I'm not really sure how to begin this story. No doubt, it's a story that needs to be told. If nothing else, but to understand the burning question of why. Why it was, in one man's judgment, that over fifty thousand people deserved to die. Why would one man, who under normal circumstances was a great guy, decide to explode?
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My name is Rowan Lynch. The man I am writing about is my father Alexander Ishmael Lynch. Since I can't write like he used to I'll just tell you what I've found and transcribe it word for word. Besides, I wouldn't want anything I'd have to say to pervert or twist anything he wrote. I made a promise when I spoke with him last that I would find the file on his computer. That I would try my hardest to use what I found there to explain to the world why he was about to do what he had done.
on the computer of Alexander Lynch:
I'm beginning this diary as an escape. I may not write in it much as life tends to keep me busy these days. I'm a 38 year old soon to be divorcee, for the second time. I suppose to get the most accurate picture of my life one would have to begin at the alpha.
In my youth I was in love with God. Not necessarily Jesus, just God. I looked upon this place and explored it. I held leaves of trees up to the sunshine to see the veins. I ate dirt.
One life changing event, in retrospect, was a twisted one. I was a kid, and we lived across the street from a cemetery. This place was huge, no one ever went there, and there were many many beautiful trees, plants, flowers everywhere, and of course stones. I liked it because I've never really liked people all that much. I was at peace in a cemetery. Fitting and justified I suppose.
I often said it aloud as I used to walk through the place, especially to the little tombstones. Babies. Kids. Little ones. Ones that had died before they could deceive.
"Good for them" I used to think to myself. They were the lucky ones. The ones that expired before humanity had a chance to destroy that which actually made them divine.
The instance I'm talking about came one beautifully clear day. Actually, the sky wasn't entirely clear, there were the puffy cumulus clouds floating on by. I lay in a field that had yet to hold the corpses of our war's dead. The field held maybe a dozen from previous wars. Mostly World War Two, one, and the Spanish American War. There were four cannons that looked like they came from World War One sitting at the four corners of the field, and a massive flagpole in the center. I lay on the grass that would hold the body of a child not yet born. But,
none of that was ever on my mind until later. What was on my mind was that there were little bubbles in the sky. They were everywhere! I lay there thinking about what these nearly invisible bubbles were, in the shade of a huge oak tree.
"I suppose your a part of me too then?” I asked them, fully awaiting and expecting a response.
That moment the wind lifted from nowhere and parted the leaves of the tree. The sun shone through hard in the little envelope of opportunity provided by its cousin wind, and it beamed on me.
I felt the heat, and looked up though I was immediately blinded.
"Jesus...!" I snapped my face away from the garish harshness that had suddenly invaded my peace.
The wind slowed itself, as if to apologize for being overly excited that a mortal could speak with it; and returned the leaves of the huge oak tree to its previous place.
I smiled to myself, knowing I had a completely unique relationship with this place. It was comforting to know that if the people here either didn't care or didn't want to care about the soul locked in this cage, then at the very least the Mother did. Throughout my life she would give more answers, yet more questions that would follow.