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Seymour stopped before the confessional, his shoulders slumping and a wry look crossing his face.
What am I doing here?
His arm reached to the door before slacking and falling as he gulped back a sigh, shaking his head slowly until he forced himself to reach out and grab the handle. He tapped his heel against the carpet before eventually swinging the door open, turning on his heels and closing it behind him as he sunk down onto the step, wincing when his knees cracked with age.
It was a very simple little booth, though he understood better than anyone the horror of budget cuts and low funding, and could appreciate the simplicity. The smoothly polished and hand carved wood of the door and walls looked fresh and bright, as new as the day they had been made, though Seymour could see dark stain from the years of hands that had passed in admiration over the ornate detail, inside the crevices no brush or cloth could reach. Clearly Tim took pride in the place, despite his…well, Seymour supposed it was detachment from, not so much his religion, rather the members of it. How could he forget the weary expression on his face last week after he’d spoken to Ned (or rather, Ned had spoken at him) for God knows how long?
He smoothed the wrinkles on his trousers, sitting with his knees together and hands placed neatly in his lap as he waited for Tim to arrive.
Will he know it’s me?
As soon as you start gabbin’ about your students he will, Seymour, his mother’s harsh voice invaded his head.
Right, whatever. So, start with the kids, then talk about Edna…or should I talk about Edna first?…No, talk about the students, mention her and then get on to ‘us’. Should I even mention us? Well, Tim is a marriage counsellor. You weren’t married, Skinner, c’mon…I just mean, he’ll have relationship advice…
‘That ship has sailed,’ he heard the words spoken in Edna’s sickly sweet voice, smiling drunkenly no matter how much they hurt him.
…Do I just talk about Simpson? Hmm, well I guess he’s the biggest issue. Then again, a lot of the students are…Maybe I should just—
“Good afternoon,” Tim’s monotonous drole greeted Seymour, catching him off guard.
There was silence for a second as Seymour’s mouth opened and closed in struggled thought.
“I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, that your sins may be heard openly and freely and that when you have prayed for your absolution before me, your pastor, Reverend Timothy Lovejoy, they will be forgiven by him,” Tim picked up on the penitent’s lack of experience.
“Oh, no! No, I haven’t sinned, no,” he stumbled over his words before taking a deep breath, “I just wanted to talk to you, about life. My life. Things that have gone wrong, things I want to make right.”
“I understand, you may talk to me about anything you’d like in the confidence that it will be heard by me and Our Father, and me and Our Father alone,” he assured.
“Well, I…uhh…well, where I work, basically…” he sighed frustratedly, “Can I just tell you who I am?” He paused and took a breath, “Sorry, I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s alright, we’ve all been there. Yes, you may,” his voice had lightened a little, become warmer, more personal and relaxed, “It will not change anything, I will not say or do anything more or less than I would do to anyone else, nor will it change how Our Father judges your actions.”
“Right, because he’s all knowing,” Seymour loosened up with a half-smile.
“Exactly,” he could hear Tim smile too.
“Ok well, I mean, you can probably tell but, it’s Skinner. Seymour. Seymour Skinner.” He cursed himself inwardly. He’d been in Nam for God’s sake, how hard was it to just talk to someone?
“Yes, I know your voice well.”
“Of course, you pick Jessica up every Thursday, right?”
“Yes, Helen goes to a book club at three so I leave early and take her home,” Tim’s face softened at the mention of his daughter, the best thing that had ever happened to him in this Godforsaken Hellhole.
“Well, you know then obviously that I’m the Principal and, y’know, I’ve never thought I’m anything special, honestly, especially with the Superintendent constantly bearing down on me like I’m the root cause of everything that goes wrong in that place, but recently I just feel that the kids…well, they’ve never liked me, but recently I feel like they actually…hate me,” he admitted tearfully.
There was a moment of silence before Tim spoke, “They don’t hate you. You’re their Principal, of course they’re going to tease you and rebel against you; they’re children and you’re an authority figure. What else do you expect them to do?”
Seymour smirked and nodded to himself.
“It’s the same when you’re a parent, your kids get to an age where suddenly they start doing the opposite of what you tell ‘em. Doesn’t mean they hate you, they’re just young and figuring themselves out.”
“I know but, it just feels like I’m doing everything wrong. I’ve tried to be funny but not a doormat, I’ve tried to be strict but not a dictator, I’ve tried to take a back seat without losing control, I’ve got involved without becoming a control freak but nothing I’m doing is working,” he said solemnly.
“Just being you isn’t wrong. I know what you’re like at your best, Seymour,” Tim said honestly, his voice soft and persuasive.
“Really?” He asked weakly, looking up to the closed window and praying Tim would open it, just so he could see if he meant it or if it was just pastoral mumbo-jumbo he peddled to everyone.
“Really.”
He waited a beat longer before disappointedly, he continued, “Well, there’s one kid in particular: the Simpson boy, Bart. He has so much potential and I’ve tried to encourage him to pursue it whilst also trying to be a pillar of responsibility the boy can look up to, but lately I feel like he’s given up on me. He doesn’t listen like he used to, the spark’s just gone. He’s revolting against me much more than he used to and before my eyes, he’s just sinking further and further into this wasteful life of delinquency and, I’d even like to hazard a guess that he’s getting involved with criminal activity too now, and there’s just nothing I can do about it. I’m just watching this car crash play out and I can’t help but feel like it’s…it’s my fault,” he went quiet as he contemplated, “I know that if he ends up in jail, I will never forgive myself,” he said grimly.
The air hung still and thick, and suddenly it felt as if he were alone in the booth, removed from the world.
Clack.
His head snapped around to the window, now open, revealing Tim’s kind face; soft but tired, his eyelids droopy and under eyes puffy, mouth holding up a worn but sincere smile.
He’d never related to something so deeply in all his life.