A Galway Epiphany

Benjamin J. Cullen.

A fine worthy name he felt.

Nobody called him

Benny

Or Ben

Or any of those mundane derivations.

At least they never called him that a second time.

He was in his late forties. His looks were average, nothing stood out. He liked it thus and dressed accordingly, conservative but expensive.

He was fueled by hate.

A dark, uncompromising, all-encompassing hatred, and he hugged it to himself like a malevolent lover. He didn’t have a tortured childhood; like everything else, it was mundane. Ordinary parents who were too normal to detect anything amiss in their only son. He was quiet, which suited their quiet dispositions.

In his late teens he had discovered The Art of War

By Sun Tzu.

It spoke to him directly when he memorized chapter 12.

“The Attack by Fire.”

Which began,

He would adapt this thesis to suit himself like all the best nutjobs. He was chuffed to learn that Tony Soprano quoted the book in the television series. Later it amused him to learn that the two most read books in American prisons were

And

He’d never admit it, his arrogance and intellectual contempt would not allow it, but he did once sneak a peek at the Sheldon, muttered,

“A precursor to the era of Kardashians.”

His mantra was simple:

Burn everything.

What did burn was his intelligence. And with it rode contempt. He learned early to adopt a facade of acceptance so he could blend in.

He was fascinated by the concept of love.

He heard mutterings,

I love you

Love to

Love always

And was truly baffled.

Now hate, it felt real, set you afire, and even the very expression

I hate you

Shocked in its simplicity.

He had a twisted sense of the absurd, liked to say,

“Ah, love, what’s not to hate?”

His favorite expression, the one that really got him, was

“I love you to death.”

Ah, bliss.

He could nearly grasp it.

Nearly.

He’d studied to become an accountant. Figures were feelings-free, no emotion attached. Then he met Alison. She was no beauty but she gave him camouflage, until,

Until,

She said, after a few short weeks,

“We’re done.”

Instant rage, brimming under a tight icy politeness as he asked,

“Why?”

She smoked the odd cigarette, especially when she was nervous, and had the habit of using long matches, as if she had to keep the flame at a distance.

She said,

“You don’t set me alight.”

Three weeks later, the dorm she lived in was burned to the ground. Alison and two other girls didn’t survive.

Benjamin bought a box of long matches after the funerals.

Nonsafety brand.