Holiest of Murderers

To whoever finds this, know what I did, I did with the heaviest of hearts.

I grew up an orphan. I never knew my mother. My father had gone to serve Italy in the Great War as they were calling it, and never came back. I was one of many, in the overcrowded streets I called home.

I most likely would've died in those streets, stealing food from the wrong shopkeeper or running afoul of the local mafia gangs, if I had not had the fortune of picking the pockets of a solider. Though I had not known it at the time, stealing from a Sword of Christ would turn out to be the greatest decision of my life.

For the first time in my life, I had brothers. A home. Faith. The Lord gave me the greatest gifts I had ever known, and the possibility of salvation for a misspent youth. He gave me everything I never knew I needed, and asked for nothing in return.

And what did I do to repay this unconditional kindness? I betrayed Him and everything I ever believed in. The Lord welcomed me into his arms, and I placed a dagger in his back.

The Holy Father insisted I would not burn for this act. That I would be venerated among my brothers as Saint Fillipo, a guardian of man's progress. But not even canonization can wash the blood from my hands.

Bury what you have found in here. Let me be forgotten, as He will be soon.

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