Published: 2025-11-06

It started 20 years ago, I was still a college student at the time. Both my father and my mother were doctors; it was to be expected for them to put me through medical school. I never cared for medicine — or studying in general, for that matter — I preferred to live one day at a time, enjoy the pleasures of life, that kind of stuff, you know. When you have your parents’ money and decent looks, you can get away with anything.

Parties were wild back then. I started smoking, soon I was taking pills, and the last thing I knew, I was shooting the stuff straight into my veins. Everybody was doing it, I just wanted to be popular. More than once, I woke up in a pool of my own vomit, not knowing where I was, how I got there, or who the other people by my side were. Those were good times, but it wasn’t always a good time.

My grades started plummeting — they were never that good to begin with — soon I stopped showing up altogether. I was too sleep-deprived to care for classes, I never saw myself as a doctor anyway, there was no reason to waste my time in a classroom anymore. Thus, I partied some more: drank more, did more drugs, had more sex; it was great.

As to be expected, they kicked me out of college. My parents wouldn’t like hearing the news; therefore, I didn’t tell them. It was better that way, as I didn’t have to deal with their sermon and also got to keep the tuition money. A win-win situation.

It was naive to think that my parents, two professionals in the field of medicine, wouldn’t find out their son stopped showing up at medical school, but a man can dream. When they found out, a couple of months later, they were not pleased. They wanted me to resume my studies, but I wasn’t willing to put in the effort; thus, they cut my credit card and kicked me out of the house. I was homeless, but I didn’t really care; I spent most of my time out partying anyway.

What nobody told me was that nobody would want to party with you if you’re broke. I suddenly had fewer friends since I couldn’t afford drinks or drugs. I had my grandmother’s couch to crash at, and I could always steal food from her refrigerator after she went to sleep. She wouldn’t notice; most of the time, she would forget I was there.

But my grandmother’s couch and her cans of soup wouldn’t satiate my hunger for excitement. I wanted to drink, and dance, and make love, and wake up in a stranger’s bed in a pool of my own vomit; thus, I stole. That’s a sin right there, you know, “thou shalt not steal,” or something. Anyway, I started small, first I took grandma’s gold earrings; she was kidding herself by thinking she would wear them again, she wouldn’t, the lady was around 90 years old and almost blind, nobody was going to invite her to a cocktail party anytime soon.

I figured grandma wouldn’t need a diamond necklace, or a wedding ring, or a hairdryer, and as a matter of fact, she didn’t. A toaster, a blender, and a TV all ended up in the pawnshop. I didn’t get nearly as much money as these items cost, but I was technically getting them for free…

Anyway, one day, grandma realized her TV was gone, and what’s more, the TV stand was gone too; by that point, the house was almost furniture and home appliances-free. I resisted the idea of selling the couch because I needed it to sleep on.

My grandmother panicked and called the police. I explained to her that it was I who took her stuff, and she hit me in the head with a broom while calling me a rascal. She was a saint, that woman, God bless her soul.

Now I was truly homeless. Fearing an encounter with the police, I left my grandmother’s house and never came back — not that she would take me back anyway. I stayed here and there, sometimes I slept in the park, sometimes in a shelter. Life had become harder than I expected. Most of all, I resented not having anyone to steal from. The cravings would make me squirm; I was on edge all the time.

I started stealing here and there, mostly from women who returned home after a day of work; they never carried much, but they were also less likely to beat me up than men — not saying that this never happened. My luck turned around when I exchanged part of my loot for a revolver; it wasn’t very potent, but it’d enable me to move to bigger things.

A hand revolver, six bullets, and insatiable cravings are a dangerous combination…

I used my revolver for the first time one night; I was shaking with excitement, but mostly because of the cravings. I entered the convenience store and asked for a packet of cigarettes. The clerk opened the register, I took my gun out. He raised his hands; it probably wasn’t his first rodeo. I told him what I wanted, he complied. I put the money in my pocket and turned towards the exit door. Someone let out a scream. I turned around and found the clerk holding a shotgun. I ducked for cover, the clerk shot twice. I shot three times, got up, and ran as the clerk reloaded his arm. The last thing I saw was a woman lying in a pool of blood. A woman whom I had killed.

That was the last time I used my revolver, and I’ve been sober since that day.

“Do you repent for your sins?” The father, hiding behind the confessional, asked.

“I do.”

“I have one more question, son.”

“Go ahead, father.”

“Where and when did that crime take place? The robbery and homicide.”

“I don’t quite remember the when; it may have been around mid-July 1977, in the grocery store near New Town Park.”

“I absolve you of your sins.”

A gunshot.

THE END.