Work Text:
There are only two places where a person can be totally, completely honest: the confessional or at the bar during last call.
She was antsy, nervous, her hands in her coat pocket fiddling with loose change and lint inside. She shakes her head, she had been thinking about this for a long time.
I’m just going to do it.
She takes a step forward. Her legs feel numb as if she had lost all control over them.
I’m just going to go inside.
She stops in her tracks, and takes two steps back.
I can’t.
She stares at the stone church in front of her. It had been years since she had been inside, months since she had even thought about stepping foot in the premises. And even less time since she’d thought about the person inside those walls. Not Pam, that is.
She took a deep breath.
She had been seeing her psychiatrist more regularly in the past years. It helped her immensely. Though she couldn’t say she was completely healed, she was better now. She dealt with the trauma of losing loved ones. Her mom, Boo, even Claire when she moved away to Finland. She talked to her dad more, despite him barely putting two words together, they could at least stand to be in the same room together without awkwardness arising. She even built up a healthy tolerance to her godmother. She was quite proud about that one.
But he was one of the things she could hardly even speak about. She didn’t know how to say it. Almost afraid that the moment she’d share her memories and say them out loud, they would be gone. She might forget. And she didn’t want to. She wanted to keep it close to her forever. Never letting it go. Which was why the pain was digging deeper.
‘ And what happened to this priest of yours that you wanted to fuck?’ Her psychiatrist asked, still smelling of the lotion she had just applied. ‘Any progress on that end?’
She gave a tight lipped smile in response.
‘You know you’re going to have to talk about it eventually. It might help take the pain away.’
She was silent.
‘Only if you want to get rid of the pain, that is.’
But the pain was all she had left of him. It was the only reminder that he had ever been in her life. The heart piercing memories that would wash over her during odd times in the day. That was all that was left.
So, she was there, a mile from the church doors. The bells had tolled, announcing it was already 10 in the evening. The masses were over, confession was done, churchgoers were happily in their warm beds by this time. But here she was.
‘You have to face this eventually.’ She hated to admit it, but her psychiatrist was right.
She took small steps. Just making sure to put one foot in front of the other.
What seemed like ages later, she was inside. The church hardly changed. The pews remained the same, more religious paintings hung on the walls, but nothing else had changed. It was warm inside, despite its stony exterior.
She made her way down the aisle. Looking at the pews she had sat in during her first visits, the painting that fell in the midst of their make out session.
God: the ultimate cockblock.
She ended up right in front of the thing she was dreading the most. The dark wood gleamed under the moonlight. It looked old, worn down, but the intricate moldings and the brass detail made it look ageless. Her hand reached for the velvet curtain before she could even stop herself, pushing it to the side with such care, as if her touch would set it aflame. She didn’t doubt that though. She expected herself to begin smoking at any moment and burst into a fiery inferno the moment she stepped inside.
Last time she was inside the confessional, she was drunk, and she was honest. Two things that go hand in hand most of the time. But now, she couldn’t be more sober.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” She says aloud to no one in particular. The whole church was dark and vacant, its occupants already in their rooms. He was probably long asleep by now. “It has been years since my last confession, if you could even call it a real confession.”
She laughs to herself. Her eyes close and the image of his face tower above her comes immediately to mind as she knelt.
“Sorry about that.”
His warm lips, his soft hands.
“Since then, I haven’t been totally truthful. But mostly to avoid getting into more trouble with the law. I swear that policeman didn’t know what the fuck he was saying, I was nowhere near a fire hydrant, and I would never pee on one.”
Silence.
“And of course, to my godmother. But you know her as well as I do, you’d have to give that one a pass.”
Nothing .
She began listing anything and everything that she could think of:
“Well, I’ve been a real glutton lately, but only for chocolate before I’m about to bleed out of my vagina, which shouldn’t really be a sin, considering it was Eve’s fault we have to go through this horrid shit. She ate the goddamn fruit, why must everyone else suffer?”
“I’ve coveted my neighbor’s wife. Though, honestly, if you’ve seen her, she’s too fucking hot to be with her miserable, ugly husband.”
“Touch of greediness,” she sighs. “Only when it comes to Claire. She’s moved to Finland now, hardly ever visiting us. So whenever she does, I just want her all to myself. I miss her… But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”
She thinks to herself, “What else? Oh, well I’ve been masturbating a lot. A LOT a lot. And I do mean A LOT.”
She laughs at this, but pauses reflectively.
“On the bright side, I haven’t been engaging in that shagging before marriage ordeal in a long time. Been trying that whole abstinence thing, and I’ve got to say, it really has freed up my time for more thinking and sleep. I get sooo much sleep now. You should try it out.” She smirks. “But my worst sin of all, I think, are the constant lies.”
“I lie to myself everyday. That I’m all right. That I will be.” She shakes her head. “He told me this would pass. But, y’know what, it’s been years, and I don’t think it has. God, I can’t even talk about him without getting like this.”
She feels tears forming in her eyes.
“And it hurts. There’s so much pain, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Her words start catching in her throat.
“I’m going to sound like a massive masochist, and believe me, that’s the farthest thing from my kink, but I’m not sure I even want to let go of it. I want to keep it close to me. I want it to keep hurting so I’ll keep remembering. I don’t want to forget anything. I don’t want to forget him.”
She shudders. She hadn’t realised that she was sobbing now.
“I have all this love, and no one to give it to. And it hurts me. I’ve lost so many people. I just keep losing them.”
She sobs.
“Why does no one want my love?”
She wipes her eyes dry with the sleeve of her coat.
“God, help me. I love him. I absolutely love him. I want to wake up in the morning and watch him make coffee. I want to go home to him and fold clothes in front of the telly. I want to clean up the dishes with him after supper. I want him to hold me on the days I can’t hold myself together. I want to know about every dent, crack, childhood trauma that he has, and tell him that I still love him. Every broken, imperfect, slightly alcoholic part of him.”
She laughs at herself. Thinking about what a pathetic mess she was in that moment.
“I just wanted to say my piece, hoping maybe it would bring me peace.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if it has though. But thanks for listening.”
She stays a while longer, lamenting in the dark silence that only a Catholic church could provide. She passes the velvet curtain, looks to the priest’s compartment, and touches the handle. She admires it a second longer before she heads for the door, her soft footsteps echoing through the hall.
Pam wakes up to rustling sounds coming from the church. She knocks at Father’s room, and on the third unresponsive call for him, she enters his chambers to see it empty. She shakes her head, closes the door, and heads to the source of the sound. She walks to the church purposefully, switching lights open in every room she enters. The hall is empty, but she hears bumping against wood. She walks closer to the confessional and turns the compartment’s handle.
“Oh, Father, not again.” She says, disappointed. He was in his black frock, strewn haphazardly on, holding onto a nearly empty bottle of whiskey that she was sure was gifted to him only earlier that day.
“Hi Pam.” He slurs. Tears were running down his face, he had been crying.
“Was that your head banging against the wall?” She helps him up and tries to pry the bottle from his hands, but he won’t let go.
“Oh, that? I’m not so sure. I’ve been busy listening to confessions.”
“Isn't too late in the evening for confessions, Father?”
“No,” He lifts the bottle and downs the remainder of its contents. “It’s never too late.”