Confessions

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” a little girl’s voice pleaded from the other side. “It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

Father Camillus heard the girl nervously kick against the confessional door; he sighed an old man’s sigh. Today was a terrible day to be honest. Where he would have preferred offerings of peace sent up to his Lord, here he was stuck, cramped in a hot, sweaty wooden box, listening to offerings of sin offered up to him, expecting him to wipe them off their souls. Here he sat, Man’s quick-fix. It always seemed so hypocritical; he sitting here, offering forgiveness, and they sitting there, innocence lost, souls decaying, twisted minds constantly working evil… and a couple of Hail Mary’s later they walk away, light-hearted, heads held high, cleansed. Cleansed! Bugger it!

He wondered to himself if abstinence ever really existed. Twenty-two affairs had come through the other side, and three of them had men cheating on their wives with other men… One woman confessed to trying to get her German shepherd to lay with her while her husband was away! What was wrong with these people? Was there no shame, no fear of God left in them? They should be locked away, have their heads examined… he felt filthy after days like this, and the stench of other people’s sins stayed with him for days after, like a diseased cloud following him everywhere he went.

Father Camillus felt a slight relief to hear the sound of the young girl’s voice. How old would she be, he asked himself. Eleven? Twelve? Maybe younger. Children were always a pleasure to listen to. They did bad things, but nothing terrible. He often heard, “Forgive me Father, I’ve talked back to Mama,” “Forgive me Father, I’ve hit my younger brother,” or “Forgive me Father, I haven’t been praying that often.” It did his heart good to hear the voice of an innocent child.

“Speak now, child, tell me your sins.”

The little girl’s voice went very quiet, “I’ve done a very bad thing, Father. I shouldn’t tell you, but I have to anyway.”

Silently the father chuckled. This was what all little children thought. Their guilt was pure. They felt they were the worst people in the world. Bless the young ones.

He was about to tell her that she had nothing to worry about, when she started to sob. “I killed a man, Father.”

Father Camillus caught his breath. A single drop of sweat rolled off his brow and traced a path down the ridge of his nose where it hung, petulantly. Did he hear right? he opened his mouth to say something, but what could he say? This child is delusional; she doesn’t know what she is talking about.

He was just about to attempt a few words of… what? comfort? query? when she cut him off. “I looked at him all the time when I made him die. I told his body to shut off and it did. I just told him to die and it did.”

“Be still, child,” Father Camillus said, attempting to comfort her, “I’m sure you are mistaken.”

The sounds from the other side of the confessional were intangible, but it sounded as if the girl was chanting. A sudden banging and thrashing around almost made him run out of his little cramped cubicle, but his legs refused to answer his call. It sounded as if someone were throwing the girl around.

“Please!” the girl shrieked. She sounded like she was being tortured, “HELP ME!”

Then a scream filled the air.

Father Camillus bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood. A single drop fell to the floor. He stared at the tiny spot of red making its way floorwards, as if gravity had given up its power just at that moment. It hit the ground just missing his sandaled right foot and at that instant, the screaming stopped.

“I believe I have worried you unnecessarily, Father,” the voice of the girl was now calm and soft, almost soothing. I will not ever make a scene like that one again. I promise.”

Father Camillus let loose a harsh breath, almost gasping. The girl’s voice sounded strange, almost a voice within a voice. No. He must be imagining it. And yet he crossed himself hurriedly. He had heard that other voice, the one within the girl’s, only once before, a very long time ago, when he was still a young priest. It was at an exorcism.

Almost as if she were trying to reason with him, give him an explanation for what was so difficult to believe, she spoke, “I’m sorry Father, a boy told me he’d give me fifty rupees if I’d scare you.”

To anyone else, the apology would have been taken for what it was, but he knew better. There was only melancholy in the voice of this young one, no sorrow had ever or would ever be there.

“You won’t tell anyone,” she stated. She didn’t ask. It was an order, masked in little girl innocence, “Will you?”

Father Camillus looked around in this mahogany wooded confessional. His life was devoted to his faith, to his church and to his God, and yet this little girl-demon scared him. Why? He was a man of God, this was his battlefield. He would stop her.

A peel of childish laughter filled the air. A chill went down his spine. Darkness seemed to pour into his wooden box and crouch in the corners.

“Father, isn’t it written that the thought of murder is the same as murder itself?”

He needed to say something; he needed to tell her that she was going to be alright, that he would take care of it, wipe her soul clean, scour it clean if need be.

“You won’t tell anyone. I know.”

Father Camillus clutched his chest, attempting to slow his racing heart.

She walked out of the confessional, the heels on her little shoes clicking behind her. She never turned back once. Father Camillus stared straight ahead, through the cracks in the slats of wood on the door of the confessional. She was dressed in a pale pink dress, tied around the waist with a white satin bow.

His heart was thumping hard against his chest. His thoughts were too scattered to call for help. He needed to do one thing first. He shoved the door of the confessional open and stumbled out, falling to his knees. He looked up at the girl. She just stood there at the massive jak wood doors of the church, her back turned towards him.

“You will never tell.”

The coldness enveloped Father Camillus. He felt a rush of blood race up to his head, his vision turning red. His screams died on his tongue as he collapsed forward, spread-eagled, fallen away from his altar.

*     *     *

The medical examiner couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation. As far as he had known, Father Camillus had been in perfect health.

The stress of the day weighed heavily upon his shoulders and the prospect of going home that evening didn’t appeal to him either. After all, he had to tell his little daughter that she had given her last confession to Father Camillus.