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“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Nico takes in a shaky breath as soon as the words leave his mouth, like the very first gasp for air after almost drowning. The pew under his knees is hard wood, no cushioning, and the floor underneath it is a breezy shade of stark white, like porcelain or afternoon clouds. He shifts uncomfortably.
It’s humid. Not hot, not cold, just humid. The church has tall walls and an open plan, and it cages Nico in like a prey. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he crosses them over his stomach like a corpse in a casket.
“Be blessed, Son.” the priest on the other side of the velvet curtain says. His voice is grave. He smells of tobacco and sandalwood.
Nico’s thank you, Father is barely above a whisper.
“And how long has it been since your last confession, son?” the priest asks. Nico swallows a gasp.
“A lifetime.”
There’s silence for a moment, whether impermeable or not, Nico’s not sure. Either way, he finds himself unable to break it.
His grandmother used to tell him, when he was young, of many things. Her hair was gray and yellowy white, and her Sunday dress was a brown so light it looked like the ground under the lazy creek he and Bianca would dunk their feet in during summer, when they visited Nonno’s house in Vêneto. She’d tell the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector, and so he’d grown up used to silent prayers uttered quietly as you look up and stare at the blank eyes of marble statues from times so long past. He did consider for a fleeting moment attending a Mass at the city he grew up in, or Rome, or Florenza or Salerno, and let himself be small and lost in a crowd of devotees and the immensity of their idols, but he’s too used to being little. He’d like the chance to be big for once. He’d like the chance to be something to be told.
It’s greed, he knows. But of all the sins he’s committed in his life, Nico would think this would be the least of his worries.
The priest heaves a heavy breath, and says “You can go right ahead, Son. What do you wish to confess?”
Gods.
How do you begin a story that has no end?
Nico licks his lips. The back of his thighs feel tight from his position. He’d like to rest them back on his calves, and bow forward, press his forehead against the cold porcelain-cloud tiles of the floor, but there’s some invisible weight on his nape keeping him upright. You’ve crawled your way here. You’ve dug your own hole. No keep to it until the end, it seems to say.
Nico knows many things, and knows of even more. He’s learned it all - none of it was ever taught. No one ever guided his hand to the bones of the dead, no one ever told him about the crescent moon arch of the tip of a sword, and no one ever said anything about confessions. He might learn about it one day, but then, in a white church in Virginia with flickering lights and hard wooden pews, he hasn't yet.
“I’ve-” he tries “I’ve…”
The priest coughs. Nico closes his eyes.
“I’ve strayed.”
And isn’t that the understatement of the fucking century?
That silence is back. Nico hates it this time around, and swallows past the bile on his throat, and the acrid taste of vinegar in his mouth.
I don’t know where I am, he wants to say. . I feel angry and tired and scared, and I don’t know what to do. I’m tired of being alone and confused. I don’t know where I belong and I’m afraid I might not belong anywhere. I’m tired of running away. But I don’t think there’s anything to be done for me anymore.
Instead, all that comes out is a choked “I don’t know where to start. I- I have never done this before, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“You can tell me whatever you want to, boy.”
Nico nods. Whatever he wants Right.
“I did, um, a lot of bad things. I shouldn’t have done them but that I needed to and I can’t take any of it back.” he says “And I feel-” what? Mortified? Guilty? Bitter? “bad. I feel bad.”
Well that doesn’t cover half of it , he thinks to himself.
The priest hums. “And you feel truly sorry for what you’ve done?”
“Yes.” Nico gasps.
“Then repent, Son. Regret deeply in your heart and search for forgiveness. And then redemption will find you.”
A light breeze passes through the church. Nico’s shoulders feel heavy with truth. He rubs his sweaty palms against the roughness of his jeans. “That’s it?” he asks in a small voice “No, um, prayers? No penance?”
The priest barks out a low-gut laugh. “I don’t know why, Son, but I think whatever penance there was, you’ve already met it a long time ago.”
Nico resists the chance to laugh with him. “I hope so.” he admits. “Being honest I don’t think I could take anything more.”
“We’re always a little stronger than we think we are.” the priest says.
Nico nods, knowing no one is seeing him.
He wonders briefly what his father would think, to find him kneeling in a church with souls hanging from his belt and a crucifix found on a story in anyplace, anywhere around his neck. Would he call him a fool or hopeless, would he laugh. But his mother shared her name with the statue on the pulpit, and Bianca’s name was the same color as the floor, and if there’s any harm in empty words for an empty God, Nico can’t find any, then.
There’s always something to be said about old traditions.
“Bless me, father.” he asks - pleads - and is answered more promptly than he ever was.