I lift my head, refocusing on the small church I know all too well. The candles flicker inside, creating distorted shadows against the stained-glass windows. I tilt my head to the side, eyes narrowing, before throwing my heavy backpack over my shoulder and tugging my ski mask over my nose. My fists clench, irritation wrapping itself tightly around me as I move toward the heavy oak doors, boots splashing in the flooded water beneath me.
When I reach the entrance, I lower my head and press the handle down. The door opens slowly, the rusty hinges creaking softly, and with it, the memories flood back—one by one, repulsive, and continuous. My jaw clenches as I close the door behind me. I glance around the dimly space briefly, slowly stepping forward, my soaked clothes leaving a wet trail behind me. The pews line the aisles, but my eyes lock on the large, wooden crucifix pinned high on the wall.
I reach the end of the church, my gaze fixed on Christ, and for a moment, everything goes quiet—too quiet. My palms begin to sweat in my leather gloves as I stand there, staring up at the figurine, knowing exactly why I'm here.
He knows why I’m here.
As soon as the priest walks in on my right, I don’t even spare him a glance. I keep my eyes locked on Jesus, his symbol fixed, taunting, and testing me.
“I’m sorry, child, we’re closed for the night,” the priest calls from a distance, his voice bouncing off the cold, empty walls.
I finally drag my eyes away from the cross, my dark gaze settling on him. I stare at him with dead eyes, devoid of anything that might make him suspect who I am. He’s aged obviously and he doesn’t recognize me, but it’s been over twenty years. And I’m masked now—there’s no reason he would. I’m not sure if that’s better or fucking worse. He should remember me.
He moves toward me, each step reverberating in the quietness, and I feel my body freeze instinctively, muscles knotting, tension rising like a slow burn.
“I need a confessional, Father,” I murmur, my words low—too low—but he hears. He stops in front of me, his gaze flicking over me, searching, calculating.
“Come back tomorrow, son,” he says. “It’s late.”
I shake my head, my gaze dropping to the floor for a moment, the stress of my past pressing down on me. “I need to confess my sins. It’s killing me.”
I can feel him eyeing me, yet I can’t bring myself to meet his stare, but I know what I need to do. I need him to hear me.
After a long pause, he exhales a sigh of surrender, and finally he walks toward the confessional, giving in far quicker than I expected. I lift my head, scanning him as he slips into one of the booths. I stride toward them, feeling the walls closing in on me as I get closer.
I get inside, close the door behind me, and settle onto the small wooden bench, dropping my bag between my legs. I can see his side profile through the small, grated window of the confessional, calm but with a touch of uncertainty as if he’s not really sure what to expect from his late-night visitor.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been sixteen years since my last confession.”
“Go ahead, my child. What brings you here tonight? What weighs on your soul?”
I lower my gaze to my gloved palms, watching the tremor that shakes through my fingers. It’s nothing compared to the hurricane inside me. I see nothing but blood—splattered crimson staining my skin beyond the fabric, seeping into my rotting heart. It never leaves. It never fucking fades, no matter how much I clean them. I can still hear the sound of the axe slashing through their flesh, bones splitting.
“I killed my parents when I was thirteen, Father.” The words feel alien, cold on my tongue like they shouldn’t be there, but they’re the truth. “I axed them to death.”
I take a deep inhale before continuing, “I was locked away, locked up like some animal... to become a better person, to regret what I had done. They thought they could fix me.” I chuckle quietly, but there’s no humour in it—just bitterness. “But it only made me worse. I don’t feel remorse. I never have. I don’t regret it. They deserved it.”
I don’t expect him to understand. How could he? The reality of what I did, the joy of it, never truly left me. It’s not something I can easily take back or apologize for. And the truth is, I never wanted to.
“I understand your pain, my child,” he finally responds, but there’s no empathy, just a strange serenity, like he’s heard this all before. “But you must understand that this confession, this burden you carry, is not something you should bear alone.”
I can feel his gaze sharp behind the grill. I can almost hear him mentally cataloguing my sins, trying to understand the depths of my crazy mind, trying to piece together who I am.
“You’ve taken a life,” he continues, his tone steady now. “But the Lord forgives those who seek redemption. Why do you seek confession, child? What do you wish for here, now, after all these years?”
I let the question roll around in my head, considering the truth. What the fuck am I looking for? The answer isn’t simple, nor does it matter. I’m here for my own reasons. To finish where it started. I open my mouth, but the words get stuck. Instead, I let the silence fill the distance between us again, just for a second longer.
“It all started when I was six years old. I was molested in a church.”
His body tautens visibly beside me, suddenly on the edge and I continue. “The day that priest took me in the back room during Sunday service and forced his fucking dick in my mouth was the day something broke inside me. Yet in time, it only warped into something much worse. Something I am today.”
He won’t engage anymore, and his silence screams louder than any words. I fix my gaze ahead, but the memory swirls in my mind—fuzzy, fractured—but it’s always there. Always.
“Do you know who let it happen?” I ask, but he says nothing, so I twist my neck, dark eyes cutting into him through the gaps between the shadows.
“The two people who should have saved me,” I growl with resentment, but he doesn’t flinch, he just stares straight ahead like I don’t exist. Like I’m not sitting here, bleeding words into the air. “And now—now—I’m the fucking insane one? The demon? The monster? The one who’s going to burn in hell for all of eternity? How the fuck does that work? What about those who hide behind Christ when they’re really the devil?”
“I’m sorry, son.” He says weakly—empty. He doesn't know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix this. My eyelids fall shut, my head resting back, but his apology is nothing more than noise—nothing can fill the black hole gaping inside me.