Absolved

Go to confession, they said. You should confess. Start your life anew. It’s not for me, I had said. I don’t do that stuff anymore. I can barely remember the Lord’s Prayer. But they insisted.

I couldn’t tell them that I wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through the head of each one of those self-righteous men of the cloth, cloistered there in that so-called house of God. White collars turned to sanguine nooses around limp necks; heads burst like eggshells and spilling holy thoughts onto the stone floor. Salvation! They cried from the pulpit. Yes, salvation, but only for them and theirs. Only for vultures in white collars pecking at the fetid carrion of a rotting world.

Let them die, they said of us. Let them die. As our blood became death in our veins; a formless beast that devours you slowly, bite by bite, until you are altogether unrecognizable and can only wish to be put out of your misery. Let them die. As our emaciated bodies filled the hospital beds, spilling out into the hallways, and we cried out for help but no, we were unclean. So let them die, they said. And why would they care? More corpses of wretched sinners and more salvation for them.

I remember my brother’s face—as if I could ever forget it. He was pale. Pale even against the white hospital sheets. And the light was trickling out of his eyes and the blood out of his skin and his lips and yet he still believed that there was some God out there—a divine glory found even under the cold flicker of the fluorescent lamps. Some heavenly Father whose altar was a hospice bed, and for whom a sinner’s soft gasps, choked with salt and blood, were sufficient as a prayer. There was a God out there, he told me. Out there, but where? Not by his side, at the end. For there are no Last Rites for a sinner, the priest had said. No rest for them among the saints. Sitting there at the desk before the man of God, listening to those flint-like words tumbling from his thin, wrinkled lips, I felt something ignite inside of me. The burning sulphur over Sodom spilling into my blood—its wrathful flames the only baptism afforded me. Fire and brimstone strangling every thought in my head until there was only rage. And the cup of my wrath runneth over. Could you blame me?

Don’t worry, I did not kill the holy man—though that saggy face poking out from his white collar looked like it was due to a trip to the mortician’s soon, in any case. No, I did not kill him, but looking back I wish I had. Five years in the men’s correctional facility, my insides festering and my blood smouldering with greater fury. Let out on good behaviour—but that just meant I got better at acting, better at hiding the wrath. When I walked out I wanted nothing more to do with God. The dead man on the cross meant nothing to me. He was too pristine, poised, his suffering sanitized and gutted of all real pain. He was nothing like the man in the hospital bed. Nothing like the skeletal figure with chalky skin and cracked lips and dull eyes. The most beautiful soul any of us had ever known, slowly eaten away until the thing lying there on the bed was just a body. He looks so serene, like he’s asleep, Mother had said, through tears. But looking at that thing on the bed, all I could think was that it was the most profane sight I had ever beheld. And I stood rooted there, unable to move, a pillar of salt bearing witness to the aftermath of divine fury. And at long last the correctional officer pulled me away, out of the hospital and back to my cell, but that image was cut into my eyes. I knew that the holy could no longer move me.

But you must confess, they insisted. Mother begged, she pleaded. For your big brother, she said. For Joey. As if he could come back and care. I knew she just wanted me to make right with God so that I wouldn’t end up where he did. And in the end I somehow found myself sitting in that dark box, waiting to confess my sins, to peel back my skin and hold out my rotted innards before another vulture in a white collar. It was like a coffin, that box. I picked at a scab on my hand. I would be in and out. For Joey. And then never again. I sat in the darkness of the coffin. I could make out a silhouette on the other side of the wicker lattice; sitting there, waiting. Maybe I was meant to speak first—I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t care. The silhouette could speak first if it wanted to hear my sins.

When a voice did come, it caught me by surprise. It was soft; not the harsh, grating sound that I had braced for, not barbed with the accusations I had come to expect. It was gentle, that voice, and it held me like a child—though, I thought, the speaker could not have been much older than I. For a moment, the darkness felt less like that of a coffin and more like that of a womb—richer... alive. Yes, there was breath behind the lattice. Would you speak to me?

I don’t want to.

Are you not here to confess your sins?

My mother wants me to.

I see. The voice was calm. It did not demand, it did not pry. It said nothing more. There was only the faint sound of our breathing that pulsed through the silence. I looked towards the silhouette behind the lattice, and I saw the glint of soft eyes looking at me.

Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve done? What my sins are?

Have you done something? The question came so quietly, and I couldn’t help but lean closer to the lattice between us. I could hear his breath, and I picked up the warm scent of bergamot and cedar. Have you sinned?

And there were a thousand things my mind could’ve gone to; so many things done in the darkness, so many thoughts twisted with depravity, so many stories that I would tell with devilish glee because I knew they’d make the pious squirm in their pews, clutch at their pearls, gasp in self-righteous disapproval. But in the soft darkness of the box I could not recall any of it... my mind flitting instead to every dream that I could never tell, every skipped heartbeat locked away forever, every blue night swimming through formless constellations until the moonlight spilled across my bedsheets and I would cry into my pillow before hiding it all away by the morning. No, my mind could have gone to a thousand things, but in the soft darkness I was made to sit, silent and unmoving, with all that of which I was most deeply ashamed.

I think… I think my sins are too many to count, I finally said.

So are all of ours, his voice came again. It floated like incense through the holes in the lattice. So are mine.

The words seemed to ring in the darkness, hanging in the air between us. It was just a platitude, I told myself, but it felt too genuine, too vulnerable. Another rotted sinner’s heart pressed against the other side of the lattice, asking to know my own.

I stood and burst out of the confessional. It was too bright and too cold on the outside, the very air blinding white after the darkness, the feeling of being born. I felt exposed; every hair, every pore on my body in sharp focus beneath the light, like I was Adam naked in front of his maker. Everything was still. It was just me and the box. I turned to it, and slowly drew back the curtain.

There he was. Father; but he didn’t look like a father. Smooth skin, like a marble sculpture. Eyes soft and brown and sad.

I had seen those eyes before.

He stepped out of the confessional, stood there in front of me. I wished I could be angry, but I couldn’t muster it, as if my fire and brimstone had remained in that box. I clenched my fists, knuckles white, and walked away without looking back.

—

It was the end of my fifth year. Five years boxed in by bare, grey walls, watching through a tiny window as the little sliver of the world that I called my own slowly wasted away with disease, pecked apart by vultures in white collars. Fury became second nature, burned into my insides over and over until the thing that had once been my heart was now just a scar. I hid it well, though. I had learned to hide since I was a child; we all did. Good behaviour, the judge said. They were letting me out. But I needed to speak to a chaplain first, they told me. What denomination are you? I’m not religious. You were christened? Catholic.

And I sat there at the bare, grey table, enclosed by the bare, grey walls. And the chair was too hard and the lights were too bright—too bright and flat and cold and they seemed to slice right through you as if you were immaterial.

There were no shadows to hide behind as he walked in.

He had a pretty face, not befitting of a man of the cloth. Like a marble sculpture. Smooth skin and brown eyes that were soft even in the harsh light. He sat across from me. I clenched my fists beneath the table. Fire and brimstone over Sodom spilling into my blood. He spoke. His words were few; still I remembered only one—absolution. That word ate away at me, a cruel joke. What penance could absolve him—any of them, for they were all the same, the vultures in white collars—what penance could absolve him of Joey’s death? I looked at him, that pretty face.

What if I cut off that tongue that flapped so eloquently in his head? What if I bit it off and like a shrike impaled it on a thorn, and watched as his throat turned red with all the platitudes he could no longer say? What if I pried muscle from sinew, bone from bone and watched him writhe, and the birds of the air would peck apart his twisted form, pull out his entrails and crack open that lovely head of his. But perhaps leave the eyes—those eyes soft as sparrows’ down. The body, broken for you.

What if I put a gun between his lips, pushing the barrel back against his throat? A pellet of lead on his tongue as a final sacrament, and those pink lips painted crimson when I pulled the trigger. The blood, shed for you.

And if I sank my teeth into his flesh, flayed him like a saint or a veal calf and gorged myself on his insides the way that disease consumed my brother—then perhaps, finally, I could whisper into his lifeless ear, I absolve you, I absolve you, I absolve you.

And there was silence. He had finished speaking; perhaps he was waiting for me to reply. I just looked at him, my blood bubbling and frothing inside of me. I knew he could see it in my gaze. And yet, somehow, there was no fire in his eyes to meet me; no brimstone spilling forth in judgement. And still I looked, and I could find neither wrath nor indifference nor steely haughtiness in his face. No, only sadness—so well-hidden that it had eluded me at first. A deep, deep sadness like a faded scar.

Two months later I was free, if you could call it freedom. Half of my friends were gone, taken from this God-forsaken place without a chance for me to say goodbye. You’re so lucky, people had said, that you don’t have it, but how I wished, wished, wished that I could be swept away with them instead of being left here alone. But I knew I couldn’t do that to Mother—not her baby boy, too. When she picked me up she was all smiles and happy tears. She didn’t understand. How could she?

Two months later I was free, and the grey room was exchanged for a dark box, the table for a wicker lattice; but somehow it was still him on the other side of it. The same voice, the same face, the same soft brown eyes hiding their deep, deep sadness. I didn’t know what to think as he stood before me. I willed the anger to bubble up, the fire to flash, but the flames would not catch. There was something strange about those sad eyes; it puzzled, mesmerized me. Almost, I thought, as if they had already seen fire and smoke in their full measure, and could now burn no more.

—

Just this once, I told myself. Just the one time and I’ll never set foot in there again. Twenty minutes late, but somehow against my better judgement I found myself at the steps of that stone prison they call a house of God. Palms were sweaty; collar too tight, like a noose. I made my way to the back row of pews.

He talked so eloquently from the pulpit—his congregants said that he spoke with a silver tongue, and I agreed. It was a bunch of nonsense, but it was beautiful nonetheless. His voice was soft as velvet but it rang like gold through the nave. It was too tender a sound, I thought, to be walled in by bare stone. God sees us, he said, each consonant softly percussive in the reverberant hall. His gaze penetrates us to the very marrow, and the masks that we hide ourselves behind are like vapour to Him. And yet, he continued, whatever it is that He sees beneath it all, He beholds with only redolent love. He swept his gaze slowly across the congregation, and perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought I saw him pause—for just the slightest moment—over where I sat.

And I found myself then kneeling at the communion rail, and he stood there before me. How I hated that I had to look up at him, my throat exposed and unprotected. How I hated that I would debase myself and kneel, as if begging at his feet to receive the sacrament—though I knew I was not worthy to receive it; though I knew I didn’t even want it. But my soul—it hungered. His face was unreadable. Eyes still so soft, but they were cold—today he was Father, looking down upon me, and I was vulnerable beneath his gaze.

The body of Christ, given for you.

Amen.

And he placed the wafer into my open mouth as I looked up at him, the body of Christ the only barrier between his fingers and my tongue. And if I had wanted to, what could have kept me from bringing down my teeth onto his thumb right then? To have his blood fill my mouth and to take, alongside the priesthood, that second element of the Eucharist for myself. Would it cover my sins, to taste the salinity coating my tongue and trickling down my throat? Would it be sweet as wine shared with him from the chalice? If he cried out in pain would that ringing call lift me to heaven by my noose-tight collar? And if he ran his bloody fingers over my mouth and painted them scarlet, would my lips be purified like the prophet’s, that I might speak with the same silver tongue as he?

And he looked at me as I knelt there, and I swallowed the wafer of Christ’s body, not once releasing his gaze though I trembled. And I wondered if he could see what was in my mind, but that unreadable face betrayed nothing. And he passed on to the next supplicant kneeling at the rail.

After the service, I remained sitting in the last row of the pews. I should go, I thought. The service is over. My foolish adventure has come to an end; I needn’t come back again. But I did not get up. The communion wafer in my stomach felt like a stone and yet my soul was no less ravenous than it had been when I arrived.

There were footsteps, and a figure joined me in the pew. I didn’t know if I wanted him far, far away, or if I wanted him closer—close enough to smell the bergamot and cedar clinging to his skin. I should not look at him, I told myself. But still I did. He did not look back, staring straight ahead towards the altar as if I was not there. Almost carelessly, he reached to his neck and took off the white collar. And then it was just a man, sitting there next to me. And I wondered, if I were to strip off his dark clothes, would I find merely another sinner underneath?

He looked at me. The stained glass windows painted his face with splotches of honeyed light, and it seemed to drip down his chin and pool in his lap. I reminded myself that there was blood on his hands, just like any other vulture in a white collar. But it was strange... there was meant to be brimstone spilling from his mouth, and I would have met it with fire from my own—but he was silent as a lamb. And I felt like I should not be angry at him, but why shouldn’t I be? Had not the silence of men like him been death to us? Had they not remained still, safe behind their pulpits and their stained glass, while our loved ones wasted away? For a vulture will wait for death to find its prey, and only then will it swoop down from its lofty roost and strip the poor creature bare, leaving only a hellish pile of bones and skin. An emaciated shell that was once a living thing, lying beneath the flickering lights of the hospice ward. For there are no Last Rites for a sinner.

Salt choked my breath before I could stop it. I tried to breathe but my chest was tight. I undid the first button on my collar. What was I doing here? Why had I come, except to satiate some stupid curiosity? I knew that I did not belong in this place, and yet I was foolish enough to come anyway. And now here I was, sitting in the last row of the pews, vulnerable beneath that soft gaze; Adam in the garden, the sweet nectar of the forbidden fruit still staining his mouth and dripping from his fingers when God walked through. And I wanted to be defensive, I wanted to be angry, but all I could do was fall to my knees and plead. Be tender with me, be tender with me. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My flesh is soft and my skin is delicate and I am here naked before you and I know that I am naked, and you see all of me laid bare before you. To grasp the hand of the divine and have Him feel your cheek and remind him I am only human, I am only human. Forgive me, forgive me. Crying now, wetness spilling out of your eyes, sweet and salty stickiness on your face. And all you want to do is grasp that face that kissed life into you and shake Him and cry Why? Why? It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair. You made me like this…

And tears had come to my eyes. Tears of shame and resentment and anger and sadness. I tried to blink them away but I felt a single drop roll down my cheek. And still he looked at me with such tenderness, such sadness, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a powdery blue handkerchief, leaning towards me to dry the teardrop from my face. And without thinking I grasped his hand, holding it there for a moment, before taking the silken cloth from him.

As I left, I couldn’t decide whether I had done so to push his hand away or to pull it closer.

—

Go in peace. The words reverberated through the darkened sanctuary, releasing impatient congregants from vespers and back into the bustle of their lives. As the light through the stained glass faded from orange to blue, his handful of parishioners trickled out amid whispered conversations and hurried genuflections. I remained there in the pews, watching.

I made my way to the front as he began clearing the altar, my footsteps echoing through the holy silence. Standing on the dais, he was bathed in cold moonlight filtering through the clerestory windows, every contour of his delicate face seemingly carved out of bloodless marble. He turned to me as I approached, and though I remained hidden in the shadows I know he recognized me. He descended the dais, carrying his large tome in both arms like a schoolboy; white robe and chocolate-brown eyes so innocent like an angel’s, even in the earthly light of the votives.

I was moved, I said to him. That was all.

He looked at me for a silent moment, as if I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Would you come speak to me in my office? He finally said. Without waiting for my answer he turned and pushed through a door to the side of the altar. I followed him down the dark corridors to his office, where he placed the tome on his desk and gestured for me to sit. Stole hung up and put away, collar removed, but he kept the white robe. Sitting down across from me, he produced from his bag a pomegranate and a brass paring knife with a wooden handle. He cut off the top of the fruit and with his hands split it open down the middle. The scarlet flesh glistened like garnet in the dim light as he held out one half towards me. I took it, looked at the fruit and looked at him. The light from the street outside, filtering through the sheer curtains, threw soft shadows across his face.

He placed a pomegranate aril in his mouth, swallowed. Why do you still come?

Why wouldn’t I?

I know your story.

The pomegranate was sweet and dry, and with each seed bursting on my tongue I would say to myself that this one, this one would quench my thirst, but each time I only became more parched.

I’m… curious, I finally said.

I see. He popped another aril into his mouth; a scarlet droplet of juice glistened at the corner of his lips, but he did not notice. It was the slightest flaw upon that delicate marble-sculpture face, but I could not take my eyes off of it. And as we partook of the garnet-red pomegranate, I wondered if the role he played was truly that of the holy Father, or if in fact the figure sitting before me was Eve—sharing bloodstained fruit with Adam the dark.

I shook my head. Do you really know my story? I asked.

He stood, walked around the desk towards me. Aggravated assault in the second degree. Five years, let out on good behaviour. I was taken aback to hear his voice coloured ever so subtly with pride, as if by knowing the mere facts of my life he thought could see who I was.

I bolted to my feet. And why do you think I did it? My voice broke, though I tried to hide it. I looked into his eyes and for the first time I thought I saw a flicker of shame.

I… I don’t-

It was my brother. My voice was shaking. He was only twenty-seven. Dying of…. my words caught in my throat.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, the weight of his touch so tender yet so tangible.

The words were tumbling out now, I couldn’t help it. He believed Father, he believed. It was as if I was pleading, though I know not with whom. He believed, but that was not enough... not enough for the priest, not enough for himself… I was crying now—crying real tears, like I had not done in years. Hand still on my shoulder, he guided me to sit at the edge of the desk.

I’m sorry, forgive me. I should not have spoken the way I did.

He backed away but I held his hand there on my shoulder, forcing those eyes to look at me. Look deep into me and see all that I am; know me truly, down to the very marrow. And through the tears I saw the red stain at the corner of his mouth and I said to myself that there was no longer a need to put the gun between his teeth, to push the barrel back into his throat, to pull the trigger and paint his lips with pomegranate crimson, for he had already done so on his own—and all that now remained for me was to kiss the red from his delicate lips and drink the wine-like nectar from his mouth, so that my parched flesh might finally be satisfied by the sweet taste of forbidden fruit. And as if in a hazy dream I found my trembling hand reach towards him, reach towards that marble-sculpture face. I could not stop myself, as if my body were not my own to control, and with wavering fingers I gently traced the scarlet stain on his lips.

I felt my heart in my mouth and part of me prayed that he would push me away, strike me down with fire from heaven, but he leaned closer, closer, ever so slowly—the horrible inevitability of a collision, some cataclysmic syzygy of the holy and profane. I could not look away, extricate myself from the alluring darkness in his gaze. I was drawn ever inward, ever deeper into the intoxicating haze of bergamot and cedar that so gently caressed my exposed throat. My mind was clouded in smoke; heavy tendrils of incense coiling through my skull, melting away every thought like sugar, until there was nothing but want. A want so fervent, so relentless and insatiable that the realization of it gripped my chest with a wild, altogether maenadic fear—squeezing my heart so tightly that I thought at any moment it might burst open and spill garnet-coloured droplets onto the floor at his feet. I could not breathe, I could not make a sound. Without thinking I reached behind me and felt my fingers close around the brass paring knife on the desk; my hand driving forward, the blade plunging into his side. He let out a small gasp.

His eyes were wide with shock. He was so close that I could feel the warmth of each shallow breath on my skin, hear each pounding heartbeat in the silence. I didn’t know what had happened. My hand, still gripping the knife, pressed into his side; the stickiness of his blood between my fingers. Bewildered, heart racing, I pulled back. He remained motionless, standing there with a dark red stain spreading slowly outwards from the blade still buried in his side. And yet he did not break his gaze—those soft brown eyes; so puzzling, so unreadable, driving deep into me.

And I ran.

—

The next morning there was a knock at my door. I assumed it was the police; I had already packed a bag. But when I opened the door, it was him. He was not wearing his black clothes or white collar—just jeans and a collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows—and yet something about it was even more holy. He was flushed, as if he had been running; pink ears and pink cheeks, lips gently parted. In his hand was a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

May I come in?

I was stunned. I looked at him, into those soft brown eyes; ever enigmatic, but something about them was different—as if he beheld me now with a deeper knowing than had I realized was possible. Looking at him, I understood that those eyes could have pierced my very soul, and yet chose to caress it instead—and that almost hurt more. My mind scrambled to piece together something intelligible to say, but nothing came, my mouth hanging open uselessly. I stood aside and wordlessly gestured for him to enter.

Walking into my dingy flat, he took it all in—the shabby rug, the peeling wallpaper, the grimy window looking out over the fire escape to the city below. Every inch of that miserable place was another story of my failings, a collage of the wreckage of my life; I was ashamed to call it home. And yet, somehow, he regarded it all as if it were something beautiful.

What brings you here? I finally asked.

He turned to me, that look of knowingness in his face. What brings you to mass, to vespers? There was the warmth of a smile in his gaze; seeing me, knowing me. I knew he would not accept another lie for an answer. I was silent. He began meandering slowly, looking around the flat. He picked up a photo sitting on the bookcase, blew off the dust. I walked over to him. It was a picture of me and Joey from when I was eleven. We were at the lake by our childhood home; Joey had caught a fish and was holding it out proudly.

Is this your brother?

Yes.

How much older was he?

Two years.

It was strange to think that I was now older than Joey had been when he died. The thought would cross my mind every so often, but I would always push it away—it was too painful thinking of the ever-growing chasm between us; how I had changed, grown up, while he remained frozen in time, falling further behind with every passing moment. The unfairness of it all... I looked away.

Did you cry for him?

I was taken by surprise. I looked at him, and there was that deep sadness again—the enigmatic sorrow that had mesmerized, puzzled me so; the sadness of one who had seen it for himself, felt the unfairness of it all, burned with the fire of Gomorrah spilling into his blood until he could burn no more. The deep, deep sadness of those soft brown eyes, and I could not bear to face it.

Had you cried for your brother, before last night?

And I quickly turned, walking to the kitchen. Fetched two glasses and filled them from the tap that always tasted like iron. Took a gulp from one, placed the other on the coffee table with a harsh clink. He sat down on the sofa and took a sip.

Why are you here? I asked.

You know why.

I sat down, staring at him intently. Are the police coming?

No.

Will you press charges?

Do you want me to?

And as I looked at him, it was as if a noose-tight collar around my neck had suddenly been loosened, and I could breathe again. Every possible emotion that a person could feel seemed to rush through me, all in an instant—I felt at once shocked, giddy, bewildered, like the king of the world and the world’s biggest fool; I felt like I could laugh, or cry, or both at once. And I must’ve looked like a perfect idiot as it all flashed across my face, because he began to laugh—a genuine, joyous laugh, bright as silver. And his smile was radiant, his countenance not of earth but of heaven, and in his eyes there were stars—the most beautiful of stars, beyond number. I had never seen him laugh before.

I- I’m sorry… I stumbled over my words, I don’t know what happened-

He placed a hand on my knee, looking deep into me with those eyes filled with stars, still shining with the echoes of his laugh. I fell silent. Looking at him, it felt as though my insides were melting, like they were made of cotton candy. His face was so gentle, so softly beautiful. And his touch was was like a benediction—delicate as a feather, yet carrying an indescribable power; as if with his hand on my knee he could push me down to hell or lift me up to heaven, and I would have no say in whether I went up or down, but I would not care either way, for I would follow the push and pull of his touch to wherever he led me, without hesitation.

I gestured to his side, muttered formless words, but he understood. Slowly, he lifted his shirt and I saw the bandage underneath, white gauze and the rust-coloured stain of blood. And I felt my voice catch in my throat; the thought that I had marred something so perfect, so holy. I’m sorry-

Do not be.

And I could not help it, but I reached towards that spot where I had pierced him, and with his feather-light touch he guided my hand to his side. I pressed my palm against the gauze, felt the warmth of his body, and he let out a little gasp and I felt him trembling but he held my hand there; pressing, pressing into him with only that thin layer of cotton between my fingers and his soft skin. And as I looked at him I thought I could finally share that knowingness in his gaze, like I could see into him down to the very marrow, just as he saw me.

I… had not cried for my brother before last night. I broke the silence. I had cried about other things, but not that—no, not that; the pain of his loss was something that I only knew to burn away. I tried to control the shakiness of my voice, keep it matter-of-fact, but I felt a teardrop spill out of the corner of my eye, glimmering on my cheek. I laughed sheepishly through the wetness in my eyes and the salt in my throat; I was acting so stupid. You wouldn’t happen to have a handkerchief on you, by chance?

And he looked at me, beholding all that I was with such a loving tenderness, and ever so slowly he leaned close—so very, very close. Gently, he cradled my head in his hand; fingers in my hair, his warmth on my exposed neck as he tilted my head back. I closed my eyes; and tenderly, so tenderly, I felt the softness of his lips on my cheek as he kissed the tear from my face.

And all too soon he pulled away and it was suddenly cold. I looked into his eyes, those beautiful eyes with stars in them. He smiled softly. I should go.

I nodded. He stood, our fingers lingering in a touch, our eyes holding each other before he turned to the door.

Wait…

He looked back.

Your parcel. It was still on the couch next to where he had been sitting.

He smiled. It’s yours. And then he was gone.

I turned to the parcel, slowly peeled off the brown paper, opened the small cardboard box inside. And there in the box was a brass paring knife, its wood handle forever stained with pomegranate crimson.

—

It was one of those nights when I could not sleep. I threw on my jacket, wandered restlessly down the darkened city streets. Flickering sodium streetlamps on posts stuck with gum, graffitied dumpsters overflowing, the traffic light changing from yellow to red only for a beaten-up Chevy to coast through. The grime of the tired city clung to me. I put a cigarette between my lips, popped my collar against the wind. And somehow I found myself walking past the church—funny how my feet had taken me there. It was well past midnight, but there were lights shining inside. The main door was locked; I could make out singing, a faint voice echoing through the stone hall.

I knew where the back entrance was—I had run from there. It was unlocked and I let myself in, winding down the dark corridors, following that voice, and it grew louder and clearer and richer until I emerged through the door to the side of the altar. And he was there, kneeling at the rail in his white robe; and he was singing, singing so sweetly, his expression soft with ardent, transcendent love.

Pulchra es amica mea

Suavis et decora sicut Jerusalem…

Pulchra es amica mea…

And he looked at me there as I walked through the doorway and he smiled, continuing to sing.

Pulchra es amica mea

Terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata…

He stood as I came before him, and when I knelt he placed his hand on the crown of my head in a blessing, caressed my cheek with his delicate fingers in a benediction.

Pulchra es amica mea…

He walked behind the altar, his song never once ceasing. And he flung open his arms, voice soaring, and there were symphonies and thunder and the opening of heaven to bear witness, as he proclaimed to the empty pews,

Averte oculos tuos a me

quia ipsi me avolare fecerunt…

And I went to him behind the altar and he turned to me, placed his hands around my face. And his voice was a near-whisper—soft like a prayer, like a prayer. And his eyes were full of stars.

Pulchra es amica mea

Terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata…

And in my mind I imagined pushing him back, down onto the altar, and like a sacrificial lamb he would not struggle or make a sound. And if I were to pierce him through the heart or kiss him on the neck, there would be no difference between the two. And if I were to cleave open his ribcage and peel apart the chambers of his heart, or trace my fingers along the soft contour of his waist, it would all be the same. For whether I cracked open his bones and sucked out the marrow inside, or lapped up the sweetness of honey from where his hip met his torso, one way or another I would consume every bit of him. And upon that altar the sinner and the saint would become one and the same.

And we would anoint each other with our love, feed each other the fruit of the tree and know. And God would not be able to tell the difference between our cries and a prayer, for all that was profane would be made holy in that place, rising to heaven in radiant apotheosis.

Terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata

Pulchra es amica mea…

And I stood there before him as he held my face in his hands, singing so softly. And the world was formless and void around us; dark as night, save for the stars—those stars shining in his soft, brown eyes.

Pulchra es amica mea…

Pulchra es amica mea…

—

It was dark in the confessional—a rich darkness. It wrapped around him like velvet as he sat there, waiting. The curtain opened on the other side of the wicker lattice, closed again. He knew who it was, even in the dark. A smile touched his lips. Without thinking, his hand moved to his side, pressed gently. A throbbing warmth spread through his body, dull waves of pain radiating from beneath his fingertips. It was beautiful in a way, he thought—yes, a beautiful pain; sweet, cloying like molasses. It felt somehow holy, like the pain of the lance that pierced Christ.

Slowly, he slipped his hand beneath his black shirt, ran his hand over the bandage that covered the wound in his side. Ever so gingerly, he peeled off the gauze, feeling the wet stickiness beneath, the spot where he had been pierced through. A flush rose to his chest, his neck; the warm effervescence of blood flooding his skin, the sanguine of having been penetrated. And his lips parted as if in a cry but no sound came out, the honeyed darkness deadening his whimpers, engulfing his mouth, his throat. And the holy silence swelled with a feverish desperation as the sweetness of that pain overtook him.

In the silence, a voice came from the other side of the lattice. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It was barely a whisper, as if the darkness itself was speaking. The soft rise and fall of breath, carrying the bitter scent of cigarettes. He moved close, close to the voice as if he wanted to be absorbed into its dark fullness, inhale the bitter incense of that breath and let it flow into his blood. What is your sin?

The voice leaned closer as well, breathless. I have loved, Father, I have loved. It was so tender, so vulnerable, that voice—Adam in the garden, laid bare before his maker with the sweet nectar of his sin still staining his hands, staining his face. But though he bowed his head in penance there was still hunger in that voice; the memory of gorging himself on the Serpent’s fruit—the God he had chosen to worship.

There was no mistaking that rabid hunger, that fervid want in that voice, even with a lattice between them. He heard it colouring each bitter breath, rising in the chest, winding through the pulsing cavities of the heart, coalescing like dew on his lips and blossoming between his thighs; and he would put his mouth to those rutilant petals and kiss so deeply, so deeply until his mouth was filled with honey, and those whispered confessions would rise to a thunderous shout, ringing through the air and shaking the heavens and earth. And it would fade again to silence, stillness; the Serpent entwined around Adam’s naked form, the fruit at his lips; devouring the sweetness even as it devoured him, drowning in his breath, choking on his heartbeat. And still he would eat the bloodstained fruit, slowly cramming bite after bite into his mouth even until he was full to the bursting, and then more still, ever more, ever more…

Forgive me, Father, for I have loved.

He pressed his cheek against the lattice, voice dropping to a whisper. As have I.

And the voice replied, delicate and trembling, I absolve you, Father… I absolve you, I absolve you, I absolve you.