiding citizen that never had any run-ins with law enforcement; his wife thought of him as someone with the perfect balance between boring routine and adventurous excitement. It's hard to say what she meant by that exactly. She was going to surprise him with the news that she was expecting. She was two months in, apparently. After eight years of marriage, they believed that they were ready to add someone else to their world.

Emmet was loved by his co-workers. "Emmet? Man, let me tell you about Mr. Fantastic. That's the nickname he earned after being the only one in the office tall enough to screw in a light bulb in the women's restroom without a ladder, a job that good old Earl couldn't manage to do because... well... let's just say that Earl's seen better days. Emmet just went ahead and did it without anyone asking. That's the type of guy he is. He was the best man at my younger brother's wedding. I've never met anyone who doesn't like Emmet. Solid guy!" Fred was the co-worker that most people avoided. If he greeted you and you greeted him back, you'd be stuck in eternal small talk hell. He was a good guy but a bit too chatty for most people's taste. And yet, what he said about Emmet was spot on.

A lot of people out there are nice. Granted, you'll find a lot that are nothing but selfish idiots. And then there are people like Emmet. He would go out of his way to help you out, even if you didn't ask. That's why when Emmet was found with an elderly man's dead body, beaten to death, and all the evidence suggesting that he himself clobbered this poor old man into the afterlife, everyone was shocked.

"No, he never talked about his father. I don't really know why. I figured he had the right to that, you know? I don't tell him everything, either. The places I go, the friends I hang out with after work, the old flame I'm still friends on Facebook with... we're all entitled to keep something to ourselves, right? I never thought that was a problem..." Sandra, Emmet's wife, was at the station answering the detective's questions about her husband. On the surface, she seemed like a happy wife, but as they dug deeper, there were quite a few things that could only be labeled as odd. She even implied that the baby she was expecting was not even her husband's.

Mark Glock was the detective in charge of the case. Emmet, the main suspect, was already in custody. He just needed to establish the motive. Even though Emmet didn't confess or say anything, for that matter, the evidence against him was overwhelming. No lawyer on earth could get him out of this without a miracle. But Emmet, who had said earlier that he wouldn't say anything unless he spoke with his lawyer first, didn't seem like someone who had just murdered his own father. He seemed quite confident and content. It was as if he knew that everything was going to be OK.

After being in holding for five hours, a lawyer appointed by the court went down to the station and got some one on one time with Emmet. It was a bit strange, though. Emmet could afford a lawyer of his own. "And who might you be?" Emmet asked with playful curiosity. "I'm your court-appointed attorney. Jonah Heal, at your service," the man replied, with low energy and hardly any life in his voice. The attorney was pulling out a chair to take a seat, but before doing so, Emmet interjected: "You're not my lawyer. I didn't ask for a court-appointed lawyer. Why are you here, Mr. Heal? No offense, but you seem like you could use some time off." "You think I don't know that?" Mr. Heal replied, annoyed at Emmet's comment. "Look. Here's the deal. You'll be indicted for first-degree murder. The death penalty is almost certain at this point, but given the brutality of the crime, and the fact that it was against a defenseless old man, your own father, there's no way in hell that you're gonna find any type of leniency here. If there were by any chance any particular circumstances and you plead guilty, I may be able to get your sentence changed to life imprisonment. Not even Houdini himself could help you get out of this. It's an open-and-shut case. And regarding why I'm here, I just need to work on something simple for a change. It's just me trying to save my career," the lawyer explained.

Emmet was quiet for a while. The silence in the room was only interrupted by his finger tapping, which occurred as he stared at the worn-out, middle-aged attorney. After what seemed like a long pause, he opened his mouth. "Alright, Mr. Heal. I'll give you what you want," Emmet replied with surprising calmness. "Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Heal? What I'm about to tell you will be quite... shocking, one might say."

The attorney finally sat down. Emmet was sitting down with his hands cuffed to the table. The tranquility in his demeanor was becoming unnerving for the attorney. "Alright. All set. Let's hear your story. And when I say story, I mean whatever is relevant to the murder case," he clarified.

"Very well. I confess to the murder of Edgar Allan Pratt. However, that man was not my father. I reject that notion. That man was a monster. You see... I never knew my real father. Not sure if he died or if he abandoned my mom and me... don't really care either at this point. But Edgar Pratt, my stepfather, was the man that abused my mother non-stop for so many years. I was only a child back then. I knew what he was doing was wrong, though. I wanted us to run away... to leave that man. My mom didn't have the strength to either stand up to him or escape him. I never understood her. She was like a lioness to defend others from injustice, but she never lifted a finger to defend herself."

The attorney interrupted him briefly with a question. "So he used to beat her. Is that what you're saying?" "You're not paying attention, Mr. Heal. I never said that he beat her. You know the saying, sticks, and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, right? I learned early on that it's a big load of crap. Violence can hurt us. But I believe Solomon said it better: The words of the reckless pierce like swords..." The attorney briefly added, "Proverbs 12:18," to which Emmet replied, "Are you a religious man, Mr. Heal?" "Well, I know my way around a few Bible verses." "I saw your judgmental leer from the moment you entered this room. It was a bit hard to find under all the exhaustion on you, but it was still there. I don't blame you, though. Edgar Pratt killed my mother's soul one insult at a time. He never lay hands on her or on me. But he made me hate him so much that I would get dizzy only thinking about him. So I left. My mom ended up in a mental asylum to this day. But yesterday, the man came to see me at my home. How did he find me? He came to me and said that he was sorry. I couldn't believe my ears. I even doubted if he was the same man. I had never heard him apologize for anything before. But as I interjected just to say one thing, he said: let me talk, you goddamn idiot!"

After saying that, Emmet chuckled. "I'm sorry... I didn't chuckle like this the moment he said that to me. I just... lost it. I punched him. I guess the first punch was the biggest deal. I knew very well what I was doing. I didn't feel guilt or regret. It was... liberating. I punched his prosthetic teeth out. I heard as my fist cracked his skull. I felt all the disgusting matter inside him slipping through my knuckles. And I've never felt any better."

After hearing Emmet's account, Heal was flabbergasted, to say the least. Understanding why he did it was one thing, but seeing how he reacted was something else entirely.

At the end of the day, Heal got home and told his wife about this case, which positively baffled him. "I tell you, Martha, I can't really say if the man deserves to die, but he certainly deserves to be locked up. The things I see every day in this job... And you know what's the worst part? Something like that could've been avoided. This society is beyond broken, I tell ya..."