I worked as a Janitor for 12 years at a hospital for the criminally insane. Locked In a cell in the basement of the hospital was a patient so deranged they kept in a glass cage. They locked him in a specially constructed cell so doctors could study him. His victims numbered the thousands, but they couldn’t prove his crimes. They skipped the trial and locked him in the darkest hole in the hospital.

The media dubbed him the whisperer. All his crimes had been horrific scenes of chaos, but he never committed the act. They say he could talk the sanest and kindest people into committing the most heinous acts of cruelty. After each crime, the perpetrator did not know they had committed the crime. The last thing they remembered was the words, “This is your year,” whispered into their ear.

Once a year, I go to clean the basement with a strict rule not to look at the patient. His soundproof cell kept me safe from his suggestive charm. But it was impossible not to notice him standing there smiling at me while pointing at a number painted on the glass wall of his cell.

The number from our first encounter in the basement started at “1” and increased every year. For years I was confused about the number and thought he was counting the number of years. This year when I saw the words “This is your year,” written next to the number 12, I finally understood.

As I stand here with the detonator to the bomb I planted in a packed church I can’t help but think this will be my year.