The confession (Five minutes freewrite)

Have you seen Don Tomasso? You know -medium built, just about my height, brown eyes, short-cropped hair? Dressed like a priest, well, obviously, since he is a priest - or, at least, was when I took on his case. Last I heard he was living in Santa Clara and that's a big problem as I really couldn't say where this is, down south maybe, but then I might be wrong.
I was supposed to look after him and I screwed up. I don't know how, I guess I got distracted with other urgent cases - in my line of work, they're all urgent. I bet Don Tomasso was glad I forgot about him. He didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd sit on the couch voluntarily pouring out his heart, his darkest secrets, his pains and regrets and repressed desires.
Our first and only meeting I was not able to get much out of him and yet I know I'm good at my job. Sometimes, all I have to do is look at the person in front of me for five minutes and I just know what's ailing them. When they start telling their story, it's just to confirm what I've already seen in them.
But not Don Tomasso. With him I could feel the walls that where keeping me out - I guess there were years of torment stuffed behind those invisible walls. He's a clever man, that much I can say about him, and he got me distracted with tales of his childhood. I know that's the place to start and so many problems can be tracked back to that period, but he gave me nothing to work with. I ended up knowing more about a dog named Guzman than about the boy named Tomasso.

And now I don't even know where to start looking for him. It's just a hunch I have that I need to find this man quickly, before anything bad happens to him. Frankly, it's more than a hunch. It was only when I accidentally found his file in the back of one of my drawers that it all came back to me. I was stupid. There were signs I shouldn't have ignored, like the constant fidgeting and knotting his fingers in those painful positions - it must have been painful, fingers just don't bend that way of their own accord, yet his face didn't show any pain or even discomfort. That was a man close to snapping and I just forgot about him, left him suffer while I busied myself with bored housewives and crazy spinsters. They did not need me as much as Don Tomasso. Don't misunderstand me. I know my duties well and each case deserves to be taken seriously. What might seem trivial to you and I could be sheer torture to some troubled soul.
I'm sorry, Don Tomasso. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll just make myself a large pot of coffee and work through the night.
Santa Clara!? Let's see - it's south, definitely, there's a train going there, first stop from Marcon. It's at that small shabby train station that your story begins. I'll go back to the station and walk the dusty streets of Santa Clara till I find you. I'll write down your whole story, I'll find out what's wrong with you and maybe you'll get a good ending. I hope you get a good ending.

Today I found in one of my notebooks the first pages of the story of Don Tomasso and I felt so bad for abandoning it him. He's a bit faded from my mind, but there was something I really liked about him, so I'm going to try to write down his story.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: crazy! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!

Image: Pixabay