The Forgivable Sin

So there I found myself, standing all alone in front of a group of people with hate in their eyes, and twitching fingers eager to condemn me to eternal damnation.

How did I get here? It was hard to construct a story, butterfly effect style, that began at the beginning when I was two months old and follow its twists and turns to the now. No, it was impossible. Because, no matter how I tried to spin it, I had been a good person until moments before I did the unthinkable. 

I had been a loving father, a loving husband, a careful employee who knew when to work hard and when to pretend really hard, a dutiful citizen who paid as little tax as he could get away with, and a moderately annoying neighbour.

Harsh raps from the judge’s gavel snapped me out my what-ifs. He was saying something, but it was hard to focus. I could see the hint of a curly wig, but everything else was blurry, like reality itself was fading into memory. Instead, I turned my attention to the jury, whose burning eyes were turned towards the judge.

That young woman in the hoodie, with the restlessly tapping left leg, she would be the first to drop the guillotine. Not because she hated me personally, but because she really didn’t want to be there in the courtroom with all the senile old fools. One of the several men in business suits turned to look at me, and smirked. I sensed there was a hint of curiosity behind that slappable smirk, but who cared. I hated them all, my to-be executioners.

Presently, the judge stopped speaking. I didn’t really notice, but the burning eyes of the jury were back on me, boring holes, so it was clear I had to do something. I cleared my throat laboriously.

“We don’t have all day,” the judge droned. “And considering you refused the right to counsel, it’s clear you don’t really care. Even so, this is your last chance to mount a defence before the jury makes its decision.” The judge tried to work the leather on his face into a kindly smile, but it didn’t work. I looked down at my ten year old torn Converse shoes. I looked around to try and spot my wife, but she wasn’t here.

I exhaled noisily, as I considered my options. Maybe I had done it because I had a secret drug habit, and drug addiction was a disease, not a crime, and this particular drug caused fits of uncontrollable rage. Maybe I had done it, because I had just found out about my wife’s five year long affair. I’d hate to throw her under the bus like this, but she would understand. Maybe, I had found out about my cancer diagnosis. Maybe…

Someone in the jury coughed pointedly. I looked up to see a middle aged woman scowling furiously in my approximate direction. Clearly short sighted, but too vain for spectacles, and also equally clearly, a god fearing executor of medieval justice. She only needed access to a javelin and immunity from prosecution. I giggled internally at the doubly meaningful use of ‘short sighted’. Somewhere, a butterfly flapped its wings furiously to fight off a cyclone.

The sore throated woman’s distraction was more than just that. I knew then that nothing but the truth would do. Were I in the place of one of the suits on the bench, would I forgive myself? Bear in mind that I was someone who had absolutely no issues with cognitive dissonance. I lived and breathed ‘do as I say, not as I do’. And yet, I knew that I would condemn me in a heartbeat. So, the truth then.

“So, this is why I killed that man.”

Gasps from the jury accompanied that pronouncement like thunder to lightning. Come on, there were like thirty five witnesses to the act, and probably a few others who hadn’t been there but would back up the story for giggles. 

“It started from the moment he joined the company. I had never before met such a self absorbed human being, and coming from me, that’s saying something. This man strutted around like we were all privileged just to breathe the same air as him, but this isn’t about that at all. I’ve met a few pompous pricks in my time, it’s not worth killing over.”

I paused for breath, but dared not look at the jury for fear my heartfelt confession would derail in its tracks.

“No, the reason I did it was because this man - this abhorrent creature - deemed it his life’s purpose to tell everyone he met that their jokes weren’t funny.”

A wave of hushed whispers rippled through the crowd. I still continued looking at my battered shoes, but a tremulous voice piped up.

“But but, was this.. man... funny.. himself?”

The judge smacked his desk with as much force as he could muster. It was one of those cases of the effort being far more impressive than the result. Nonetheless, the voices stilled.

“This is most improper, young lady, interrupting a defence while on the panel.” A moment later, he added: “However, I’d like to know the answer to this too, so I’ll let this pass. Don’t speak out of turn again!”

I turned to see that it was the young woman in the hoodie who had asked the question. It wasn’t quite hate in her eyes now, but something… Different. Not daring to scan the woman’s neighbours for their expressions, I forged on.

“No, NO, NO, NO. NO!” I thundered like a trapped god. 

“This man couldn’t make a joke to save his newborn infant’s life. All he did, all he ever did, was strut around, and tell people that their jokes weren’t funny.”

“One day, everything came to a head. I was by the watercooler chatting with colleagues, and we were all laughing at something someone said. It must have been some joke, because if we had even sensed this guy’s presence, we would have walked right away, without the smallest nod to social etiquette.”

“There he was, looking us in our collective eye, and he said with complete and unshakeable self belief: ‘That joke was not funny’.”

“I went into autopilot. Like some kind of miniature Hercules, I picked up the huge flatscreen TV by the coffee machine, picked it right over my head and smashed it… smashed it into…”

My voice choked up with emotion, and I could say no more. When my sobbing stopped, I was surprised to hear a strange sound coming from the direction of the jury. My eyes immediately snapped up to see the medieval executioner lady crying. She was crying! The expression that took over my face then could best be described as confusion.

You may now disagree with my assessment of this story’s climax, but I’m sticking to it and calling it a happy ending.

The judge had his answer within moments of the end of my performance.

“I have worked this job for a long time, and very little I see everyday surprises me but today’s events definitely qualify.”

“If there can ever be something called a forgivable sin, this is it.”

“The jury would like to especially thank you for ridding this world of one of the most loathsome pests I have ever seen, a humourless dunce who unironically appointed himself as joke critic, and nibbled away at countless souls with uninvited, fun-killing barbs.”