Shit. She heard me.
“Father Paretti?”
I freeze and look down at the dead priest.
“Are you there? I-I really need, I have to talk to someone. I did something, I-I-” she cries, her words dissolving into tears before she chokes out, “oh, my God, I killed him. I should have stopped, why didn’t I stop?”
That has my interest. Curiosity killed the cat and boredom killed the vampire. When you’ve been alive for centuries, there’s little that surprises or entertains you. Life is meaningless without the excitement of new.
And this woman has brought new and interesting right to my feet.
I push away from the wall, my interest for a quick escape gone and lean forward to slide the divider open between us with a snick. The woman stops crying and shuffles closer to the screen between us. I can’t see her face, just the side of her face and the fall of dark hair as she bows her head .
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.”
“Tell me what you’ve done.”
“I-don’t think I can.”
I frown and lean my elbows on my knees. I’m going to get this woman to talk or I’m going to eat her too. “Confess your sins, my child. Who did you kill?”
“It’s like last time. This is the same as last time I told you,” her voice is just above a whisper.
Last time?
I look down at Father Paretti. What the fuck did this priest know? I look back at the screen between us. Who is this woman? The window between the priest and the confessor’s side of the booth is small, about as tall and wide as my hand. Not nearly enough to figure out who this murderess is.
“Refresh my memory, my child. Your sins weigh heavy. Lay them down now with a devoted servant of the Lord.”
I’m laying it on thick. Whatever, I don’t give a shit. Maybe it’s the boozy blood of the priest I drained in my veins that’s pushing me, or maybe it’s my own curiosity but I want to know what she’s doneagain.
“I killed a man.”
“Haven’t we all?”
Yup. That’s the booze talking.
“What?” she croaks. I hear her shift away from me, scooting back from the wall towards the bench so hard she bumps it. The confessional gives a slight groan in protest from the motion. Pull it together, you drunk fuck, I order myself.
I run my hand through my hair and clear my throat. “We’re all sinners in the eyes of the Lord. What’s one sin in comparison to another when they’re all the same in the eyes of God. In his eyes we’re all murderers, all sinners.” I hesitate and then for good measure add on, “You are not alone.”
There’s nothing but tense silence from the other side of the confessional screen before she lets out a choked sob and crawls back towards the wall with a desperate gasp of words. “T-thank you, Father. I’m not worthy of mercy. I know that but you’ve always been so kind to me.”
I make a noncommittal hum and pat Father Paretti’s forehead. At least he was nice to some people.
“It was like before,” the woman starts again and I look back up to the screen. She’s put her hand against the screen, palm pressed flat to it. I almost reach out and press my hand to hers but I don’t. I sit and listen while the murderess spilling her guts confesses to me.
“I wanted him dead. I was so, so angry. I never knew I could feel like that but that’s a lie because I did know that I could feel that way. It’s the same way I felt when I killed his father.”
Ten
MARIS
When I ran from the graveyard, I wasn’t thinking about where I was running. My legs carried me on instinct into the church. Maybe it’s because the church has always felt safe. It’s where I spent my early days mourning my parents.
For a lot of people it might have made them sad, the church where her parents were laid to rest but it wasn’t like that for me. I felt peaceful as a kid sitting there in the big chapel next to my granny. We knelt and prayed together, she let me hold the hymnal and light the candles for her after she slid her money into the giant iron candle rack with rows and rows of flickering candles in their glass cups.
The smell of sulfur, of that moment when the match strikes the side of the matchbox, still makes me feel safe. Ironic given the fact that for the past twenty years I’ve sat in these pews and listened to Father Paretti threaten me with brimstone and sulfur fires. I’d probably fit right in down there.
