- Joined
- Apr 16, 2010
This is a one-shot inspired by "Dear God" by Avenged Sevenfold. It is an excellent song, and I highly suggest giving it a listen before reading this - or you could listen to it while you read if you want. Despite the name, I find that if you are of any religion you should be able to enjoy this; I myself am an atheist who hasn't been to church in over nine years, and I was capable of both writing this and enjoying it as I proofread it. This one-shot deals with the learning side of confession, moreso than the religious aspect of it. So without further ado, I give you:
The lighting in the church was dim - as it came only from stain-glass windows that periodically lined the walls and were draped over by translucent, maroon tapestries adorned with crosses - but dimmer was the heart of the sole man who lurked inside it. He skulked along the aisles of wooden pews, his head humbly bowed down, practically forming a right angle with his body. The minuscule luminescence that did pour into the church halfheartedly glistened upon his hazelnut hair inconsistently as he trudged past each window. His face, what little of it he allowed the world to see, appeared sorrowful, yet somewhat amiable, as if entering the church had slightly uplifted him. A tear fell from one of the two pale, calm oceans that sat below his brow; the man stopped in his track, swiped the spot where the tear had fallen with his foot, and then, when he considered the granite tile devoid of the result of his weeping, he continued walking a bit quicker than before, as if hurrying so he did not again tarnish the floor with a drop of his unworthy self.
But however innocent the man seemed, he was there with a profoundly more ominous purpose: confession. As much as it hurt him and had harmed the ones he loved, the man was a sinner. Regretfully, he had betrayed those that meant the most to him on the earth he so solemnly walked upon, so his only choice was to attempt to gain the forgiveness of the only man he knew that was not of this earth. God awaited his confession, and the only thing standing between him and doing so was a door about his height, decorated with a silver cross; the bronze knob belonging to it would open more doors than one.
Following a nearly inaudible click and the creak of an opening door, the man eloquently ducked through the doorway. A priest, whom the entering man knew quite well, sat in the far corner room; he was in a wooden chair meditating, his hands on his knees and eyes gently closed. A window had been fabricated next to him, which illuminated approximately half his wrinkled, weary face and his thin, stringy, steel-wool-like hair. The man sat in a chair beside the priest, so that they were separated only by a plank with slits in it so that the priest and the confessor could easily converse blindly. But despite this, the priest's eyes remained closed through the duration of the reconciliations he oversaw, since he presumed it allowed for the brain to think easier without having to acknowledge what the eyes absorbed - though it seemed like he was attempting to conceal something by doing so; and although he appeared to be in deep meditation, he must have heard the man enter the room, because after a minute or two of silence interrupted only by the confessor's heavy breathing, the priest spoke: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, what brings you hear today?"
The two made the sign of the cross as the priest spoke these words. The younger man scrambled for words; his was mind so flustered with pain and cluttered with mellow thoughts that he was fumbled for the correct response to this simple diction. He also knew that the priest would recognize him by voice, having been a member of the church since early childhood. Eventually, the words left the tip of his tongue with faint subtlety and acquiescence: "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-nine years since my last confession."
And at this, the priest immediately detected who was confessing to him. He would have recognized the voice anywhere, the voice of the closest thing he ever had to a son. It had been the voice of a boy who had come to him for comfort at the mere age of nine, succeeding the death of his father, and it had been the voice of a boy who had come to be absolved after thieving a bottle of Coca-Cola from a market at the age of twelve. But now it was the voice of a man who had sinned more prodigiously than before, and thus carried a more profound sense of humbleness. A simper crossed the withered lips of the priest, as that of a child opening a present on Christmas morning and receiving exactly what he wanted, but it slowly faded into a rather blunt expression when the priest remembered that the conversation would be turning grim very soon.
"How have you sinned, my boy?" the priest interrogated. He spoke somewhat shrewdly, but in a much lighter tone than is customary of an astute speaker.
"Lust, Father," the man sobbed, "I've committed adultery."
The priest nodded heavily, knowing full well that the other man could not see him; it was a calming motion more than it was a gesture of approval or acceptance. He attempted to view the situation objectively; his eyes remained shut, but they would not be necessary. Taking a deep, nasal inhalation that rivaled those of his partner in terms of audibility, the priest commenced the penance once more: "Start from the beginning, son. What led to this?"
"About a year ago," the man began softly, "I married the love o' my life. She was perfect. And she was perfect for me. And I wish I could tell you she still is, but I'd be outright lying if I told you that. I haven't seen her in two months, and I doubt that I will again." He said this without the slightest shred of optimism, as if patronizing himself. "She wasn't perfect in my eyes in the sense that others think o' women as perfect: sure, she was beautiful, and she was smart and had a nice sense o' humor, but there was something greater than that; it was her eyes. Life, that's what it was; an incredible blaze of life burned in her eyes; she was passionate about all that she did, and all that others endeavored to do. She wanted more than anything to reach her goals in life, and to lend a helping hand to everyone else in the process.
"I loved her, Father, and I still do. I wanted her then, I want her now, and I want her forever. The day of our wedding was the best day of my life, but looking back, it is all so bittersweet; it was the beginning of the end. And they say all good things come to an end, but why does that have to be the ultimate end-all? Does their have to be a finale? I don't see why sustenance must be inexistent if we make an effort to sustain, but therein lies the problem; I didn't try to hold on to our marriage, and I did the farthest thing from it: I cheated on her. I said I'd be there for her forever. The one woman who wanted good for all, and I took advantage of her. I said I'd always be with her, but actions speak louder than words, Father, and I wasn't."
The priest listened intently, trying to formulate questions, but all the while he ultimately just wanted to listen. He desired to inquire the man, but he felt the best thing for him would be to allow him to tell his story and let out the emotion.
"I was at a bar, two months and a day ago. I hadn't drunk a drop o' liquor, but it wouldn't be necessary yet; I was already intoxicated by a woman. Y'see, my wife was up in Chicago to shop and stuff for a few days with her friends, so I decided to go out with a couple o' mine, too. We went to this bar near Indy, and there I saw her. She was perfect, although not in the sense that my wife was, but in the way that everyone else views a woman as aesthetically perfect: large breasts, perfect body, and she had such a pretty face, too. It was a battle, Father; I sexually craved to have her, but I knew it wasn't right, that I really wanted my wife in the end. And that's when I made my mistake: I drank; I had a shot of whiskey, and another, and another. By that point in time, I was devoid o' reason. I could do nothing but watch in horror as my body took over and my mind shut down, but it was all still my fault. I wasted my last bit o' reasoning thinking perhaps my wife had an affair in Chicago and things would even out, but that would end up being far from the truth. We danced, the girl and me, and things progressed from there. She took me back to her apartment, and well, I'll save you the detail. Later that night, my friend calls his wife who's with mine in Chicago; he tells her about my misadventure. But I don't blame him for doing that, since he was drunk and all, and in fact I thank him, 'cause I'm not sure how I would've broken the truth to my wife.
"The next morning, my wife comes home, and we get in a heated argument. I doubt I remember a thing that was said - I was hung-over - but I do remember how it ended. She took her purse and left, and I don't blame her a bit. Because in the end, it was all in my control, it always was, and I can't fix it now."
The priest had appeared pensive for several minutes that had culminated into what seemed like an hour as the man told his story. It was finally his turn to speak, to give incite and advice, to help as the man's wife would have done. "Regret is a very powerful thing. It can drive us to do what we previously never considered. It can help us fix our wrongdoings in a way that nothing else can." He paused for a moment. "There are four choices that come with regret, son: you can dwell on it, learn from it, act on it, or learn from it and act on it. I suggest the latter, but it's not my choice. Because in the end, it is not in my control, it never was, and I can't fix what I didn't break - no one can but you."
The man had begun with a sense of apprehensiveness, thinking the priest's response would be devoid of advice and teeming with ridicule, but it turned out to be the opposite, and his outlook changed soon after. It was a pleasant juxtaposition between the expected and reality that permitted him to learn greatly. And when the priest spoke those last words, the man realized something he had never understood before: why he kept his eyes closed. It was to hide that which belonged to him and was similar to what others were thrusting upon him, so that he could help them; he was doing as the man's wife had in helping others, and all the while he was concealing something. The priest regretted something, and it emanated from his eyes, something he could not allow anyone he was aiding to see. But the man did not need to see it, nor did he want to, because he knew the priest did not either.
"Father, I think there's someone who can, but I need your help."
"How can I be of assistance?" the priest said wondrously. Beneath his wrinkled eyelids, his eyes flared with a desire to help the man.
"I need you to help me find God, Father..." The man choked back a sob as he had done numerous times preceding that instance. "I've drifted away from my faith, and without it, I can't move forward. Without God I cannot see through my misted eyes and find the light; I won't be able to move on."
"Prayer, my boy," the priest said benignly, "prayer. It is the only method that assures you will be speaking to God. I believe this is the solution to your predicament. But answer me one thing: Are you sincere when you say that you do not wish to get your wife back and that you'd rather move on with your life? Is that truly what you want?"
The man struggled through a few guttural noises before uttering, "Yes." He did mean it sincerely, because he wanted to move on, not for himself but for his wife; she did not deserve to be hurt again, and he did not deserve to have her. Only God could lead her to happiness, not him, and he wanted the best for her more than anything.
"Very well," the priest sighed. He wanted to see the man get his wife back and avenge his regret, but he did not wish to enforce it, especially in the man's time of need. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, you are absolved of your sins."
The man stood after a minute of thought passed. He slowly left the room, and turned to see the priest still sitting there with his eyes closed before he left. He wondered if the priest would ever be able to open his eyes again. And then the man left the confession room. The lighting had changed: beams of sunlight caressed the church, supplying warmth and newfound hope; false hope for him, stupendous hope for others. Knowing this, the man did not choose to pray in the light; instead he perused for the darkest pew in the church, because the light was no longer for him. He knelt and whispered to God what he was meant to say all along - what he should have said before.
"Dear God, the only thing I ask of you is to hold her when I'm not around, when I'm much too far away. We all need that person who you can be true to you, but I left her when I found her, and I now I wish I'd stayed."
He was lonely. He was tired. He was missing her again.
"Dear God"
The lighting in the church was dim - as it came only from stain-glass windows that periodically lined the walls and were draped over by translucent, maroon tapestries adorned with crosses - but dimmer was the heart of the sole man who lurked inside it. He skulked along the aisles of wooden pews, his head humbly bowed down, practically forming a right angle with his body. The minuscule luminescence that did pour into the church halfheartedly glistened upon his hazelnut hair inconsistently as he trudged past each window. His face, what little of it he allowed the world to see, appeared sorrowful, yet somewhat amiable, as if entering the church had slightly uplifted him. A tear fell from one of the two pale, calm oceans that sat below his brow; the man stopped in his track, swiped the spot where the tear had fallen with his foot, and then, when he considered the granite tile devoid of the result of his weeping, he continued walking a bit quicker than before, as if hurrying so he did not again tarnish the floor with a drop of his unworthy self.
But however innocent the man seemed, he was there with a profoundly more ominous purpose: confession. As much as it hurt him and had harmed the ones he loved, the man was a sinner. Regretfully, he had betrayed those that meant the most to him on the earth he so solemnly walked upon, so his only choice was to attempt to gain the forgiveness of the only man he knew that was not of this earth. God awaited his confession, and the only thing standing between him and doing so was a door about his height, decorated with a silver cross; the bronze knob belonging to it would open more doors than one.
Following a nearly inaudible click and the creak of an opening door, the man eloquently ducked through the doorway. A priest, whom the entering man knew quite well, sat in the far corner room; he was in a wooden chair meditating, his hands on his knees and eyes gently closed. A window had been fabricated next to him, which illuminated approximately half his wrinkled, weary face and his thin, stringy, steel-wool-like hair. The man sat in a chair beside the priest, so that they were separated only by a plank with slits in it so that the priest and the confessor could easily converse blindly. But despite this, the priest's eyes remained closed through the duration of the reconciliations he oversaw, since he presumed it allowed for the brain to think easier without having to acknowledge what the eyes absorbed - though it seemed like he was attempting to conceal something by doing so; and although he appeared to be in deep meditation, he must have heard the man enter the room, because after a minute or two of silence interrupted only by the confessor's heavy breathing, the priest spoke: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, what brings you hear today?"
The two made the sign of the cross as the priest spoke these words. The younger man scrambled for words; his was mind so flustered with pain and cluttered with mellow thoughts that he was fumbled for the correct response to this simple diction. He also knew that the priest would recognize him by voice, having been a member of the church since early childhood. Eventually, the words left the tip of his tongue with faint subtlety and acquiescence: "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-nine years since my last confession."
And at this, the priest immediately detected who was confessing to him. He would have recognized the voice anywhere, the voice of the closest thing he ever had to a son. It had been the voice of a boy who had come to him for comfort at the mere age of nine, succeeding the death of his father, and it had been the voice of a boy who had come to be absolved after thieving a bottle of Coca-Cola from a market at the age of twelve. But now it was the voice of a man who had sinned more prodigiously than before, and thus carried a more profound sense of humbleness. A simper crossed the withered lips of the priest, as that of a child opening a present on Christmas morning and receiving exactly what he wanted, but it slowly faded into a rather blunt expression when the priest remembered that the conversation would be turning grim very soon.
"How have you sinned, my boy?" the priest interrogated. He spoke somewhat shrewdly, but in a much lighter tone than is customary of an astute speaker.
"Lust, Father," the man sobbed, "I've committed adultery."
The priest nodded heavily, knowing full well that the other man could not see him; it was a calming motion more than it was a gesture of approval or acceptance. He attempted to view the situation objectively; his eyes remained shut, but they would not be necessary. Taking a deep, nasal inhalation that rivaled those of his partner in terms of audibility, the priest commenced the penance once more: "Start from the beginning, son. What led to this?"
"About a year ago," the man began softly, "I married the love o' my life. She was perfect. And she was perfect for me. And I wish I could tell you she still is, but I'd be outright lying if I told you that. I haven't seen her in two months, and I doubt that I will again." He said this without the slightest shred of optimism, as if patronizing himself. "She wasn't perfect in my eyes in the sense that others think o' women as perfect: sure, she was beautiful, and she was smart and had a nice sense o' humor, but there was something greater than that; it was her eyes. Life, that's what it was; an incredible blaze of life burned in her eyes; she was passionate about all that she did, and all that others endeavored to do. She wanted more than anything to reach her goals in life, and to lend a helping hand to everyone else in the process.
"I loved her, Father, and I still do. I wanted her then, I want her now, and I want her forever. The day of our wedding was the best day of my life, but looking back, it is all so bittersweet; it was the beginning of the end. And they say all good things come to an end, but why does that have to be the ultimate end-all? Does their have to be a finale? I don't see why sustenance must be inexistent if we make an effort to sustain, but therein lies the problem; I didn't try to hold on to our marriage, and I did the farthest thing from it: I cheated on her. I said I'd be there for her forever. The one woman who wanted good for all, and I took advantage of her. I said I'd always be with her, but actions speak louder than words, Father, and I wasn't."
The priest listened intently, trying to formulate questions, but all the while he ultimately just wanted to listen. He desired to inquire the man, but he felt the best thing for him would be to allow him to tell his story and let out the emotion.
"I was at a bar, two months and a day ago. I hadn't drunk a drop o' liquor, but it wouldn't be necessary yet; I was already intoxicated by a woman. Y'see, my wife was up in Chicago to shop and stuff for a few days with her friends, so I decided to go out with a couple o' mine, too. We went to this bar near Indy, and there I saw her. She was perfect, although not in the sense that my wife was, but in the way that everyone else views a woman as aesthetically perfect: large breasts, perfect body, and she had such a pretty face, too. It was a battle, Father; I sexually craved to have her, but I knew it wasn't right, that I really wanted my wife in the end. And that's when I made my mistake: I drank; I had a shot of whiskey, and another, and another. By that point in time, I was devoid o' reason. I could do nothing but watch in horror as my body took over and my mind shut down, but it was all still my fault. I wasted my last bit o' reasoning thinking perhaps my wife had an affair in Chicago and things would even out, but that would end up being far from the truth. We danced, the girl and me, and things progressed from there. She took me back to her apartment, and well, I'll save you the detail. Later that night, my friend calls his wife who's with mine in Chicago; he tells her about my misadventure. But I don't blame him for doing that, since he was drunk and all, and in fact I thank him, 'cause I'm not sure how I would've broken the truth to my wife.
"The next morning, my wife comes home, and we get in a heated argument. I doubt I remember a thing that was said - I was hung-over - but I do remember how it ended. She took her purse and left, and I don't blame her a bit. Because in the end, it was all in my control, it always was, and I can't fix it now."
The priest had appeared pensive for several minutes that had culminated into what seemed like an hour as the man told his story. It was finally his turn to speak, to give incite and advice, to help as the man's wife would have done. "Regret is a very powerful thing. It can drive us to do what we previously never considered. It can help us fix our wrongdoings in a way that nothing else can." He paused for a moment. "There are four choices that come with regret, son: you can dwell on it, learn from it, act on it, or learn from it and act on it. I suggest the latter, but it's not my choice. Because in the end, it is not in my control, it never was, and I can't fix what I didn't break - no one can but you."
The man had begun with a sense of apprehensiveness, thinking the priest's response would be devoid of advice and teeming with ridicule, but it turned out to be the opposite, and his outlook changed soon after. It was a pleasant juxtaposition between the expected and reality that permitted him to learn greatly. And when the priest spoke those last words, the man realized something he had never understood before: why he kept his eyes closed. It was to hide that which belonged to him and was similar to what others were thrusting upon him, so that he could help them; he was doing as the man's wife had in helping others, and all the while he was concealing something. The priest regretted something, and it emanated from his eyes, something he could not allow anyone he was aiding to see. But the man did not need to see it, nor did he want to, because he knew the priest did not either.
"Father, I think there's someone who can, but I need your help."
"How can I be of assistance?" the priest said wondrously. Beneath his wrinkled eyelids, his eyes flared with a desire to help the man.
"I need you to help me find God, Father..." The man choked back a sob as he had done numerous times preceding that instance. "I've drifted away from my faith, and without it, I can't move forward. Without God I cannot see through my misted eyes and find the light; I won't be able to move on."
"Prayer, my boy," the priest said benignly, "prayer. It is the only method that assures you will be speaking to God. I believe this is the solution to your predicament. But answer me one thing: Are you sincere when you say that you do not wish to get your wife back and that you'd rather move on with your life? Is that truly what you want?"
The man struggled through a few guttural noises before uttering, "Yes." He did mean it sincerely, because he wanted to move on, not for himself but for his wife; she did not deserve to be hurt again, and he did not deserve to have her. Only God could lead her to happiness, not him, and he wanted the best for her more than anything.
"Very well," the priest sighed. He wanted to see the man get his wife back and avenge his regret, but he did not wish to enforce it, especially in the man's time of need. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, you are absolved of your sins."
The man stood after a minute of thought passed. He slowly left the room, and turned to see the priest still sitting there with his eyes closed before he left. He wondered if the priest would ever be able to open his eyes again. And then the man left the confession room. The lighting had changed: beams of sunlight caressed the church, supplying warmth and newfound hope; false hope for him, stupendous hope for others. Knowing this, the man did not choose to pray in the light; instead he perused for the darkest pew in the church, because the light was no longer for him. He knelt and whispered to God what he was meant to say all along - what he should have said before.
"Dear God, the only thing I ask of you is to hold her when I'm not around, when I'm much too far away. We all need that person who you can be true to you, but I left her when I found her, and I now I wish I'd stayed."
He was lonely. He was tired. He was missing her again.
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