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Had you arrived to St. Joseph's Cathedral five minutes earlier, you would have seen the manner in which the criminal called Benjamin Poindexter by his colleagues and peers had choked the very life from Father Martire.
You would have stood aghast as you had seen how he had drawn the very lifesblood with the sheer force of his hands before the statue of the Virgin Mary, poised above the scene of the crime.
You would have watched helplessly, as he had put his boot upon the beloved pastor's chest and crunched the ribs that housed the precious vessel maintaining his life. Witnessed as the cost for a good man's life was determined by the price of others who wished to silence him.
You would have watched—but you would have been unable to do anything, much as Martire did, the life fading from his eyes in violent manner. You would have only been able to see a corpse not yet realizing its title, clutching against unyielding fists that gripped the collar of a holy man; a figure of the community, a pillar of faith, babbling prayers for the dead past cracked, bruised lips.
But you arrived late. Your bus stop back to the church was delayed by inconvenient traffic in a city that always bustles with nuisances galore and petty drivers and slower pedestrians.
So you didn't watch the way that Dex trundled the lifeless body of the priest down the aisle that he had ladled communion down, exchanged prayers of faith between. You were no accessory to the way that the priest was dragged past pews that he had officiated weddings, funerals, celebrations at. by a man who cared for neither his accomplishments nor the cost his life would bear.
And, because you were checking your phone to see if your roommate had arrived to your shared apartment down the street, you obliviously pushed the great door open to St. Joseph's Cathedral. With the force of your arm, you let in the ambient city chorus of a living world unaware of the dead who were housed within.
And you didn't see Dex cock his head as he tucked your pastor's body behind the confessional booth. Out of sight for those who might spot decay in a House of God.
Because you were sending your roommate a quick message to ask them to leave the key under the doormat, you didn't spot him slide past the velvet curtain, into the interior darkness that the booth offered. And you were unaware of all that had transpired as you tucked yourself into the adjacent booth, settling your bag in the space by your feet.
All you are cognizant of is how stifling the confessional booth feels this time, the way that the silence that you are bathed in feels rigid and strained in a manner that you have never felt before. Though, perhaps, this is because of the sins that you come bearing in means to purge from your soul.
There is the sound of breath on the other side of the latticed screen, where none can be seen. You assume that it is Father Martire—you certainly hope that he is nearby so you can at least seek his counsel—but you are fine with the advice of others. You are always grateful for the charity that others can offer to dispel the worry from your mind.
And so you speak words that have come familiarly to you as breathing for as many years as you can remember. "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession."
You await the dulcet tones of a voice that sparks recognition—but there is only silence that is broken by the sharp intake of someone else. A second elapses by like honeyed amber, and you worry that you have recited the words with inaccuracy. But you need not worry too greatly: someone speaks. But it is not a voice that you are familiar with.
"What do you wish to confess, my child?" It is a man's voice. But it's no man's voice that you've ever heard before. It is rough, and speaks with the unrepenting cadence of exertion and fatigue. It is no comforter's voice—it is a redeemer's voice, you think.
You don't recognize him. But all are welcome in the House of God, so you proceed.
"Father—"—You begin slowly, and you swear that you hear another disruption of exhaling breath, as though there is effort made to regulate on the other side. But perhaps you are imagining things—"—My sin is one of the body, of emotions that are too great for me to understand."
You hesitate, unsure of how to further continue. With these words that you have not articulated to your family, your friends—not even your roommate, who senses that something is askew within your usual even-keel—you progress into something sinful. You descend into an underbelly that you have never proceeded before.
"You will—"—The priest clears his throat, a shuffle of movement from the other side, as though there is something wet that that priest wipes from his face. Perhaps, he is nervous as you are—a novice in the practice. This seems to hearten you in some way; the two of you are wading out into the unknown.
"You will have to be more specific, my child." The priest redirects course. You nod, though you realize belatedly there is no possible way he could see you. "I require more details."
How odd—this is not what a priest usually says. But he is more to the point. You make a hummimg noise that reverberates in the small expanse that you sit in the shadows.
"Of course, father." You agree. "I—"—again, inarticulacy seizes you—"—I lust for a married man."
There is total silence from the other side. A side that seems to be totally devoid of any movement—you're poignantly aware of the fact that you can hear your pulse thrumming in your ears, in the palate of your mouth, in the thrum of your veins. To have stated this, and to have had no reaction is perhaps the greatest mortification that you could possibly bask in.
But your mortification is not one that you have to endure for long, though you clutch against the flesh of your thighs and wish to be anywhere but here. The priest finally speaks again—there is a more husky intonation to his voice as he interrupts the noiselessness the two of you have cohabitated.
"Have you acted on these feelings?" The priest abruptly questions. You turn to try and distinguish his silhouette through the screen—all that you can distinguish is the profile of a younger man. Not Martire—not any silhouette you are familiar with. You turn back to formulate a response that is scandalous to voice.
"Of course not," You respond with typical hypocrisy of the sinful, "I respect the sanctity of marriage."
You knead the flesh of your palms. They are clasped in mock-prayer as you look down to distinguish the rays of light that bleed through from outside, nearing the tips of your shoes.
"How do you know him?" The priest asks, and this is the more difficult question for you to not only swallow, but to provide answer for. You close your eyes as you make explanation into the space, voicing it directly to the screen separating you.
"He's my boss." You reply. You recall all-too-easily that smiling face, those opaque lenses, the kindness that you have taken ample advantage of in your hotbed you wallow in.
The priest makes a noise of contemplation—you suppose there is little else he can do as he takes heed of what you beg penitence for. "Is he your age?"
You frown momentarily, at the specificity of the question. But still you work to regale him with clarification. "No—he is older."
Again, a grunt of interest—you wonder if you should question the modus operandi of this priest. But he is voicing another thing that crosses the rubicon back to you.
"Does he know of your feelings?" The priest asks, and his voice is coarse as he presents this to you. You shift from side-to-side, adjusting weight that has become more difficult to bear as you remain seated.
"No. I have tried my best to smother them." You answer honestly. It is meager relief that so long as the excited thrum of a heartbeat in your employer's presence does not reveal your intentions, then you have escaped with your truest emotions. "I would not make him betray them."
The priest seems to intuit that there is more that burdens your words, and so he remains without retort. This is prudent, for after a few moments have given themselves into the expanse, you find what you need to say, holding your hands out to a man that is beyond you.
To a man that is still in the office, dutifully working with your other boss. A man unaware of the emotions that have crossed meridian to him every time you share space with him.
"Yet—"—You dart out the pink of your tongue to wet your lips, your mouth devoid of moisture, "They consume me, father."
This is where you worry your hand around the span of your wrist, working the sensation of your palm into the pulse that beats circuitous rhythm through you, self-soothes you as you seek solace.
"I am enamored with him, to the point that I have—"—Here you feel as though the devil sits on your shoulders, waiting for you to confess your final inquity, "I have dreamed of him."
The previous silence was stark, and so this one is as well. But with the admission of these transgressions, there is something hot and reprehensible that awakens in between your legs, at the memory of them. Of hands that were only ghostly phantoms, pale imitations of that which you desired—and nothing more to satisfy you once you awakened.
The atmosphere is taut now, it is tense in a way that it wasn't before. You look at the shade of the priest; you can no longer distinguish the arc of that Roman nose. You wonder if he is looking away—or if he is staring directly at you.
You turn back as the father speaks, and his voice is clotted with something that you cannot distinguish in his inquiry. "Were they…lustful dreams?"
"Yes, father." You agree without hesitation—you cannot lie. There is no purpose for you to do so at this point, when you have laid everything bare. "I am ashamed to say so."
A shuffle of movement, an adjustment made from the other side of the unknown. A clearing of a throat, as though there is something to prevent your priest from giving further guidance.
He speaks. "If you were given opportunity from him—"—You find yourself starting involuntarily—"—Would you take it?"
You are stymied for word. Appalled for any other suitable retort, save one that is clouded with bewilderment, disbelief. "Father?"
The voice is closer now, it is rough and it is velvet at once, and it is close—it fills the space, it tremors through you through the screen that keeps your identity anonymous. It is as if he speaks directly into the shell of your ear.
"If he were to touch you, ask for you—"—The priest's voice is silkily low as he presesnts the hypothetical to you—"—Would you give it?"
You open your mouth though there is no answer that comes unbidden—you are speechless—your priest takes advantage of your wordlessness to continue, and his voice is bared with intention.
"It is important the lord knows your true desires above all." He will not let you escape this. You feel as though you are rooted to the spot, unable to leave if you had ever wished to do so.
"I—"—You search your basest of your heart, the deepest of your wishes, and find sufficient means to respond—"—I wouldn't."
A sound of clarity from the other side, and then your priest continues with a gloating tone that you think is not befitting of a man of the cloth. But you would have to add lying to your confessional if you were to proclaim you were not hanging onto his every word.
"Then you are virtuous." Your priest informs you with smug surety. "And—I have a solution for you."
Remedy to your ails, balm to your wound. You leap upon what he suggests; your hand palms the wood grain that maintains barrier. "What is it, father?"
You are not certain, but if you were to guess, you would think that there is a smile that is spoken with every word he imparts to you. "You must find other target."
Again, bemusement replaces your embarrassment. "Father?"
He repeats once more with further detail for you to ruminate upon, and you would swear that his voice is pressed up against the mesh. But you are in your head too greatly, you think, so enmeshed by the erring wants that have plagued you as of late.
He continues. "You must find someone else to dispense these emotions onto. Find suitable man to distract yourself with—"—And you know you must not be imagining the objective that he surely tasks you with—"—And the feelings will pass."
You had expected admonition, prayers upon the rosary. Kowtowed begging for appeasement before the Virgin, obesiance to the Lord in the House of God. You cannot find anything suitable to say for a long while.
"That—is your advice?" You finally speak.
"I will give you prayer." The priest answers you casually, languidly, as though he is aware of what you have sought, and he has denied. "But will prayer help alone?"
He has placed you in position for honesty, and so you stare shame-faced to the ground as you answer, "No."
"Then make prayer, and take initiative." The priest commands you to obey, and recites scripture from Hebrews that you find familiarity with—"—God rewards those who diligently and earnestly seek Him, rather than passively waiting."
There is truth to the words imparted to you. And there is assignment given to you by the Man of God that sits beside you. You have orders that you must follow.
"You must find him before you make a…poor decision." The priest informs you, reminding you of what dangerous waters you find yourself neck-deep in, should the wrong move be made.
It is not something that you can deny. You nod to no one once more, save yourself. "Very well, father. I thank you."
It is as though something has both passed, and pulled so menacingly tight. You feel as though you cannot breathe—and that something has drawn slow and sensuous within the booth. Something dull and present beats between your ribs, and in between your legs. You are scarcely aware the priest speaks until you catch a fragment of his sentence.
"Do you wish to confess anything further?" He inquires, and you hear a degree of triumph. But you could imagine this as well, and frivolous thoughts in the House of God are a sin in themself. Perhaps it is wise but to ignore this line of thinking.
"No." You say, hoping that you have abandoned one burden in pursuit of something more glorious than before.
"Then this is your penance." The Priest instructs. You think you can feel the eyes of God upon you as he says this.
You aren't aware of the way that Dex watches you as you leave from parted curtain. Nor do you see the smile on his face as he memorizes the shape of your figure, the composition of your face.
Nor are you aware of the way that you have a shadow following you home, blessed by the prayers of a liar, the penitent punished for what which is not theirs to bear.