A love letter

Note: I don't like some of the language no longer but not to put it up would be a waste.

WE have a neighbour who dabbles in substances long banned by our church. He thinks he hides it well, but even his best attempts could not hold against the more careful senses of the inquisitive mind. The dim silhouette of his, slouching over the profane, can be tracked through the treasonous drapers. The sound of it — the lighter chirps, the wait, the window — can be heard by any quiet neighbour. The stench of it spreads through several floors neighbouring the source, and has already caused at least two people to move out because of it. But the criminal act itself is just the start. Under the demonic influence, the fiend starts walking in circles, with the old wood planks of his attic floor creaking away from early morning into late night. After the years of going in circles, the planks of his circumferential prison have eroded progressively: each of his steps resounded like an oak tree being suddenly split apart, all the more loud in the expectational silence. And so, having driven himself mad first, he was only now left with the ability to bring the suffering to others, as no virtuous deed could ever be noticed from his side. He assumed there was nothing WE could do about it as a community; he was so sure of his civil rights that he forgot that unlawful things can happen (wrongful things even, a passerby might mention, but passersby WE’re not). WE made a plan. As soon as sounds of the evil are heard by those neighbouring the villain, a notice is instantly passed to the folks living on the street opposite. He is going to be taken out the moment he is inevitably near the window, having his next negative breath of air: the bullet is to come in through the glass first, brains second. The plan has been all but set into motion. But for now, WE can only wait. Our Inquisitor is still reading.