Post by BlackButterfly14 on Apr 7, 2009 0:11:58 GMT -5
“Good evening. I’m Theodore Blake and you are watching “The Late Night Show” on ABC. Tonight, we will uncover the life of a man who reluctantly survived as being one of the 20 former sex offenders in the “MASS” murder in 1965. After about 40 years, he has been residing in New York City where he fathered his only child, Megan Green. This document of proof of his existent, distributed by who we call “anonymous” will clarify what he had lived through after all these years. Please be advised that what you are about to see will shock you. As you will know, this is the most incredible story throughout American history.”
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One month earlier…
Raymond Green was casually sitting at the coffee table, having his morning breakfast in his small apartment. He came across an article in “The Daily News” about a man who turned himself in after confessing to the police for the two killings of sex offenders. They also reported that he disguised himself as a police officer in order to murder his second offender. Raymond, with caution, tried to control himself. Then Megan, his only daughter, came in to take care of him. Making the assumption that something was going wrong, she came to his aid.
“Dad,” she asked. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
He folded the paper, making note to himself to make a grocery list.
“It’s nothing, dear. Just reading the paper, that’s all,” he replied with diligence.
Raymond never told Megan too much about his past life. In due time, he knew that he was going to be truthful; however, he wasn’t positively sure if she was ready.
As the night quickly approached, Raymond was asleep in front of his fan in the living room on the couch, reliving a horrific nightmare. He was whimpering in his sleep as he saw a woman with a gun in her hand.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!” she said and pulls the trigger.
Terrified, Raymond woke up. At 2AM, he gets up from the couch and relaxes himself with a brandy. After about three glasses, he was about to leave the kitchen to sit back on the couch when he felt a terrible pain in his chest. Groaning and gasping for air, he collapsed to the floor, breaking the glass which awoke Megan.
“DADDY!” she panicked.
Raymond was rushed to the hospital. Megan sat in the waiting room, nervously and praying to God that her father would be okay. After two hours, the doctor came out the E.R. He explained to her that he was having a heart failure and there might have been possible cause of being overly stressed. His doctor highly recommended for him to be run through some tests, have surgery, if necessary, and if things went well; it’s required that he would be put on medication. Raymond was sitting up in the bed with an I.V. and a heart monitor. He tried to reorganize his thoughts and how much he knew that he might not survive. It came to his conclusions that it was now or never. Megan entered the room with a vase full of flowers.
“Dad,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
She set the vase down next to his glasses and pulls up a chair. Raymond tried to hold back tears, but it was too difficult do it with such a weak heart.
“Dad, is there something wrong? Do you need the nurse?”
Raymond’s thoughts were too wrapped around Megan. At the age of 32, she hasn’t really been anything else, except being his 32-year-old daughter. Quietly crying, Raymond has been gunned down by betrayal and guilt. With Megan by his side, he wished that her life was easier if Carrie, his late wife, was standing by.
“I’m sorry,” holding her close as if she was on her death bed. “If your mother was here, I wouldn’t want you to look at me like she would.”
“But- mom died, Daddy,” she said. “There was nothing else the doctors could do for her, even you told me that.”
“Megan, you have to promise and remember one thing,” he said as he grabs her hands. “No matter what goes on in life, there are people out in the world that you will meet.” He tries to control himself again before finishing his sentence. “And when you meet them, you must be careful at all times because--they can do worst things to you like they did to your mother.”
She lets go of him, confused by his words.
“Dad, you aren’t making any sense.”
Raymond didn’t want to tell her, but show her what he meant. So he points to the closet where his clothes were neatly hanged. As she got up to go to the closet, he said, “Open it and reach into my left pocket.”
Reaching in, she finds a sliver key. She looks at him.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Whenever you are ready, go home to my room and you will find a black tool box. That key opens it.”
Two weeks after Raymond’s collapse, Megan came home from a job interview and during those two weeks, the key her father gave her had been on the key holder. Also during those two weeks, she pretended that the key wasn’t there. She sat down and turned on the television. Turning to the news, they were reporting about the man who killed two sex offenders. As she was watching it, Megan sat there, wondering about her father’s words and then turns around to look at the key. She turns the television off, hesitantly takes the key from the holder and goes to his room. Carefully, she goes through drawer after drawer to find the black tool box. Megan looked under the bed and in the closet, but there was nothing there. Finally, she almost stopped searching until she noticed a piece of the wood floor was slightly loose. Taking a pocket knife from one of the drawers, she pried it open and there lied the black tool box. Gently taking out the box, she sat down on the floor and placed it on her lap. Then, Megan unlocked it and before she opened the box, she was making a hypothesis in the back of her mind. What was it that her father wanted her to see in this box? As if this was the part where Jack was about to pop out, she slowly opened it. There were family photos, an ace of clovers, torn up dollar bills from 1965 and a tear drop diamond earring. Underneath it was a journal. A leathery brown cover that was wrapped with a leathery string and had the numbers: 071260 carved on the back. As she was unwrapping the journal, Megan was feeling anxious in a concerned way. Opening to the first entry, it didn’t seem too bad.
July 13th, 1960
At the current age of 25, I’ve become a wanted man on and off the scene. For about a month and two days, I’ve been traveling to different parts of the country to keep the feds off me. Ever since the heist, they’ve been after me. They had already arrested Ben, my best friend who was part of the scam; he had confessed and said that the whole thing was my idea and now, they wanted to put me behind bars. I can recall being behind those metal lines. While I’m in the danger zone with only $2 million dollars worth of diamonds in my pocket and my duffle bag that I keep all my clothes and my journal, I would reflect on the reason why I have the journal. After I barely made it out of high school, I almost overdosed on sleeping pills because I was suffering from severe depression. Then when my mother took me to doctor’s office, all they did was gave me more drugs to consume. Finally, Dr. Matthew, my psychiatrist, just gave this to me. Honestly, it was the smartest thing that he had ever done. Now my only conflict is to figure out where to hide the diamonds and I need to find a place fast.
August 8th, 1960
They finally caught me. “Back to the jail cell with you,” one of the guards said to me with an idiotic grin. Boy, I wanted to slap that grin off. Officer Porter would always make gestures at me whenever I walked passed him during our free time. Normally, I wouldn’t be surprised if anyone ever looked at someone in any fashion, they were either beaten half to death or the worse thing that I would dare not explain. Actually, I wouldn’t want to describe it. I’ve kept my distance, stayed on one side on the field. Sad to say, some have made attempts for escape like last week for an example. This white boy seemed like a mental patient than a prisoner. He would pace back and forth half the time and there were other times where he would bounce the ball on the wall. It was as if he was back in elementary, but they didn’t have 18-years-old behaving at the age of 4. Soon after a couple of guys started beating up on him because he could shut him up on his first night here, the same group of guys come up to him. Some looked at him, while others, tried to manipulate him. They practically dared him to try to climb over the fence, in which he did, but in the end, he ended up getting popped in the back of the head. Everything went back to the way things were after that. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, yet.
December 24th, 1963
It’s very dim on this Christmas’ Eve. They released me two months ago and I’ve never been this lucky. I met a very exquisite woman. Her name was Maria Ferguson. It seemed that I had a thing for older women due to the fact that she looked like a 23-year-old trapped in a 30-year-old’s body. Cliché, yes, but maybe it was because she was 5’4 and I’m only 5’6. Maria’s a secretary at the NYPD and now was a part-time cleaner. She would go to church every Sunday and I sometimes went with her, but on the side, I would make other plans. She tells me that God won’t forgive sinners who don’t go unto the house of the Lord unless they wish to receive forgiveness. When we spend time together, we act like a married couple. That was in her eyes. I never saw things the way she did. We spent our first holiday and it was pleasant for a while.
There was one time when she told me that she loved me, I hesitated. I didn’t know why, but I was having a feeling where I wasn’t sure if what I’m embracing with her is real love. It feels like I’m searching for my purpose to be with her. I feel like my conscious is my mother and it was telling me, “Your love for her is not enough.”
February 14th, 1964
Something has just occurred. When I was leaving from the shoe factory after my first day on the job, I walked passed “Lauren’s Diner” when I first laid my eyes on this miraculous-looking brunette. She looked like she was about 16 or 17 and I felt like I was another 16-year-old in love. I know that I shouldn’t be with a minor, but the way she was all uniformed in white and pink, just gave me this tingling sensation. I went in and she was my waitress. I order a burger, fries and a shake. Greeting me with a smile, I couldn’t help but take it all in. She was like a breath of fresh air with those pearly whites. As soon as I was about to leave, I left her a big tip, a $20 tip to be exact. I think I might want to go back there again on my lunch break, hoping to see her there.
March 4th, 1964
Maria has been very possessive. Just yesterday, she asked if she would move in with me and told her that I wasn’t ready for that. Of course, she was angry, which explains why I have a knot on my forehead that was bigger than a quarter. Her constant complaining is giving me a migraine. After four months of a relationship, it has come to my conclusions where I must draw the line. I’m in love with Charlotte, the beautiful waitress. I cannot let her know about us. I brought her flowers almost everyday and it seemed that she appreciated them. There was one time where I followed her home, just to be sure that she was safe in her own home. I love her dearly. I wish she knew how much she means to me. It’s been hard to even have courage to express it to her. Why does this bother me? I have to do one thing first: I have to end it between Maria and I before trouble begin to stir.
March 28th, 1964
I spent the most wonderful time with Charlotte. I waited for her to get off of work so the two of us could spend more time together. She declined at first, but she accepted the invitation. I took her back to my apartment and we had a glass of brandy. We talked for hours and I had the sweetest kiss coming from her temptress mouth. I wanted more, but she pushed me away. I was dying for more, but she had to leave. I gave her my number so whenever she needed me, she would call. I’ve been going to see Mrs. Barry, the criminal psychiatrist, for about two weeks now and today seemed to be very strange. She asked me if I’m seeing another woman behind Maria’s back. I didn’t know how she knew of this, but I pretended like I didn’t know what she was talking about. She told me that she saw me following a girl the other day. How could she know Charlotte? Again, I was trying to pretend that she was making things up to make me confess. The more she asked me, the more I became angry and I stormed out her office.
Maria and I haven’t spoken in about 3 weeks. When I called in to check on her, she answered in a raspy and seemingly deep voice. It was like I was having a conversation with the Devil himself. I offered my time for her, but she responses in a nasty voice that she was too busy and that I didn’t call her anymore. Suddenly, the line went dead. Here I was being nice for a change and now, she acts like she has a life. I still haven’t broken up with her, but I’m making every chance I can to tell her, but my guess is that we are on break for the time being.
June 18th, 1964
Last week, I followed Charlotte home. When she saw me, she started walking fast. I called out her name as I was walking the same pace. Then she started to run and I ran after her. When she got to her apartment building she started to panic. She tried to get the key in the door, but I made it just before she tried to get inside. I held her tightly, begging to answer why she has called. She started crying out for help, but I took her to the nearest room and I closed the door. She begged me not to hurt her and I told her that I would never hurt her. I tried to kiss her, but she slapped me in the face. As she sobbed, I whispered in her ear that I loved her. I tried to undo her clothes, but someone was coming. I got up and climbed out the window.
Then on Wednesday, around 3:30am, Officer Porter broke into my apartment, telling me that I was under arrest for sexual harassment and rape. I didn’t understand how that was possible. I’m being charged with a crime that I did not commit, but when I went before a judge yesterday, they told me that there was evidence. Mrs. Barry had presented her report on our weekly sessions. For my verdict, the judge was easy on me and gave me six-months in a federal prison where I will be seeing a new counselor, 10-years on probation, and 20 hours of community service. Also, Charlotte’s parent had placed a restraining order on me and I was to stay 500 feet away from their daughter. I always thought that we were in love, but I was wrong.
The phone rang and Megan’s concentration of reading her father’s journal took her off guard. It was the hospital. She answers it and they told her that it was an emergency and that she’d come to the hospital right now.
After the arrival of the hospital, she went to the third floor to where her father was and asked the front desk where the doctor was. Then a nurse suddenly came up from behind her and asked her to sit down. Megan began to panic even more.
“What happened? Is my father alright?” she asked.
The nurse was silent for the moment, trying to have the courage to tell her.
“WHERE IS HE?” she demanded.
Finally she announced, “Your father was going into cardiac arrest and when we tried to bring him back, it was already too late.”
Megan was lost for words.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
Three weeks after her father’s death, she got a phone call from the law firm, but Megan didn’t bother to pick up the phone; she was still grieving. Neither eating nor bathing, had she sat on the couch with his journal still on the table. Then she picks up her journal, skipping a few entries until she come upon a two-page entire that was the most shocking of all.
February 14th, 1965
I should’ve died when I had the chance, but not right now. Two nights ago, I was coming home from community service. I went to the fridge to get a beer and when I was about to make dinner, Maria stabbed me in the neck, injecting me with painkillers. I fell to the ground. She dragged me to the living room and I was feeling numb all over my body. My mouth was becoming dry as I watched her carry in her suitcase. She pulled out scissors, cuts open my shirt and puts duct tape over my mouth. I kept watching as I was thinking about what she was about to do next. Then she straightens my arms out and suddenly, I saw a nail gun in the case. I started to muffle screams. She takes it out and puts nails in both of my hands. While she preceded this, she began to recite a verse from the Bible while she pulled out “The Destroyer,” a silver gun with a black bottom.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.”
She repeated that line numerously as she thingyed the gun. As she moves her gun, making a cross, her final words to me:
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
She was about to fire until someone shot her in the head. It was Officer Porter. He saved my life that day and I never got to thank him. I lied there watching her bleed out as if she was a bucket full of water that just tipped over. It still haunts every time those dark eyes pierced my wounds. Here I am now in the hospital bed, writing down a survival story that I will hide from the world. Reporters came to me, but I refused their arrival. Porter had stated to them when they found me that my body was positioned in a way that made resemblances of Jesus Christ when he died on the cross. Hands nailed down, sticks handmade into crowns and as investigators believe, she would shoot them in the head and place it on their heads after they die. I want to shut my blinds and hide in the dark for the rest of my life. I don’t want anyone to notice me. I am a man of 30 who takes the role of a boy at 13. I must understand that I lack the ability to understand right from wrong. I will live alone, not knowing my true self.
Tears poured down Megan’s eyes. Her father had faced death before and now that he and Death became acquainted, she understood that his life was harsh in many ways because he made it that way. However, it never explained to her what the meaning of his words. She continued to skip pages until she came to an entry that was actually a letter.
My darling Megan,
If you are reading this journal, then you might be misunderstood by what I’m going to tell you now. For many years of my life, I’ve been hurt by many people I have met. I told my self to never trust anyone until I met your mother. She was my life and had an open heart towards me. However, I’m afraid to say that after you were born and weren’t even three-years-old, I got carried away when I started my old habits. It didn’t just drive your mother away, but it killed her. I left you with your aunt while I had gone back into jail. As ashamed as any mere prisoner, I wanted to change my ways by doing the right thing by raising you. I’m sorry that I haven’t give you a more simple life, but as I’ve watched you grow, you released such a graceful, beautiful woman in you that I feel like I had put up my towel after you left for college. My only concern for you is that after you have returned, you cared more about me than yourself. I want you to go out or hang out with your friends, instead of taking care of me. I appreciate your company, but since it was my fault for sheltering you, I’m giving you the opportunity to go out into the world. Always remember to trust yourself first before others. You may never know what could be the outcome for you. Also, I’m leaving any of my possessions, including this journal, for you to do what you wish with it. My lawyer and I have talked and I made sure that he explains to you what I’m going to hand over. There’s one more thing:
“In every heart, there’s a home. You are my home.”
Take care of yourself and I love you.
Your Father.
Megan closed his journal, holding it close to her and began to pour out tears on to her hand.
The next day, Megan was packing up all of her father’s belongings into boxes. Along with that, she was packing all her things. She got a callback for an internship at an agency in L.A. While she was wrapping glasses in newspaper, the phone rings. She answers it and it was her father’s lawyer. It was only a brief conversation. He had told her about her father’s request for a cremation and that she can to pick up his ashes tomorrow. After she hung up the phone, she continued packing. The moving truck arrived around noon to pick up the boxes. Around 4:30, Megan looked around the apartment. While checking around to see if everything was packed, she went into his empty room. Looked down at what was a loose floor board, she was reminiscing all times spending in his room while he read a bedtime story to her before going to bed.
“Ma’am,” said a young mover.
She stood there with no response.
“Ma’am, is that all there is to put in the truck?”
Finally, she answers,
“Yes, that’s all. I will be right out in a second.”
He nods and walks away. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, she gives a little smile. It was as if she was taking in her father’s favorite pine scented cologne. Megan never kept his journal. Since he left it for her to do what she wanted, she gave it to ABC. When they uncovered his entry from 1965, they realized that he would’ve been the 20th sex offender to be murdered by Maria Ferguson, who she referred herself as an “MASS,” which stands for “Mary’s Agents Sacrifice Sinners.” Raymond Green’s life was premiere on television as a documentary as being one of the most remarkable survivors in 2007.
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One month earlier…
Raymond Green was casually sitting at the coffee table, having his morning breakfast in his small apartment. He came across an article in “The Daily News” about a man who turned himself in after confessing to the police for the two killings of sex offenders. They also reported that he disguised himself as a police officer in order to murder his second offender. Raymond, with caution, tried to control himself. Then Megan, his only daughter, came in to take care of him. Making the assumption that something was going wrong, she came to his aid.
“Dad,” she asked. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
He folded the paper, making note to himself to make a grocery list.
“It’s nothing, dear. Just reading the paper, that’s all,” he replied with diligence.
Raymond never told Megan too much about his past life. In due time, he knew that he was going to be truthful; however, he wasn’t positively sure if she was ready.
As the night quickly approached, Raymond was asleep in front of his fan in the living room on the couch, reliving a horrific nightmare. He was whimpering in his sleep as he saw a woman with a gun in her hand.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!” she said and pulls the trigger.
Terrified, Raymond woke up. At 2AM, he gets up from the couch and relaxes himself with a brandy. After about three glasses, he was about to leave the kitchen to sit back on the couch when he felt a terrible pain in his chest. Groaning and gasping for air, he collapsed to the floor, breaking the glass which awoke Megan.
“DADDY!” she panicked.
Raymond was rushed to the hospital. Megan sat in the waiting room, nervously and praying to God that her father would be okay. After two hours, the doctor came out the E.R. He explained to her that he was having a heart failure and there might have been possible cause of being overly stressed. His doctor highly recommended for him to be run through some tests, have surgery, if necessary, and if things went well; it’s required that he would be put on medication. Raymond was sitting up in the bed with an I.V. and a heart monitor. He tried to reorganize his thoughts and how much he knew that he might not survive. It came to his conclusions that it was now or never. Megan entered the room with a vase full of flowers.
“Dad,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
She set the vase down next to his glasses and pulls up a chair. Raymond tried to hold back tears, but it was too difficult do it with such a weak heart.
“Dad, is there something wrong? Do you need the nurse?”
Raymond’s thoughts were too wrapped around Megan. At the age of 32, she hasn’t really been anything else, except being his 32-year-old daughter. Quietly crying, Raymond has been gunned down by betrayal and guilt. With Megan by his side, he wished that her life was easier if Carrie, his late wife, was standing by.
“I’m sorry,” holding her close as if she was on her death bed. “If your mother was here, I wouldn’t want you to look at me like she would.”
“But- mom died, Daddy,” she said. “There was nothing else the doctors could do for her, even you told me that.”
“Megan, you have to promise and remember one thing,” he said as he grabs her hands. “No matter what goes on in life, there are people out in the world that you will meet.” He tries to control himself again before finishing his sentence. “And when you meet them, you must be careful at all times because--they can do worst things to you like they did to your mother.”
She lets go of him, confused by his words.
“Dad, you aren’t making any sense.”
Raymond didn’t want to tell her, but show her what he meant. So he points to the closet where his clothes were neatly hanged. As she got up to go to the closet, he said, “Open it and reach into my left pocket.”
Reaching in, she finds a sliver key. She looks at him.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Whenever you are ready, go home to my room and you will find a black tool box. That key opens it.”
Two weeks after Raymond’s collapse, Megan came home from a job interview and during those two weeks, the key her father gave her had been on the key holder. Also during those two weeks, she pretended that the key wasn’t there. She sat down and turned on the television. Turning to the news, they were reporting about the man who killed two sex offenders. As she was watching it, Megan sat there, wondering about her father’s words and then turns around to look at the key. She turns the television off, hesitantly takes the key from the holder and goes to his room. Carefully, she goes through drawer after drawer to find the black tool box. Megan looked under the bed and in the closet, but there was nothing there. Finally, she almost stopped searching until she noticed a piece of the wood floor was slightly loose. Taking a pocket knife from one of the drawers, she pried it open and there lied the black tool box. Gently taking out the box, she sat down on the floor and placed it on her lap. Then, Megan unlocked it and before she opened the box, she was making a hypothesis in the back of her mind. What was it that her father wanted her to see in this box? As if this was the part where Jack was about to pop out, she slowly opened it. There were family photos, an ace of clovers, torn up dollar bills from 1965 and a tear drop diamond earring. Underneath it was a journal. A leathery brown cover that was wrapped with a leathery string and had the numbers: 071260 carved on the back. As she was unwrapping the journal, Megan was feeling anxious in a concerned way. Opening to the first entry, it didn’t seem too bad.
July 13th, 1960
At the current age of 25, I’ve become a wanted man on and off the scene. For about a month and two days, I’ve been traveling to different parts of the country to keep the feds off me. Ever since the heist, they’ve been after me. They had already arrested Ben, my best friend who was part of the scam; he had confessed and said that the whole thing was my idea and now, they wanted to put me behind bars. I can recall being behind those metal lines. While I’m in the danger zone with only $2 million dollars worth of diamonds in my pocket and my duffle bag that I keep all my clothes and my journal, I would reflect on the reason why I have the journal. After I barely made it out of high school, I almost overdosed on sleeping pills because I was suffering from severe depression. Then when my mother took me to doctor’s office, all they did was gave me more drugs to consume. Finally, Dr. Matthew, my psychiatrist, just gave this to me. Honestly, it was the smartest thing that he had ever done. Now my only conflict is to figure out where to hide the diamonds and I need to find a place fast.
August 8th, 1960
They finally caught me. “Back to the jail cell with you,” one of the guards said to me with an idiotic grin. Boy, I wanted to slap that grin off. Officer Porter would always make gestures at me whenever I walked passed him during our free time. Normally, I wouldn’t be surprised if anyone ever looked at someone in any fashion, they were either beaten half to death or the worse thing that I would dare not explain. Actually, I wouldn’t want to describe it. I’ve kept my distance, stayed on one side on the field. Sad to say, some have made attempts for escape like last week for an example. This white boy seemed like a mental patient than a prisoner. He would pace back and forth half the time and there were other times where he would bounce the ball on the wall. It was as if he was back in elementary, but they didn’t have 18-years-old behaving at the age of 4. Soon after a couple of guys started beating up on him because he could shut him up on his first night here, the same group of guys come up to him. Some looked at him, while others, tried to manipulate him. They practically dared him to try to climb over the fence, in which he did, but in the end, he ended up getting popped in the back of the head. Everything went back to the way things were after that. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, yet.
December 24th, 1963
It’s very dim on this Christmas’ Eve. They released me two months ago and I’ve never been this lucky. I met a very exquisite woman. Her name was Maria Ferguson. It seemed that I had a thing for older women due to the fact that she looked like a 23-year-old trapped in a 30-year-old’s body. Cliché, yes, but maybe it was because she was 5’4 and I’m only 5’6. Maria’s a secretary at the NYPD and now was a part-time cleaner. She would go to church every Sunday and I sometimes went with her, but on the side, I would make other plans. She tells me that God won’t forgive sinners who don’t go unto the house of the Lord unless they wish to receive forgiveness. When we spend time together, we act like a married couple. That was in her eyes. I never saw things the way she did. We spent our first holiday and it was pleasant for a while.
There was one time when she told me that she loved me, I hesitated. I didn’t know why, but I was having a feeling where I wasn’t sure if what I’m embracing with her is real love. It feels like I’m searching for my purpose to be with her. I feel like my conscious is my mother and it was telling me, “Your love for her is not enough.”
February 14th, 1964
Something has just occurred. When I was leaving from the shoe factory after my first day on the job, I walked passed “Lauren’s Diner” when I first laid my eyes on this miraculous-looking brunette. She looked like she was about 16 or 17 and I felt like I was another 16-year-old in love. I know that I shouldn’t be with a minor, but the way she was all uniformed in white and pink, just gave me this tingling sensation. I went in and she was my waitress. I order a burger, fries and a shake. Greeting me with a smile, I couldn’t help but take it all in. She was like a breath of fresh air with those pearly whites. As soon as I was about to leave, I left her a big tip, a $20 tip to be exact. I think I might want to go back there again on my lunch break, hoping to see her there.
March 4th, 1964
Maria has been very possessive. Just yesterday, she asked if she would move in with me and told her that I wasn’t ready for that. Of course, she was angry, which explains why I have a knot on my forehead that was bigger than a quarter. Her constant complaining is giving me a migraine. After four months of a relationship, it has come to my conclusions where I must draw the line. I’m in love with Charlotte, the beautiful waitress. I cannot let her know about us. I brought her flowers almost everyday and it seemed that she appreciated them. There was one time where I followed her home, just to be sure that she was safe in her own home. I love her dearly. I wish she knew how much she means to me. It’s been hard to even have courage to express it to her. Why does this bother me? I have to do one thing first: I have to end it between Maria and I before trouble begin to stir.
March 28th, 1964
I spent the most wonderful time with Charlotte. I waited for her to get off of work so the two of us could spend more time together. She declined at first, but she accepted the invitation. I took her back to my apartment and we had a glass of brandy. We talked for hours and I had the sweetest kiss coming from her temptress mouth. I wanted more, but she pushed me away. I was dying for more, but she had to leave. I gave her my number so whenever she needed me, she would call. I’ve been going to see Mrs. Barry, the criminal psychiatrist, for about two weeks now and today seemed to be very strange. She asked me if I’m seeing another woman behind Maria’s back. I didn’t know how she knew of this, but I pretended like I didn’t know what she was talking about. She told me that she saw me following a girl the other day. How could she know Charlotte? Again, I was trying to pretend that she was making things up to make me confess. The more she asked me, the more I became angry and I stormed out her office.
Maria and I haven’t spoken in about 3 weeks. When I called in to check on her, she answered in a raspy and seemingly deep voice. It was like I was having a conversation with the Devil himself. I offered my time for her, but she responses in a nasty voice that she was too busy and that I didn’t call her anymore. Suddenly, the line went dead. Here I was being nice for a change and now, she acts like she has a life. I still haven’t broken up with her, but I’m making every chance I can to tell her, but my guess is that we are on break for the time being.
June 18th, 1964
Last week, I followed Charlotte home. When she saw me, she started walking fast. I called out her name as I was walking the same pace. Then she started to run and I ran after her. When she got to her apartment building she started to panic. She tried to get the key in the door, but I made it just before she tried to get inside. I held her tightly, begging to answer why she has called. She started crying out for help, but I took her to the nearest room and I closed the door. She begged me not to hurt her and I told her that I would never hurt her. I tried to kiss her, but she slapped me in the face. As she sobbed, I whispered in her ear that I loved her. I tried to undo her clothes, but someone was coming. I got up and climbed out the window.
Then on Wednesday, around 3:30am, Officer Porter broke into my apartment, telling me that I was under arrest for sexual harassment and rape. I didn’t understand how that was possible. I’m being charged with a crime that I did not commit, but when I went before a judge yesterday, they told me that there was evidence. Mrs. Barry had presented her report on our weekly sessions. For my verdict, the judge was easy on me and gave me six-months in a federal prison where I will be seeing a new counselor, 10-years on probation, and 20 hours of community service. Also, Charlotte’s parent had placed a restraining order on me and I was to stay 500 feet away from their daughter. I always thought that we were in love, but I was wrong.
The phone rang and Megan’s concentration of reading her father’s journal took her off guard. It was the hospital. She answers it and they told her that it was an emergency and that she’d come to the hospital right now.
After the arrival of the hospital, she went to the third floor to where her father was and asked the front desk where the doctor was. Then a nurse suddenly came up from behind her and asked her to sit down. Megan began to panic even more.
“What happened? Is my father alright?” she asked.
The nurse was silent for the moment, trying to have the courage to tell her.
“WHERE IS HE?” she demanded.
Finally she announced, “Your father was going into cardiac arrest and when we tried to bring him back, it was already too late.”
Megan was lost for words.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
Three weeks after her father’s death, she got a phone call from the law firm, but Megan didn’t bother to pick up the phone; she was still grieving. Neither eating nor bathing, had she sat on the couch with his journal still on the table. Then she picks up her journal, skipping a few entries until she come upon a two-page entire that was the most shocking of all.
February 14th, 1965
I should’ve died when I had the chance, but not right now. Two nights ago, I was coming home from community service. I went to the fridge to get a beer and when I was about to make dinner, Maria stabbed me in the neck, injecting me with painkillers. I fell to the ground. She dragged me to the living room and I was feeling numb all over my body. My mouth was becoming dry as I watched her carry in her suitcase. She pulled out scissors, cuts open my shirt and puts duct tape over my mouth. I kept watching as I was thinking about what she was about to do next. Then she straightens my arms out and suddenly, I saw a nail gun in the case. I started to muffle screams. She takes it out and puts nails in both of my hands. While she preceded this, she began to recite a verse from the Bible while she pulled out “The Destroyer,” a silver gun with a black bottom.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.”
She repeated that line numerously as she thingyed the gun. As she moves her gun, making a cross, her final words to me:
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
She was about to fire until someone shot her in the head. It was Officer Porter. He saved my life that day and I never got to thank him. I lied there watching her bleed out as if she was a bucket full of water that just tipped over. It still haunts every time those dark eyes pierced my wounds. Here I am now in the hospital bed, writing down a survival story that I will hide from the world. Reporters came to me, but I refused their arrival. Porter had stated to them when they found me that my body was positioned in a way that made resemblances of Jesus Christ when he died on the cross. Hands nailed down, sticks handmade into crowns and as investigators believe, she would shoot them in the head and place it on their heads after they die. I want to shut my blinds and hide in the dark for the rest of my life. I don’t want anyone to notice me. I am a man of 30 who takes the role of a boy at 13. I must understand that I lack the ability to understand right from wrong. I will live alone, not knowing my true self.
Tears poured down Megan’s eyes. Her father had faced death before and now that he and Death became acquainted, she understood that his life was harsh in many ways because he made it that way. However, it never explained to her what the meaning of his words. She continued to skip pages until she came to an entry that was actually a letter.
My darling Megan,
If you are reading this journal, then you might be misunderstood by what I’m going to tell you now. For many years of my life, I’ve been hurt by many people I have met. I told my self to never trust anyone until I met your mother. She was my life and had an open heart towards me. However, I’m afraid to say that after you were born and weren’t even three-years-old, I got carried away when I started my old habits. It didn’t just drive your mother away, but it killed her. I left you with your aunt while I had gone back into jail. As ashamed as any mere prisoner, I wanted to change my ways by doing the right thing by raising you. I’m sorry that I haven’t give you a more simple life, but as I’ve watched you grow, you released such a graceful, beautiful woman in you that I feel like I had put up my towel after you left for college. My only concern for you is that after you have returned, you cared more about me than yourself. I want you to go out or hang out with your friends, instead of taking care of me. I appreciate your company, but since it was my fault for sheltering you, I’m giving you the opportunity to go out into the world. Always remember to trust yourself first before others. You may never know what could be the outcome for you. Also, I’m leaving any of my possessions, including this journal, for you to do what you wish with it. My lawyer and I have talked and I made sure that he explains to you what I’m going to hand over. There’s one more thing:
“In every heart, there’s a home. You are my home.”
Take care of yourself and I love you.
Your Father.
Megan closed his journal, holding it close to her and began to pour out tears on to her hand.
The next day, Megan was packing up all of her father’s belongings into boxes. Along with that, she was packing all her things. She got a callback for an internship at an agency in L.A. While she was wrapping glasses in newspaper, the phone rings. She answers it and it was her father’s lawyer. It was only a brief conversation. He had told her about her father’s request for a cremation and that she can to pick up his ashes tomorrow. After she hung up the phone, she continued packing. The moving truck arrived around noon to pick up the boxes. Around 4:30, Megan looked around the apartment. While checking around to see if everything was packed, she went into his empty room. Looked down at what was a loose floor board, she was reminiscing all times spending in his room while he read a bedtime story to her before going to bed.
“Ma’am,” said a young mover.
She stood there with no response.
“Ma’am, is that all there is to put in the truck?”
Finally, she answers,
“Yes, that’s all. I will be right out in a second.”
He nods and walks away. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, she gives a little smile. It was as if she was taking in her father’s favorite pine scented cologne. Megan never kept his journal. Since he left it for her to do what she wanted, she gave it to ABC. When they uncovered his entry from 1965, they realized that he would’ve been the 20th sex offender to be murdered by Maria Ferguson, who she referred herself as an “MASS,” which stands for “Mary’s Agents Sacrifice Sinners.” Raymond Green’s life was premiere on television as a documentary as being one of the most remarkable survivors in 2007.