A Confession

The door of the church let out a startled cry as it was pushed slowly open, it was opened with a certain hesitance, whispering ominously as it gradually revealed a ragged beaten down figure. The figure stepped from behind the door, almost as if stepping out from behind a shield, stepping out to unprotected territory, to dangerous ground, into some dark cavern of which the outcome was surely unknown. The figure moved forward in an awkward stumbling way, one had to look closely to realize that drunkenness was not the cause but instead some past injury. While looking closely one also noticed some dangerous overtone, despite an air of harmlessness this overtone warned of the predator.

Each step seemed a great task as the man dragged himself forward, moving as if completing some fateful pilgrimage, a pilgrimage from some far of place, a pilgrimage that had weighed heavily on this man, that had pushed him down to the ground, that had burdened him till his once admirable posture had been replaced by a weary, misformed slouch. His eyes carried a haunted, or even, a petrified look, like the man had been made to stone, and his face stood still like some statue, and as he took step after step it was like he was fighting some unseen current that worked to push him back the way he had come.

The priest's eyes were raised, as if summoned, from the strange face of the man to the image of the holy Mother depicted high above in the stained glass, there the mother was seen to be looking down on this lonely pilgrim making his way home. It was as if her face was illuminated by some supernatural light and her silent tears were filled with uncertainty as to what this lone wanderer would bring.

He came to stand before the priest, leaning heavily on his undamaged leg, his heavy breathes echoed throughout the sanctuary, the silence of the man enveloped every corner of the ornate interior.

It seemed an interminable time passed before the pilgrim's voice knifed through the fragile silence. It was a voice of uncertainty and clear nervousness, it was issued with speed but no accuracy, warmth had left it many years before, the cold had driven it away and it was unable to return.

'I need to... confess, Father'

It was disconcerting hearing the voice of this man, this outward manifestation of himself in words. The image and voice coalesced and brought an outstanding force to this admission.

'Father I have done a terrible thing. A Thing that I am frightened to mention even now in this protected place. This thing is unforgivable and I... I'm scared father.
I'm scared of what might become of me, I'm scared of what already has become of me,
but God told me, he told me to do it, he whispered, oh it was so soft, on the wind it came.

The voice was uncontrollable, the tone flying across the spectrum, one moment high and screechy and the next deep and dangerous, it was puzzling to the priest, as it spoke to the demeanor of its owner. The priest very rarely gave confession to so desperate an individual.

'Come my son, you shall have your confession, and surely your soul will find solace here'

The voice was sonorous, it wrapped its way around the dimmed sanctuary reaching every corner in turn, a voice that had been crafted and molded to reach out and cradle the soul, a voice that had given wise council on all the sacred issues of love, suffering, forgiveness, and anger. It was gentle and kind, but in different circumstances could speak with all the wrath of an angry God, like some divine mouthpiece for the almighty.

The priest turned ceremoniously, but not sanctimoniously, instead with real gravity, movements practiced over time and ingrained in memory. His movements were full of precision and clarity, they were utterly devoid of threat and gave the onlooker a measure of respect for his insistence on precision, one could not say he moved gracefully but could say that there was an air of discipline that emanated from his very being in that moving state. His back held perfectly straight, head looking straight on, neither with nose up in a statement of pride, nor head down as a statement of acquiescence, measured and resolute steps taken with an inescapable message of purpose. He was an impressive figure as he lead the pilgrim to the threshold of the confessional.

The man and priest could not occupy two more different spheres of being, one producing nothing but absolute respect from the onlooker, as the other produced nothing but a deep-set feeling of suspicion which also carried a small portion of pity.

As the priest entered the confessional he rested his back lightly on the smooth hard wood, on the supple wall, this ever giving sacrament of forgiveness, which pardoned the most heinous and the most harmless acts in same day. This sacrament which proclaimed God's divine and merciful forgiveness, which gave the guilty respite from compunction, and freedom from conscience.

The priest spoke and compassion accompanied each of his carefully picked words.

'My son whatever you have done it is safe here. Within these walls nothing can harm you, and my son God forgives all.'

The words passed through the darkened screen as on a river, a river of grace flowing from a vicar of Christ to a fallen man.

The voice that responded came forth a deep groan, the opposite of the priests', the words came at first as if from an object that was just barely supporting some truly massive burden, and then with all the suddenness of a gun shot, this burden broke through the weakened support and rushed forth like some unearthly flood, changing the tides, quelling the river of grace, and still rampaging forward.

'Father... I have... killed a man'

The sentence began with such hesitation but ended in a panicked rush. Then with river stopped the deluge poured forth from his mouth. The words thick and relentless were like some powerful arm pinning the priest to the wall.

'I strangled him father... I looked into his eyes and I watched the life flicker... I felt his arms beating against my sides and legs writhing and kicking beneath, and I held tight father, I didn't let go, my hands crushed his neck, pressing ever harder as the flicker dimmed, he made the nastiest noises as he sucked for air, trying helplessly to taste the sweetness that brushed on his lips, but he couldn't draw it in, and just as God brought that man into the world I sent him out of it.'

The admission was said in such a peculiarly devastating way, and due to the contents a most disconcerting way as the man sounded frightened he also gradually grew more confident as he shared his act. The uncontrollable tone grew steady and the voice grew louder until the man was almost yelling through the tinted screen.

Urgency was stamped on each word as the priest threw up his arms as if to block the force that held him helpless against the cold wall.

'HUSH my son, for others must not hear'

The flow could not be stopped and the pilgrim paid no heed to the priest cry and his voice, now growing ever more confident, sped on like some animal, like a beast thrashing against the bonds set by its master, breaking from the rules and confines of which it was designed, into some netherworld, an outer place reserved for those who go where God intended them not.

'Father it was so terrible, my mind told me so, the voice told me so, but it didn't seem wrong father, it felt, almost right, my hands there embracing the delicate curvature of the neck, my fingers feeling the veins lying shallow beneath, and his eyes they changed, they were so bright, almost pulsing like stars in my own dark universe, and they pulsed so bright, but then they began to darken, and I pressed harder wanting the light to come back, to return, not to leave me in the darkness, but to guide to some truth, and as I pressed harder they became more distant as if God was moving them away from me, and I accepted it father, I knew that they wouldn't come back and it made me... sad, yes sad.

The voice stumbled off into nothingness, the flow momentarily halted, and the priest drew in a deep breath, he stared through the misty veil, only a few feet across but in those few feet he felt an infinitely deep chasm, and it threatened, it threatened the priest, and through the veil the the hazy outline of the man had grown and it now encompassed the whole of the screen, and it hung there menacingly looking down at the priest.

The precision had fled before the torrent and the voice was now almost whispered across the chasm.

'My son you are frightening me, for what have you done? and how can you feel this way, how can you share this act as if God looked on, as if God was present. My son, God was absent from this, from this, abomination. What have you done, what is this demon that speaks through you child.

The whisper was tremulous as it danced across the space.

The pilgrim responded unexpectedly, as if the deluge had washed away the uncertainty, as if it had taken care of the good Dr. Jekyll, and now all that was left was dark and decrepit Mr. Hyde.

'Father I pray you're not trying to tell me that God didn't want me to do it. For that is the single fact that kept my hands on his neck, I knew what God had told me to do and I did it.'

Mr. Hyde's tone was challenging it came across the space like the crack of a whip, poised to strike like a cobra swaying back and forth, back and forth. The priest felt true danger for the first time, the presence behind the screen had continued to burgeon and now it began to seep in around the edges of that sacred veil, it was like smoke filtering in through minute infinitesimal cracks, polluting and defaming the sacrament.

How should he respond? What should he say? The man was a killer and the priest felt sure of the outcome, the outcome was displayed before him like the many stories that shown throughout the church in the bright stained glass, like Mary's silent tears glistening in that supernatural light, and in that moment in his minds eye he decided, he decided that he would not balk, he would not cower before the flow of fear, he would stand, he would preserve this sacred place, and his once shaky voice threw off the temerity and rose to a thunderous boom.

'My son, it surely was not God that spoke to you, he did not whisper in your ear, and as those eyes dimmed to darkness truly I say to you, you were only listening to the voice of a some inner devil. My son, despite this act you are here in this sacred place where forgiveness comes to all who seek it. Child...'

Two hands flew from across that infinite chasm and grasped the priest neck, and the thunder was stopped. The tinted screen was shredded and the dark presence poured forth unhindered. The pilgrim drew the priests' face close to his, warm breaths brushed softly on scarlet red cheek, and the pilgrim carefully planted a kiss on the warm cheek of the older man. Then the cold rubber of the man's gloves which enclosed the neck, as a mortal embrace, began to tighten.

Terror, the sheer terror, it was all that was left to inhabit his mind as he gazed into the eyes. Jagged red lines pulsed to a savage beat, the blackness of the pupils was true, like the deepest wells of darkness, threatening to run down into the stark white. These eyes penetrated the farthest corners of the priest soul, and in that moment the priest doubted the goodness of God, the very goodness of the savior, for the terror had crushed his soul. He tried to call but emptiness rang out and echoed throughout the church. As his eyes began to dim he faintly saw the man's contented smile break and a look of misery and pure grief took it's place and as the terror subsided and God's warm embrace abated the doubts the good priest thought silently.

'Father forgive him, forgive his soul.'

Lifeless, the eyes stared back at him. The priest kindly face was now grotesque, his eyes bulged, and the mouth formed the scream that was never able to escape his dry dead lips, he lay slack on the cold stone floor of the confessional, the light shone through the tears of the mother and somehow found it's way into the enclosed space and danced off the stones flickering momentarily on the priest eyes as if he would return, as if the light would give him new life.

A voice now softer than the rustle of the cool draft playing on the drawn church curtains, came on the wind and whispered reassurance in the pilgrims ear.

'God must I have done it?

The sobs came from a deep place, every muscle, every bone, every nerve, every fiber of the man shook, and under the intense pressure of the spasm he fell to the ground, face to face with the petrified visage of the priest his own statuesque expression returned and sleep fell upon him.