Page 22 of Unholy

When I open them again, it takes a while for my vision to return to normal. I take a deep breath, then another. I used to love sleeping. I would oftentimes talk to angels in my dreams, sometimes even God; now though, I dread it. I haven't seen God in my dreams since I allowed the demon todefile me. Now all I see is the demon. I have limited my sleeping to five or six hours a night, usually not allowing myself to fall asleep for longer than two hours at a time.

I know that God hasn’t abandoned me completely. I have received signs from Him. I haven't necessarily felt His presence, but these things take time. I sinned in the worst possible way. I know God will forgive me, I just need to suffer my punishment first.

I have continued business as normal though, sans exorcisms. I still run my church. Still hold mass. Still do my duty to convert people to God’s glory. Because maybe, if I save enough souls, I can save my own, and God will truly forgive me.

I walk to the shower, ignoring the tub completely. I try to forget it even exists most days. I haven't touched it sincethat day. I have considered hiring someone to remove it completely but couldn’t bring myself to make the call. Maybe that’s why God hasn’t truly shown himself. Maybe it's because I am holding on to remnants of the demon.

After showering, I decide to just get ready for the day. I don my white Vestment. The fabric isthick and heavy as it drapes over my shoulders. I run my hand over the shiny gold details. I only wear it on Christmas and Easter, and the last several days have been Holy Week. It’s officially Easter Sunday, the end of The Easter Triduum. This holiday used to bring me so much joy, but this year, I’ve felt empty.

I used my special recipe to bake unleavened bread for the holiday, as is my tradition, but it all felt meaningless. I look at the bread, wishing it could tell me how to fix my life. It doesn’t. It just sits there. Maybe it’s not the flesh of Christ. I grab it from the kitchen counter, leaving my apartment a few seconds later.

My footsteps echo in the empty church. The lights are low, no sun out to shine through the stained glass. The pews are cold and empty, and I can’t help but feel as though they reflect my heart. Easter Mass won’t start for another three hours. Then the church will be alive with light and people, but I will still remain cold and empty.

I look up to the front of the church, the altar decked out with fresh white lilies and a white cloth. To the right of the altar is a tall wooden cross, a long white cloth draped over the armswith flowers all around it. Beside it, is a basket full of flower crowns made out of white lilies. I make them specially for the young girls that come to church.

After placing my bread on the altar, I go into the confession box. I know no one will come at this time of the day to confess, but I crave the silence the box offers. I sit there, not making a single sound for I don't know how long, when I hear the doors to the church open.

I look at my watch. Too early for mass. Maybe it’s raining outside, and a homeless person is seeking shelter. Maybe a lost soul is looking for forgiveness. I listen, the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer to my box. The door to the other side opens, and a person sits down.

I look through the lattice, trying to see a glimpse of this person. Their image is too distorted to see, the booth too dark. All I can make out is long, dark hair. I choose to stay quiet, waiting for the person to speak. I don't like to rush people when they’re in the confessional. I find people will tell me everything in due time.

“I’m sorry, Father, for I have never confessed,” a voice says softly. It’s deep, almost familiar, but Ican’t place it. I’ve had thousands of people in this confession booth over the years, so it’s not surprising the voice sounds familiar. They all start to sound the same eventually.

“Rest easy. There is a first time for everything, and it’s better to be late than never,” I reassure him, listening intently. I hear the man shift, settling for a few seconds, only to shift again.

“I have done a lot of evil, unforgivable things in my time on this earth,” the man says.

“Tell me about them, but please remember, it’s not up to you to forgive them,” I respond, holding my breath because I’m intrigued. It’s always interesting when confessions start this way. My brain races through the different possibilities. Is this man going to admit to murder? It takes several heartbeats before the man responds.

“I have seduced a man of the cloth,” he says finally, and I hiss in a breath. My heart beats faster, pulse racing. A year ago, I would have known exactly what to say, but now? How am I supposed to respond?

I swallow, forcing words around the lump that has formed in my throat. “Do you regret this action?”

Again, the man takes a long moment to answer. “I know I should, but I don’t. I think I’ve fallen in love with him.”

“But you know that it cannot be reciprocated. A holy man has pledged himself to God. He must remain celibate.” I’m not sure if I’m talking to the person on the other side of the lattice or myself. The man mutters something, but I can’t quite make it out. “For your penance, you must go before the image of God and recite the Act of Contrition three times.”

“Of course, Father, but first, may I ask you something?” the man says.

“Yes.”

“What is the physical form of the holy spirit?”

The question throws me completely off guard. “A dove,” I respond, but the word comes out slowly as my brain catches on the word.Dove.

No.It’s not possible. It has to be a weird coincidence. But how? And why now?

Before I have much more time to ponder, the door to my side of the confessional opens. A tall man enters the small space with me. It’s too dark to see him. I should be terrified, but I’m not.

The man kneels at my feet, hands clasped together atop my knees. “O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.”

“What are you doing?” I ask, but I already know. A chill goes up my spine. I can’t see the man’s face, dark strands falling over either side. But his hands. I could recognize those hands anywhere. The long fingers, and how perfect they felt inside me…

A dream. This is another dream.

“I’m reciting the Act of Contrition to my God,” the man responds as if the explanation is obvious. “And I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love.”

“Killian,” I whisper, closing my eyes, begging myself to wake up. The last dream I had like this left me coming all over my bedding.

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