The booth was like an oven. The air inside was as thick as the fog had been that morning. That morning, she shivered thinking about it. She bent forward, her head hitting the wood door; she ignored the pain and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to banish the cold. Her head hurt and sweat dripped from her long black hair hanging down before her face.
“Are you there, child?” The voice came from above her to the left.
She bolted uptight and saw a copper crucifix hanging on the wall in front of her. The confessional! She had forgotten. “I am here, Holy Father.”
“What are your sins, my child?” The priest’s voice was soft and soothing, almost a whisper, but there was an edge to it, firm and unrelenting.
“They are many.” A tear rolled down her cheek. Her finger hovered over it as it continued its journey downward. Finally it reached her sharp cheekbone and fell into the darkness below her bowed head. She ran a hand through her greasy hair, pushing it from her face. Her dark brown eyes, bloodshot, glanced toward the Screen which divided her from the priest. All she could see was the darkened profile of his face. Then he turned toward her and she caught a glimpse of his eyes before he closed them. She looked away with a gasp.
“The Father will forgive you.” There was an edge to the priest’s voice, something cold.
Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe deeply, tried to calm herself. But her mind’s eye, that fiendish thing which never closes, would not let her rest. It presented her with the frightful image of the Screen and behind that screen those eyes, those awful eyes, solid blue circles set in darkness, glaring at her, unrelenting.
“Will he?” She asked, buying time, wishing to leave, but unable to. She was held in place by fear. Fear and those eyes. She squirmed where she sat, seeing them whenever she blinked.
“The Father always forgives.”
“He will not forgive my sins.” Her thoughts wandered back to that morning.
Go ahead, he had said, do it!
“Dear child, what sins have you committed that cause you to believe this? They cannot be so terrible that the Father’s grace cannot cover them.” The priest’s voice was once again soft; it coaxed her toward confession.
“Father, forgive me.” She muttered, staring at the copper crucifix which dangled before her face. It seemed to be staring at her. She waited for the priest to say something, anything, but no sound came from the other side of the Screen. “Father?”
“Speak, child. He is listening.” The priest said with a voice even softer, even more convincing than before.
“I was not praying.”
Silence again.
“You should.” The priests said. “Start with your most recent sins. The Father will forgive you.”
“I should leave.” She placed her hands on the rough bench. “He will not forgive me.”
“Stay!” The priest hissed. “The Father will forgive you,” he insisted, his voice like a rod of iron.
Something held her in place, slowly turning her head toward the Screen. She thought for a brief moment about that morning, seeing her victim dissolve, doubting it at first due to the fog, and then realizing the terrible reality. She wondered, was he one of them?
She tried to resist the unspoken commands that forced her to turn her head, but the more she resisted, the more her head hurt. When she finally gave up and faced the Screen she was confronted with those eyes once more. They gripped her and forced her memories back to that morning. She saw blood on his cheek and the knife in her hand. She felt the familiar rage of that moment in the fog with him back up against the cliff wall. Go ahead; do it! he had shouted, mocking her as always. And so, in one fell moment, she did it. She plunged that knife deep into his heart and he tipped forward unto the ground as she jumped aside.
“I have murdered, holy father.”
“It was not murder.” The priest said, his voice calm, but not as soft as it had been. “They do not deserve life.”
“I loved him.”
“You did as you had to. The Father will forgive you.”
“I don’t want his forgiveness.”
“You are truly sorry for the life you took?” The priest’s voice was hard, those eyes keeping hers.
“I am.” She responded.
“It is time for me to confess something, my child,” the priest said. “I do not serve the Father.”
She stood. He was one of them. He had come to avenge his fallen brother.
“Please do not flee.” He said. “It makes what I have to do so much more difficult.”
She heard the booth door open on the other side of the Screen. She threw her own door open and burst from her booth. He was waiting for her. He grabbed her and threw her to the ground.
An eye for an eye, she thought, a life for a life.
He stood over her, a switchblade in hand. “Why did you kill him?”
“The Father told me to.”
The priest looked up. “How easily they succumb to the lies of that silver tongue.”
Kneeling beside her, the priest laid the switchblade to her throat. She stared at him; her fear paralyzed her. His eyes dug into her soul. “No,” he said. “You will live.”
She stared at him with wide brown eyes as he folded up the switchblade and placed it back inside his robe. “Why?” She breathed.
“Mercy is the greatest weapon we have.” Standing, he turned his back on her. “Leave this place. Travel north. Get as far from the Father and his men as you can.”