Confession

“Yes, I killed the young boy, but no court this side of Murcia would believe my intentions to be that of kindness. Navide had been sick since the day he was born; gaping sores from head to toe, his breath no more than a stifled rasp. I had always wished for a boy of my own, even one as uncelebrated as Navide. I had always found a great peace in the imperfect. Those whom others cast away were always so kind and filled with a goodness one could only inherit from humility. When the task of becoming the boy’s governess came about I gladly offered my services. Every morning I bathed and covered his wounds, and sang him the lullabies my mother had sung many years before as I rocked him slowly on my knee. His father had long gone. Upon the sight of his newborn he fled and was never seen again. His mother had grown ill after the birth and was unable to take care of him, although I feared she was grateful for this, and I knew it was only a matter of time before Senorita would be well again, and would also flee from the child.

 

 Navide was bed ridden and I would often sit by his side and read him stories of the Great Guiomar and his grand adventures. The boy would smile and I wished he too would someday be an adventurer of his own lands, but the sickness grew worse, and no doctor would touch him. On the boy’s eleventh birthday I asked what he wished for most in the world, and he slowly raised a hand to the window. I knew the outdoors would not be kind to a boy in his condition, but nevertheless, I wrapped him in his bed sheets and led him out the back door into the garden. The boy smiled and raised his hands to the sky, letting the blankets fall to the ground. He stood there stark naked in the courtyard, grinning from ear to ear. I feared the sun would burn his flesh, but he seemed to pay it no mind, so I went inside to fetch a cup of water for the child. In a matter of seconds, screams erupted into the air and I ran out to see Navide ablaze. His shrieks pierced through the garden as the flames engulfed his tiny body. I ran to the boy, grabbing the sheets to cover him and stifle the blaze. The sun had released its wrath and to the advantage of no one, the boy survived.

 

Navide would spend the next week in agony, barely recognizable and wishing for death. I loved him as my son, and I could not stand to witness his pain any longer. On the Sunday before Semana Santa, I prayed with the child and read him another story of the brave Guiomar, though surely he could not hear it through his suffering. I gave him a tonic and waited silently for the boy to fall asleep, and once he began to dream I sent him on his way with the pillow on which he had rest his head so many nights before.

 

Father, I ask for forgiveness from the Lord above. But I suspect the law will not be quite as merciful, and for my loving transgression I will surely hang. But I give testament to the boy’s suffering, and wish he only be remembered as precious. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."