Confession

By Jack Knudson

My knees sunk into the velvet bar, and my forearms rested on another. I folded my hands, ramming my palms together until it hurt. Even though the other side of the latticed screen was empty, I felt like groveling to no one.

I wondered what he would have me do. Bow 1,000 times? Kiss a cross every hour of every day until I die? I hoped I wouldn’t have to do that one gesture where they bow a knee next to the long seats. My legs already ached.

I heard a door unlatch; someone entered the room ahead with a slow shuffle. I straightened my posture and cleared my throat, as if the big man upstairs had come downstairs to declare my verdict.

“Good morning,” a quiet voice offered. It was a voice that carried authority. I figured it had dedicated much of its life to sermons.

“Um, good morning, sir. Er, Father.”

A raspy laugh came through the screen, nearly developing into a cough.

“No need to be anxious,” he said after he recovered. My mouth was zipped shut, because if I said something wrong, I was sure it was a one way ticket to Hell.

“Tell me, do you know how to make the sign of the Cross?” he asked.

I should’ve known the answer to this question. It was one of those questions that’s a shoo-in. I racked my brain for no longer than five seconds, and said “no, Father”.

“Place your fingers to your forehead.”

I did as he told, holding them there as if to pluck something from my brow.

“Down to your chest... and over to your left shoulder.”

I began to move them to my right shoulder for some odd reason, but quickly stumbled back towards the left. I nearly cursed before I remembered where I was.

“Finally, over to your right shoulder.”

For a moment, I was surprised at how effortless of a motion it was. It wasn’t the kind of peculiar sign language I thought it would be, where I would have to memorize hundreds of patterns from a booklet as heavy as a cinderblock.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” the voice asked.

He could definitely tell from the start how ignorant I was when it came to this stuff. Why else would he ask that?

“Well, Father, this is my first confession.”

Silence congested the box like a thick layer of incense smoke.

“I commend you for coming here today. It wasn’t easy, I’m sure. What sins burdens you? Through God, you will be absolved of them.”

I never had a plan on how I would break the news to anyone. As sick as it made me, I knew I had to confess. It couldn’t bear it any longer.

“You see, Father, I… I don’t know if I can let it out of my system.”

“I understand. Though I cannot force you to stay here, know that God will forgive you in the end. He does not flinch from anyone, no matter the sins you have committed.”

I couldn’t believe that this God’d forgive anything. Surely I wouldn’t get off scot-free, but if I kept this burden forever…

“I saw someone who needed help. Real bad, Father.”

It was like prying my teeth out, but worse. “And I let them get hurt. I don’t know why, but I chose to ignore them.”

I didn’t tell him about how the rain battered the ground that day, or how terrified I was that I averted my gaze like a coward.

He probably wanted me to say more, because he didn’t say a word. He left me to consider what I had failed to do, and I hated that. I began to hazily wonder about all of the sins he heard in his old age, and how he lived with them forever, not unlike the way I lived with mine.

“Are there any other sins you wish to be absolved of?” he asked at some point in his empathetic hum, a twinge of sympathy in his tone.

There probably were, but I said no. I had done what I wanted to do, yet I still could barely think straight.

He gave me a ‘penance’, and then had me recite some prayer. It all sounded like static in my ears. Then he said something profound, I was pretty sure of it, because I said “thank you.” Eventually, though, I sensed that he had left. I didn’t know how long I had been kneeling. Minutes? Hours?

My feet fell asleep. My chest felt full, and fuller by the minute. For whatever reason, the lump in my throat rose until it came knocking at my lips. I couldn’t keep them shut no matter how hard I tried.

“I’m sorry,” I said to someone. But I didn’t know who.

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Jack Knudson is a student studying journalism at Ohio University. His favorite book genre is historical fiction.

Featured art: River by Sophie Caswell