Confession

This is a piece I wrote a while ago, in the original piece I worked to change the way some words sat on the page, altering them to be upside down or sideways, which sadly didn’t transfer to wordpress.

Father Capron’s Journal: Sept. 21-1896

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” the voice was cracked and slightly youthful.

“Tell me your sins child.”

“The room is cold and black…”

“What are your sins child?” I could feel my head start to cloud.

“I’m getting to it. Where was I?”

“The cold room?”

“Yes, the room, from the lamp lit corridor I can see into her tempered window. She sits on her stool, painting, staring, night after night. The next night I do the same. I stare, waiting for a response, a glance my way, some acknowledgement.”

“What is your confession?” I asked, not entirely patiently.

“Father, please let me finish. One night I walked towards her door and entered. The door creaked and moaned. I shut her gently as I entered the building caressing the handle turning it to muffle the sound. I strode through the corridor towards the living room, pictures of family and friends lined the walls, candled chandeliers lit the far corner of the room. I moved as a thief, quiet and gentle, towards the flame. The corner was mystery, a Maze; I slowly backed away, back towards the door. I bolted through her; slamming her shut. I crossed the dark alley, and as I looked towards her window there was no flame, no woman. The next night I did the same, sneaking in through her front door, I walked through the living room, again staring at the pictures of family. Once more in that corner the candle was aflame, and it ignited in me a fiery passion, an inferno of hate. Its spires of conflagration flared in my heart, I turned towards the door and locked her tight, squeezing her brass handle. I wandered toward the stairs, taking each step rising into Heaven, uninvited, unwelcomed. As I arrived next to the door I could hear her humming through the cracks. ‘Hmmmmm mmmmmmhmmmmmm mmmmhmmhmmmmmmhmmmmmmmmm.’ In a flood of grace my hatred was overcome. I was calmed and began to sob quietly. Before she heard I ran down the stairs and out the door again; toward the desolate street.”

“Child of God, I absolve you of your sins, you are to perform 30 Hail Mary’s and pray for guidance.”

“Father I have sinned far further than this. From there on each night was same; as I entered through the door, she guided me to the corner flame and as my hate was fueled again, I was calmed by her hum. On the sixth night, however, my experience was far different… I entered through the deep oak door, embracing the knob’s bouldering body, and with each touch I had mastered her riddles, every sound she made at each instant. I was finished, moving through her I entered into the living room, the floor board’s creaked under each step as I walked towards the candle’s ember. This embrace was far different than earlier.”

“How so?”

“I felt trapped, as if there was no way I could escape its hate. I climbed the stairs, again deliberately, the disgust grew with each rising step. As I heard her hum I expected to relax, but instead I was infuriated. I rushed into the bedroom and grabbed her by the neck, shoving her head downward onto the easel. Red spattered onto the canvas, masking her work. I threw her onto the bed and covered her mouth, her muffled screams were invigorating. It gave me a commanding sensation. I squeezed her neck as I pulled off her blouse, ripping the buttons as my hand traveled down through the valley between her breasts. Eventually her muffled moans stopped, and her mangled bodylay stiff. When I had carried out my sin I walked to the tempered glass and gazed through the fog covered window. As I looked towards my usual street light, I saw a man. He was me and I was him; two people, one in the same, on different ends of the earth. I backed away from the window ready to leave, but as I walked down the stairs I noticed a shift in the room.

Each

Step

I

Took

Down

The stairs

Led

Me

Further

Up

Them.

Fear overtook my heart I sprinted to my door, the sweet lady of serenity, and my
frantic steps propelled me forward but the faster I moved, the narrower the hallway became.

Faster I ran, clamoring for some sense of logic, then entire house crumbled beneath me.

Behind each of my frantic steps the ground quaked and broke.

My body longed for the sanctity that the door symbolized.

My steps just distanced the door.

Further from me.

Until I Fell.

I fell slowly, dropping into the levels of Hell. As I whipped my head around I saw men and women pinned to walls climbing towards the hole from which I fell. I stared at their faces, hoping to see an inkling of emotion, but instead I was greeted with blank skin; faces were gone and their skin was like melted leather stretch over a human structure. When I finally landed onto the ground, my body burned and tainted, felt weak and heavy. Echoes of woe traversed the air, filling my ears with the deep bellow of unimaginable torment. I heard the wails and cries of deprived thieves, loveless rapists, and ruthless murderers. As I reached the end of my descent I could see below me the city in which I live. I landed softly next to the lamp post that I clung to as I stared at that beautiful woman. In front of me there was a Maze with three paths available.

The first path had sides made of bricks, with a sign that read ‘Home Sweet Home.’ As I walked down her winding path, a point came where I had two choices to make: left or right.

After examining both sides I decided to take neither and travel back to the beginning of my Maze. The second path was walled with the same mangled bodies that I had seen earlier, though these bodies had faces, unrecognizable, but the faces all reminded me of someone I knew; my parents, and the woman from the window, there were eight on each side. At the end of this path, there was only one direction I could travel: left.

The third path was the most peculiar of them all—the walls were made of white picket fences with beautiful green vines growing in between each wooden spike. As I walked to the end again there was only one path. This time the path was straight. At the end of this road there stood a massive pillar made of salt which stood on a mountain of sand, and slowly I climbed to the top. Etched into the side of the pillar were thousands of words, some too scribbled to make out. There were words that I could mostly decipher, ones that resembled lust, gluttony, and greed.”

“Part of the seven deadly sins.”

“Yes Father, all of them, etched in under my name.”

“How large was the pillar?”

“Miles. It reached so far into the sky I could not see the top. But Father, what was behind this pillar was the most devastating part of the whole ordeal, for behind the pillar there was a rolling lake of crackling black flames. It moved like the ocean, free and uncontrollable, each wave spewed out black fire pinnacles high into the air. Within the fire I saw a chained creature, pinned to ocean floor. So large only the wings were submerged into the lake, the rest of his body licked with embers scarred into its hide. The creature was screaming but no noise would come from its mouth, and it stared upwards towards the single hole in the ceiling of this chasm. He constantly stared at the hole in the ceiling, never braking eye contact, with an uncontrollable and infuriating rage fixed on that one single location. This is the dream I have had every night.”

“Dream?”

“Yes Father, this is my dream every night.”

“Why did you come to confession if this is just a dream?”

“Forgive me Father, but I just needed to understand why I have these dreams.”

“And you figured your priest would be the best place to go?”

“Yes Father.”

“If I were to say anything I would say pray for understanding,” I adjusted my tone to sound a little less harsh.

“Yes Father, but could you help me in any other way? What do you think any of this means?”

“Well, I would say the first and most obvious part of your dream would be the Mule.”

“The Mule, Father?”

“Yes. Adramelech is the name of the Demon who possesses mules, and he is usually associated with children who deal with severe hate and trauma. This directly correlates to your life; you had two directions you could travel, and the one on the left, guarded by the mule was true life. You had a disjointed Father and a loving Mother, but multiple years of physical and sexual abuse your Father used against your Mother seemed to take a toll? Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And the path on the right was the life you have told people you lived, a lie fabricated to hide your pain? The boy which was so clearly not you was an image of a child that you wished you could be. Next is the second path, where the bodies lining the walkway are friends, family, acquaintances you knew and that you have so clearly cast aside. As for the women in the house, well I believe that is pretty obvious.”

“Yes Father.”

“The last path was your sins on the pillar, and every other person alive, with their sin on the pillar as well. The salt and sand are where you have made your foundation, on things that are weak and brittle, instead of the everlasting strength and sanctity of God. But the most interesting part of the dream is the creature in the lake of fire. I believe this creature is also your sin, it is a symbol of you, tied down into the fire, and the reason your beast is screaming so silently is to show that the hole is opening and the light of God is shining through the cracks of this hollow.”

“Yes, Father, yes.”

“30 Hail Mary’s for your sins, and ask God for direction and comprehension of your sins.”

“Yes Father, yes Father, yes.” I stepped out of the confessional and headed for home. Street lights shimmered, and light uplifted my soul and I felt at peace. As I left the church lot and headed for home the once bright lights began to flicker, and the light dissipated from the street. I began running home, and my breath got heavy; I could hear hooves on the street sides and grunts from my Mule. I could hear the women calling from the brothel their moans echoing their desires through my chest. I galloped to my door and tore through her, shutting her slowly but abruptly. I could feel the warmth of my house, and I crawled into the living room and saw the candle, still lit in the corner. I walked up the stairs to the room where she lay, still, and silent against the wall, decayed bones and body from months of buildup.

There I slept.”

 

Father Capron’s Journal: Sept. 22-1896

My cloak shook as I hit the knocker, and the door slowly creaked open. The door that the person in the confessional told me about, surely this was it. I entered into the building, in the corner of the room a candle was lit. It had been burning for a while, and I walked over to put it out. At the moment the flame absolved, the home bellowed and wailed—floor boards and walls began to break apart; desperately I re-lit the candle, and the house calmed. As I looked around the beast I could see the hole of which he spoke, in the floor boards I peered through the broken foundation to see the organs of his story. From the stairs I felt drawn, drawn up them into the room above, as I rose up the steps, my stomach turned and fear overtook my soul. I pressed on the door, it oscillated open and inside I saw the most horrific scene conceivable, a mangled body tied to the bed, with the young child that was at confession wrapped around it. I called the police as the combination of smell and sight forced me to heave, I leapt down the stairs and out through the door, I sobbed and waited for the police to arrive.       The next day, I was approached. “Hello Father.”

“Hello.” Brief moments of silence fed the tension in the room.

“The boy was sick, he died about a day ago, and rigor has set in. Also, the autopsy shows that the both the boy and the woman are related, most likely as Mother and Son. As for the other bodies—“

“Other bodies? There were more?”

“Yes, upon searching the house we found that floorboards were loose as well as multiple patches on the walls. We found bodies wrapped and stuffed into the sides of the walls.”

“How many? How many more were there?”

“Seventeen, eight on each side of the room.”

“Where was the last one?”

“The last body was behind the candle stick in the back corner, it was an older man; it seemed to be the boy’s Father.”

“My lord, this child did all this?”

“We don’t believe so, the chest of the Man had the word Murderer carved into the chest.”

It was then I had realized the truth of the confession, this story was not the child’s, but the Father. “How did his Dad die?”

“Self-asphyxiation, there was still a belt buckle around his neck.”

“Couldn’t the boy have strangled him? And the other bodies?”

“Yes in regard to the father, but the rest of the bodies have been there far too long, some for years, making the child far too young to commit any act this violent.”

“How old was he?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

“Around sixteen. I’m sorry but I have to get back to work.”

“That’s all right, go ahead.” I sat down in the confessional waiting for the patrons to arrive.

“Father. Father Capron, hello?”

“Yes? Sorry.”

“Are you alright? You seem confused. Is everything okay?”

“The officer that was just here, he said that the boy was dead,” I said shakily.

“Which officer Mr. Capron? There was no officer here.”

“He was just there! How did you not see him?”

“Mr. Capron I am sorry, but there’s no one here but you and I. It’s time for your medicine Mr. Capron.”

 

Father Capron’s Journal: Sept. 21-1896

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” the voice was cracked and slightly youthful.

This was written after part of a dream I had, from there I shaped the story around the dream, creating characters and a darker story line. As I have grown as a writer I realize now that the story being a dream may not be all that clear, and there is some places that were not easily conveyed from my mind to the page.

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