J.C.
by Lincoln Trudeau
"I will see you put on a slab, you disloyal bastard."January 8th-I received this diary two weeks ago. It was a birthday present from my close friend, John. Never had I intended to put it to good use, yet now I find myself unable to put it down. I have been informed on the telephone rather bluntly that I will die. I know not whether this was an idle threat, but still I fear death. Should I be killed tomorrow, I would hope that there be a record of my reflections.I was born many years ago in Bucharest, Romania. All my life I have been tormented by the evils of war, but as long as I stand, I will remain a pacifist. I will not give in to the wishes of our head of government, Rostov Jazen. That man is nothing but a bloodthirsty tyrant. My father, Alakar Marcel, preceded this tyrant as the government head, but he was killed long before his time. Since my father's death, there has been no peace. But we will not back down. Not me, not Mark, not Matthew, not Peter, not Luke, not Judas, not John...no-one.Why war? Must we try to make other countries conform to Rostov's religious beliefs? I cannot understand how senseless violence will solve problems. I hope that we might organize our protest shortly and put an end to the killings. I believe it was Rostov himself who threatened to kill me, but I can prove nothing. The authorities would not take me seriously. He has both wealth and power, and I possess neither.J.C. leaned against the podium to bring himself closer to his audience. "Are you with me?" he asked. "Do you support our wishes?"From the crowd, a deafening "Yes!""Will you join us in a protest to abandon this carnage and begin to re-establish harmony?"Again, the crowd boomed "Yes!"A smile crossed J.C.'s face. "If there are any further questions, I would be pleased to hear them."Not a hand was raised. Every person in the audience had absorbed and fully understood his speech. There was little need to inquire about anything he had said."Bless you all," J.C. said proudly. "May the slaughter dissolve like Rostov's compassion."January 9th-The authorities may not be in favour of our pacifist seminars, but I do not believe they can stop us. The people of this city are on our side. They do not wish for destruction -- they want peace! In a meeting with my close friends after our seminar, I brought up the phone call I received the other day. My friends are short on suggestions on the action I should take. What will I do?If I hide, I admit defeat to my aggressor. If I ignore it, I may be killed. John, always more than just a little irrational, wishes to stop my aggressor with aggression. Although I suspected his anger, I was stunned to see him carrying a laser pistol and suggesting that we use it to murder Rostov and his soldiers. Does he not know that he who kills with a weapon shall also be killed with such a weapon? I can only pray that my lecture aided in clearing his mind, but I cannot be certain.J.C. clasped his hands together. He could feel sweat trickling from his temple to his chin and he wiped it away with the back of one hand. A multitude of questions raced through his head, all questions which had no answers."J.C.," Matthew said suddenly, "what are you thinkin' of? What troubles you?""I fear that I will die," J.C. said simply. "But my fear runs deeper than that. I fear that my cause will be abandoned...I fear betrayal. Do any of you wish to leave? I will think no less of anyone who wishes to do so than those who remain. But promise me only that you will stay true to your decision. If you leave, do so now."J.C. looked towards the other pacifists assembled before him. There were over seventy in total, among whom were some of his closest friends. From Mark, from Judas, from John, from Matthew, from all of them, came a clear response: "No." Not one person was going to leave.January 10th-Today I lived through a terribly unfortunate turn of events. This very morning, I awoke to discover two police officers standing at my front door. They placed me under arrest for charges of Dangerous Mental Instability and False Pretence. They did not like me at all. I did not understand why it was that two people I had never met in my life expressed such a strong dislike of me.On the way to the police station, they permitted me to hear a recording of a confidential discussion between myself and some of my closest friends. In the discussion, I claimed to be the son of Alakar Marcel and I pointed out my resentment of Rostov Jazen. The police officers quite angrily told me that I was not the son of Alakar Marcel, that I was merely an unstable fanatic with an obsession to undermine Mr. Jazen's authority.I cried then. Cried until my eyes turned red. I had been right in assuming that there was a traitor among the pacifists. But which one of my friends had given the recording to the officers? Had it been John, who was angry that he had not been granted my permission to assassinate Rostov? Had it been Judas, who had wanted to begin the protest months ago and had accused me of being a coward? Had it been Peter, who had twice threatened to join Rostov's soldiers? Or had it been another? What could the motive have been? Revenge? Money? Power? Too many thoughts, too many questions plague my mind.My cell is cold and grey. I'm told prison cells are universal in their design. They were constructed in such a way as to depress their inhabitants beyond belief. Enclosed by three walls and a row of bars, I sit alone. No visitors are allowed. I am not even permitted to be in the same cell as another inmate. I have been told that my mind has decayed. I have been told that I can never leave my cell alive. The defamatory names I have been called in the past six hours are far worse than I ever expected. Some of the prison guards tell me I will be put to death, and that they will enjoy watching me die. I fear death now more than ever."Pssst!"J.C. woke up and rubbed his eyes, hoping that the past few days in prison had been only a dream. But even in the darkness, the obscured assortment of shapes before his eyes cleared somewhat and he knew that he was still locked in his cell. But who was calling him?"Pssst! J.C. Don't talk, just listen to me, dammit. I got somethin' real important to tell ya."Ten seconds later, his eyes having gradually adapted to the darkness, J.C. made out the form of someone very familiar to him, someone very close. "John?" he said groggily."Don't talk," the stranger said, stepping closer to J.C.'s cell. J.C. noticed that the stranger was dressed from head to toe in black cloth. "Yeah, it's John, man. I busted my ass gettin' in here, but I did it. Sorry I couldn't come durin' the day, but they wouldn't let me in then.""Do you mean to break me out?" J.C. asked, squinting his eyes.John shook his head, but slowly. He did not want to attract unwelcome attention with noise or fast movements. "Can't do it. Your cell's rigged to an alarm. We'd both be killed before we'd run ten feet. Just take a look at this."J.C. took a thin, flexible object from John's hands. It was smooth to the touch -- probably a photograph. In a few seconds, he made out the image on the photo's surface...regretfully.The photo depicted two police officers lying dead on a stone floor, each with a small hole in the upper chest area. The holes were clean and there was little blood: J.C. assumed that the holes had been bored into the officers with a laser weapon. Blasted into the wall behind the officers was the word "TRAITOR". Between the bodies of the two cops was a third body.It was Judas."Judas is the traitor, that bastard," John said hoarsely. "It took me a bit of time to find him. I rounded up the rest and asked them some questions first...""You interrogated the others, did you not?""I'm sorry, man. That's just the way I am, and the way I always will be. I ain't as good-hearted as you. When I called a meeting to question the others, Judas didn't show up. I found out he was put under protective custody. He was paid off by cops to betray you. He didn't live to repeat his mistake.""Why did you slay Judas? Have I not told you many times that killers are always killed themselves?"John slipped into the darkness, but he continued to speak. "Your trial is fixed," he growled in a low voice. "Once I have proof, I'll come back."January 24th-I was moved into another cell last week, this one even smaller and more secluded than the last. I would have written sooner, but the dreaded news had scrambled my nerves to the point where I could barely eat, let alone write. Just before the officers moved me to my new cell, they informed me that John had been shot dead while making an attempt on Rostov's life. My life is crumbling before me, and along with it my cause. The pacifists are leaderless, John is dead, and I may be involved in a trial that I cannot win.The trial has not gone well up to this point. I believe my lawyer is putting forth a great effort to assist me, but I fear her efforts may be in vain. My closest friends were called in as witnesses and were asked whether or not they were associated with me in any way. All of them told the court that they were indeed friends of mine, and they were all thrown in jail on conspiracy charges. Their loyalty is admirable. They were asked to put their freedom on the line for me, and they did.All of them, that is, except Peter. He denied involvement with me of any kind, even the third time when the attorney yelled the question out to him. The next morning, he was found in his apartment with a rope wrapped tightly around his neck. He had hung himself. The weight of his denial resting upon his soul must have surely driven him to madness."Fine, you can talk to the loon. Hell, why not? Tomorrow morning he'll be dead."Matthew felt a lump in his throat, but tried to ignore it. He stepped past the prison guard and into J.C.'s cell, saddened to see his friend wrapped in a strait jacket like a maniac. "J.C., I had to see you one last time...""I understand, Matthew. I am glad you were able to see me, for I am placing you in charge of the pacifists. Let the protest begin directly after my death; it will be of great value then.""Don't talk like that. You're not dead yet.""I ask that you do not attend my execution tomorrow morning. I wish to be alone.""Like hell! In your final hour, we don't care what you look like or what they do to you...we'll be there, man. We aren't gonna let you down.""Please...take my diary," J.C. pleaded, nodding towards a thin book resting on the cold floor nearby. "Read what I have written and promise to write in it at every opportunity.""I will, man." Matthew moved closer to J.C. to speak in a whisper, ensuring that the prison guard did not hear him. "There's still time to plan a full-scale assault on Rostov. We could take hostages and demand you be set free...""My blood will be spilt tomorrow. There is no need to end the lives of others as well. I do not advocate violence, Matthew. Take care of the others.""Awright, chump, get outta there!" the prison guard yelled angrily. "You stay near that nut too long and you'll go nuts too."February 21st-Although J.C. didn't recommend it, I went to the execution anyways. Me and the others were taken out of jail a few days ago. The cops said they wiped our slates clean. Probably just more bull. If they were any more full of themselves, the smell would make me pass out. I don't care what Rostov's "official" records show: J.C. was the son of Alakar Marcel, the greatest pacifist that ever lived.I've seen others die, but never like this. As I sat amongst a small crowd of the people who'd been invited to the gruesome occasion, I wondered how I could ever replace him as a leader. Why'd he choose me? John should've led us. He was the only one with the guts to take over and he went and got himself killed. He was one of the best, but now he's dead.J.C. was blindfolded and handcuffed to a steel pole. The executioner fired a single shot from his laser pistol and that was it. Had I not been watching attentively at that very moment, I'd have missed the shot. Lasers are silent and nearly impossible to see because of their speed. There was little mess, though: the heat of the laser instantly cauterized the wound that was made through J.C.'s body. I can only pray that he died with little suffering. I must lead now. His death will not be forgotten, nor will his cause be abandoned. Even if I die in the process, there'll be peace."They took blood from us, people!" Matthew roared into the microphone. "Are we angry?"From the crowd: "Yes!""They took a life and they'll take many more in their wars against Eastern Europe. Will we tolerate this idiocy?"From the crowd came a wave of answers, forming in a single loud voice the word "No!""What's it gonna be, people? Guns or butter?"There came a very confused answer, as this was not a simple "Yes" or "No" question. But the crowd's enthusiasm convinced Matthew that they were still with him."Good," Matthew said. "Ya can't eat guns anyway. They taste like crap."March 4th-Amidst the chaos, I've neglected to write, but I now have time to tell just what happened. Under great public pressure, Rostov ordered his battalion to pull out of the enemy countries...permanently. Wherever J.C. is now, I'm sure he'll be pleased by what we've done. For better or for worse, John will be pleased as well -- several days ago, Rostov killed himself. Maybe he actually had a heart and couldn't live with what he'd become. Or maybe he was actually killed by a clever assassin and the murder appeared to be suicide. I don't hold the answer to that question, but it doesn't matter.Perhaps J.C. was right in the notes he wrote in this diary...three days after his death, the anti-war protest began, with more power, more energy than I'd ever imagined possible. The war in this continent is far from over, but we'll no longer be contributors to the savagery. J.C. is no longer with us, but his message will not die. No lives will be lost today.
