Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane

by Jack Steen

  The words my father spoke to me that night, they are forever burned into my memory. They were words his father said to him and his father before him. An initiation as such. All the lessons I’d been taught, all the wisdom my father had shared throughout the years…it now all made sense.

  The love he had for the families we served, the care and attention he exuded towards those who entered our doors seeking help…I understood.

  This was also the night I found out the truth about my mother.

  She couldn’t understand the love my father felt for the families we served. Couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. When she found out, it became too much for her. She couldn’t carry the weight of that type of love and so did the only thing she could.

  She removed herself from the picture.

  21

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  I see the burning question in your eyes, Jack. You really must learn to hide your feelings better.

  No, we never ate my mother’s organs. It was her one request to my father before she took her own life.

  He burned her body as requested and buried her in our garden, untouched, untasted, undefiled.

  That was her word. Not mine. Not my fathers. Hers.

  She didn’t understand. How could she? She wasn’t meant to have found out.

  I’m tired, Jack. Do you mind if I rest my eyes while I finish?

  No, I won’t fall asleep. Soon, death will come and I’ll be asleep for eternity. The light is too bright…ahh, thank you. Can you still see well enough to write? Yes, the bathroom light is fine, thank you.

  22

  CHEF:

  * * *

  The body on the table, she was an older woman, lived on a farm on the outskirts of town. I didn’t know her, just knew of her and her family.

  I asked my father why he picked her for me, why she was my first, my initiation so-to-speak.

  He explained that the first is always one who lived a full life, who had a family and understood what it was to love.

  Each harvest is based on a person’s character, their life.

  Except for the first.

  The first is always the same.

  The heart.

  The heart is the essence of a person, it’s who they are at the core, without the the dressings, without the masks, without the persona they feel they need to be.

  The heart is a delicate organ and really quite tender if prepared correctly.

  It’s not hard to harvest the heart from a body and it’s really quite easy to trim, you just cut everything that doesn’t look like a muscle. You slice it open, trim all the light-colored spongy pieces you missed when trimming it and then cook it as soon as possible.

  The procedure itself doesn’t take too long and it helped that I had an idea of what I was doing, although, truth be told, at that point, I worked on livestock and not a human being.

  Once I’d taken her heart, I sewed her back up, cleaned her skin and then dressed her with the clothes the family had left for her. A simple dress and shift, stockings and plain black shoes. It didn’t take long to dress her with my father’s help and before long we placed her back in the examination room within the funeral home. She was scheduled to be cremated the following morning.

  When a person is cremated, their body is placed within their coffin along with any items the family wishes the deceased loved one to have. Back then, it took three to four hours to cremate a body. Now, it’s quicker with the ovens and technology but back then, it was quite the process. A family member would be there in the beginning but then we would suggest they return home to rest and be with those who are living, that the dead no longer need to be accompanied on their journey.

  I mentioned my father always made enough for two dishes, remember? Well, that’s a little difficult with the heart. There’s really not enough to go around, if you catch my drift.

  That night, while my father made a shepherd’s pie for the memorial feast, he guided me to make the best heart braised in wine dish I’d ever made.

  I honestly don’t think I’ve made one that equalled that first one.

  You have to make sure you slice the heart evenly and you want to ensure they’re clean cuts. If you have the right knife, it’s like cutting through butter. Some like their hearts cubed, but I prefer slim slices. It’s really a matter of taste and choice, I guess.

  I won’t lie. There’s a certain aroma that comes with eating heart. It’s why you season it and braise it in wine, it balances that flavour and makes it more…appealing. Eventually I grew to prefer my hearts to be a little under seasoned and quite enjoyed the strong and robust flavor.

  The secret to the best heart is to let it marinate. It takes a good three to four hours to make the perfect dish, covered in wine, seasoned with garlic, fresh herbs, bacon and onions.

  That dish was meant specifically for the family. Something that we gave to them before they headed home, along with a reminder that we were always there for them, to help them in this journey of finding life after death, if they needed us.

  It’s always about the heart. That was something my father always stressed.

  Finding the love within and sharing it with others. Being there when they need support.

  Does that make me such a horrible monster?

  No. I’m a man who only wanted to be there for others, to help them, to guide them, to be their support when they felt alone and unguided.

  Whether you believe me or not, doesn’t matter.

  I’ll admit that the nefarious act thrilled me as well.

  Not just thrilled me but excited me. Filled me. Nothing else compared and I won’t apologize for that.

  23

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  Jack, I’ve another confession to make.

  This is a secret I’ve held tight to my chest for many many years.

  Let me begin by saying Preacher is innocent.

  Always has been.

  Always will be.

  This was never meant to be his life.

  He’s a carpenter.

  The only thing we share in common is our love for cooking. We at least got that from our father honestly.

  He never had a clue. Never saw the basement. Never ate the special meals prepared for the funeral guests.

  He is and always has been innocent.

  He was as disgusted by the news as everyone else and yet, he never took his love from me. He never understood, but I never asked him to, either.

  He doesn’t ask me about anything, you know? I’m sure you do. You read his letters and listen to his tapes, don’t you? But even before I came onto your ward, he never asked.

  He told me it didn’t matter.

  Can you imagine? It didn’t matter. We were still brothers. Still family.

  Forgive my tears. My brother’s love means more than anything. I’ve missed him. I wish I could say goodbye, hear his voice.

  I don’t suppose…no, of course not.

  Will you say goodbye for me?

  Thank you. Thank…you.

  24

  CHEF:

  * * *

  I’ve never been interested in getting married. I knew I needed a son to pass our tradition to, but there was no…desire in me to procreate. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy women, I just didn’t need one in my life.

  My passion, my drive, my everything was being met in a different way and anything else was just frivolous.

  My brother has a son who showed promise. My plan was to teach him, to groom him but then…well, then I was caught. A simple mistake, really. I forgot to lock the door into my lab from the funeral home and an errant staff member opened the door while I’d gone to visit the washroom. They saw the body on the table and one thing led to another and here I am.

  The funeral home was closed. Our home destroyed. Everything on that lot demolished. My brother was finally able to sell the empty lot but it took a few dozen years. It’s a parking garage now, can you believe it?


  I failed my family. Destroyed my legacy. Condemned our future. It’s amazing my brother hasn’t shunned me.

  Throughout the years, I’ve had enough psychiatrists tell me that my mother’s death left emotional wounds that I’ve never dealt with. My lack of wanting a woman in my life is all due to how my mother reacted when she found out what our lives were really about.

  Makes sense.

  But at the time, it also didn’t matter. I was happy. Content. Satisfied. The closest relationship I ever had with another person, other than my father, was my brother and that was more than enough.

  Even though he never knew the real me, he knew the me that was real and that was enough.

  He was engaged once. The only good thing about that woman was she gave birth to my nephew.

  Otherwise I hated her.

  From the first day we met, we took a strong dislike to one another. I think that’s why my brother never followed through with the marriage, only remained engaged for three years.

  She did her best to keep my brother and I apart. If ever a person drove a wedge between two others, it was her.

  25

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  I like to consider myself a nice man. Friendly. Polite. Easy going.

  I’ve only ever hated one person in my life. It’s true, even here, Jack, there’s no one I hate.

  She’s the only one able to bring out that despicable emotion in me.

  I couldn’t let her continue to ruin my relationship with my brother.

  I couldn’t allow her to continue to destroy us.

  Destroy our family.

  So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

  No, I didn’t harvest her. I’m better than that. Besides, no amount of seasoning and marinating could temper her dryness.

  Surely you’re not disappointed, Jack?

  If you are, let me fix that.

  One night, she came to the house. Her son, my nephew was asleep in the car.

  She only ever came to the house alone with one reason in mind.

  To yell at me. Castrate me. Grind me to dust by her wicked tongue.

  I’d had enough.

  She pushed herself past me, forcing her way into my home. My home. The gall of her. She knew how I felt, how much I hated her, she….

  I know, I know, I need to calm down. Feels good to…feel like this, you know? The rage. The anger. The satisfaction of what I’d done.

  Do I feel guilt? For the Bitch? No.

  She’s the one I would have confessed to, the one I would have admitted…if they’d known. If they’d asked.

  You’re the only one who will know.

  Know what? The truth, Jack. You’re the only one who will know the truth. Do with it what you will. Believe me or not.

  I don’t live with a guilty conscious.

  I won’t die with one either.

  The Bitch.

  She found out. She knew.

  She found one of father’s recipe cards. He liked to write the names of the families on them. She put two and two together and had the audacity to threaten.

  I could have handled her threats. She had no evidence. She wasn’t right in her head. But then she told me she’d left Preacher.

  The Bitch had left my brother a note saying she was done with our psychotic family and wanted out.

  I couldn’t have been happier. Except, for her threats. She was going to the police. She thought to gloat, to rub it in my face, to make me scared.

  I punched her. Hard, in the throat. She went down. I punched her again and she was out.

  Now, think about what you would do if you were in my shoes.

  Come on, Jack…think.

  I own and run a funeral home.

  We cremate bodies.

  I had a storage room full of wood caskets.

  What do you think I did?

  Was she alive?

  Oh yes. Very very much alive.

  Perfect timing too, if I say so myself.

  There was a scheduled burning to happen that day so when I turned on the ovens to heat up, I just added her body in one of the old wooden caskets.

  I wish I could say she woke up. That I heard her screams.

  But I heard nothing. Nothing but the roar of the fire, the crank of the engine and the beating of my heart.

  I’d never felt so alive.

  I’d never felt so sick either.

  It’s a heady feeling. That first kill. It’s a rush. A thrill. The best damn feeling you could ever imagine.

  Ever do drugs, Jack?

  The rush. It’s addicting isn’t it?

  Did I give into that rush? What you’re really asking is if I killed again.

  I’m tired Jack. Tired and…ready.

  Some secrets are my own. Some secrets aren’t worth repeating. Some secrets aren’t necessary to reveal.

  Thank you. For listening. For…this.

  What are you doing now? Are you going to suffocate me? Bury my face in a pillow? Give me a little morphine shot?

  I see that glean. I see that smile. I see that need. I know that need

  I know that need.

  You tell me I’m a sadistic creature but you’re the one more tortured than any of us.

  What?

  Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet. You can whisper sweet nothings in my ear as long as you press…ahh, thank you. I’m ready now. Remember your promise…

  * * *

  Note: Chef’s story is told and I’m watching him die with a smile on his face.

  26

  You’re probably wondering what I whispered in his ear just seconds before he died, am I right?

  It sure as hell wasn’t sweet nothings.

  “I’ll tell Preacher to get that fire stoked…his brother is coming home for dinner.”

  The sadistic bastard died with a smile on his face. I doubt it was because he was missing his family or was happy to reunite with the ghosts of his past.

  No, the fucktard had one last wish before he’d died. He’d confessed it to the preacher on staff who in turn told me over a pint at the local bar.

  It was a family tradition to sit around the table and share a large dish of liver and onions following the death of a loved one. Fucking liver and onions.

  Chef’s dying wish was for his dead heart to be sent to his brother.

  Why?

  Why the fuck do you think?

  Sadistic bastards.

  He claims his brother was innocent. That he knew nothing about that basement.

  I call bullshit.

  I can’t wait for the day his brother ends up on my ward. It’ll happen…I’ve no doubt. The family may no longer be in the funeral business but you can’t tell me they’ve lost their appetite for a good smoked jerky.

  No matter how smart these bastards think they are, they always get caught.

  Always.

  But I’m the one with the last laugh…we’ve got strict instructions not to release Chef’s body parts to his family, not even the ashes. We’ll give him a proper burial, the preacher will see to that but then the old man will be rolling in his grave knowing he was burned with all his organs intact.

  Not everyone gets what they wish for.

  27

  It is five twenty in the morning now and Chef lies in his bed with a satisfied smile on his face as his eyelids drift.

  He’ll be dead soon.

  The minutes are counting down. It won’t be long now.

  I sat there for four hours and listened to Chef tell his story.

  Four hours of writing down every single word.

  Was I as sadistic as he said? Did he see the true me or just the me I wanted him to see?

  Does it matter? This story isn’t about me.

  What did you think of Chef?

  I warned you, didn’t I?

  At first glance, he’s not one you wouldn’t expect to be in a place like this.

  But now that you know?

  Now that you’ve read his story?

 
Can you picture the woman in the casket being burned alive?

  What about the meals he prepared? That he ate? That his victims ate without knowing?

  Did something in your memory stir reading his words? Do you remember the funeral director who forced his victims to eat their own loved ones?

  Maybe you were one of his victims.

  Maybe you’re just a sick, sadistic bastard who got off on the idea.

  Fuck you if you are.

  * * *

  PS. If you figured out who I am and where I work, then you’ll know where the bar I head to after every shift. Come join me for a beer. I might have more stories to tell.

  * * *

  See you then.

  THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR

  1

  The Chef.

  He’s dead now. Died in his sleep at 5:23am.

  I can tell you he died with a smile on his face.

  I know this because I was the one to put it there.

  Seconds before he died, I whispered a promise into his ears, a promise I knew he’d appreciate.

  I actually liked Chef.

  Of all my patients, he’s the one I didn’t despise - and considering it’s rare for me to admit I like any of them, that says something.

  He was a class act. One of the good ones. Poised. Friendly. Cheerful even on his bad days. He’d be the first one to bend over and pick up a pen you accidentally dropped.

  He’d also be the first one to shove said pen into your eye socket and then pull it out before you had a chance to react.

  All with the sweetest of smiles on his face.

  Chef, as I liked to call him, wasn’t a man you’d expect to find in the asylum but he was someone who deserved to be here, just like many others.