This wretched, terrible truth has
experienced two incarnations through Sam. The first, inspired by a song, was a sketch.
The second, inspired by the sketch, was a story. Sam makes no apologies for the potentially offensive nature of the story or sketch. You have been warned.
(There seems to be a glitch in Matrix. No matter how the story gets copied down, certain words become underlined and highlighted. This is not part of the work and should be ignored if possible.)
Reconciliation
Father
Lemurty laid the stole over his frail shoulders, taking his place in his
fragile chair beside the old confessional screen of the compact booth. It was
hot for April; his red vestment clung to his aging frame. Retirement had
crossed his mind years ago but his faithful flock needed him. He happily
obliged them. With pleasure and satisfaction he watched the children partake in
their First Communion—children of men and women he had guided through Catechism
decades ago.
A
heavy body entered the chamber opposite him; the door closed softly, further
diminishing light around Father Lemurty’s small, bent form. He knew it was a
man by the heavy breathing and waited for the penitent to initiate this
ancient, exposing transaction. Secretly, it was Father’s favorite sacrament.
“Bless
me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty three years and nine days
since my last confession,” whispered the voice on the other side of the
confessional screen.
“Kneel,
my son,” replied Father, sensing the man was still standing. He was struck not
only by the length of time stated but by the precision with which it was
relayed. Father licked his dry lips, anticipating the kneeling supplicant.
The
old wooden prie-dieu did not creak under the weight of a body and, after a few
awkward seconds, the confessor continued, “I am plagued with the demon of my
childhood, Father. He haunts my dreams and eats my soul. I fear I will become
him.”
Father
Lemurty gently rubbed his palms on the shiny red cloth of his chasuble,
intrigued by this odd prologue and sensing something vaguely familiar in the
voice. Something about the way he pronounced words, perhaps. Father probed the
supplicant, his curiosity rising, “What have you done, my child?”
A
nervous odor oozed through the veil of confession; Father heard the floor of
the closet squeak as the seeker of reconciliation shifted his weight. Father
peered at the hanging screen wondering, as he often did, what savory
monstrosities it was hiding and would reveal. The screen offered anonymity and
the safety of the sacramental seal.
“He
consumes me. Those things he did to me. . . I am dirty. Soiled in a way no
water can ever cleanse,” as the confessor spoke, his voice began to resemble a
child. Father’s palms began to itch slightly. “I’ve tried so hard over the years.
I’ve tried to overcome the monster, but his seed was planted in me. Father,”—oh,
the way he whispered that word—“I can’t even make love to my wife anymore. I am
physically incapable. And I fear my son is not safe. . .”
“But
what have you done, my son?” asked
Father Lemurty, leaning closer, hungry for the unleavened morsel of confession.
His palms itched more prominently now for his excitement was coupled with
another feeling. A faint expulsion of gas escaped beneath him.
“Today
I will end it, Father,” there it was again, the eerie familiarity with which he
whispered certain words. No, not a whisper—he hissed them. “Today I will free
myself from the demon. I will feel his blood on my hands.”
Was
it the heat of the day that began to overwhelm Father Lemurty as beads of
perspiration formed on his brow? His sweat appeared a coagulating liquid as
light reflected off Father’s crimson vestment in the dim aura of the tiny
booth. He scratched at his palms uncontrollably as he began to explain, “Dear
boy, you cannot confess a sin that has not yet occurred. You must allow
yourself to forgive and pray for this man who haunts you. Forgive lest you be
one of the unforgiven. Let our Heavenly Father be his judge and do not destroy
your self with such terrible deeds. Don’t ruin your life!”
Silence
from beyond the veil. Father perceived the confessional closet empty except
himself. The man who refused to kneel had left like a specter. A minute of
deafening silence passed when Father inhaled deeply, realizing he had been
holding his breath. Father looked to the hanging crucifix on the wall—that epitome
of violent absolution—and made the Sign of the Cross as the door yawned open.
Standing in the doorway was the monstrous silhouette of a man. Father Lemurty’s
nails dug into his palms as the ominous apparition loomed before him. A flash
of metal brandished near the angel of death’s waist like the ceremonial blade
of an ancient pagan priest, poised for sacrifice. Father finally felt the power
of true contrition and clarity as the hiss slithered into Father’s ears with an
all too familiar, poisonous caress: “Remember me, Father?”
Reconciliation.
The following is a sub-par copy of the sketch that was drawn several years ago, which eventually led to the writing of the above story:
None of this terrible truth could have been brought to you without the help of the song that initially inspired it all: "I'm Not Jesus" by Apocalyptica
Sam suggests reading the story one more time, this time with the song playing softly in the background. Let the loving lyrics lull you...
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