The Confessional
“How welcoming.” I muttered to myself.
The staggering stained glass doors were propped open, expelling the sense of extreme judgement that came from the deadly set eyes of the saints who commonly guarded the church when the doors were closed, permitting them to cast their gaze. With that permit revoked I graced myself up the smoothly paved steps to the entrance while still being able to enjoy the fresh spring air of the evening.
When entering the church I instantly became aware of the other person there with me. That is the astonishing thing about churches, there can be a million rows of pews to hide under but if you make a whisper of a peep then it will echo to every corner. In this particular case, we have footsteps in place of whispers. The footsteps of a priest, tapping closer to my own booming steps that alerted him to my presence.
“Good evening. Can I help you?” he asked in a kind yet dignified tone.
I didn’t answer immediately, I was too caught up in my studies. His face had the most humbling definition I’ve ever seen on an older person; in the more recent years that is. His laugh lines were distincted, as were his brow lines and crow’s feet.
“A smiler.”
“I’m sorry?” he asked.
“Are you busy, Father?” I asked in a repeating tone to cover my original comment. I continued,
“Is it too late for a confessional?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid it is Hanna, the sun is going down. If you find the time tomorrow after morning mass—”
I spoke with haste, “No it’s alright. Thanks anyways.” and began my way to the doors with my head tilted to the ground.
“Wait! I can make the time to listen.” he called out to me and although I hadn’t turned to face him yet I knew he had his arm reached out in my direction when he said “Come.”
The confessional booth was softly lit with only one ceiling lamp in each of our compartments. It made it nearly impossible to see anything more than a silhouette of the other person, even when we were less than a foot apart, but I still managed to see the shadows of the wrinkles. Perhaps it’s my eyes simply trying to fill in the blanks; letting me see things I don’t really see but I know for certain are there.
“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” the formallites came and went.
“You may begin my child.”
The beginning. I suppose the beginning happened a little less than six years ago when a new family moved into the neighborhood. Among them was a boy, Anthony, that would be joining my second grade class. He quickly became popular, being the new kid on the block always had a way of making everyone interested in you, even when there were no interesting qualities about you; or at least so it seemed.
Since we lived on the same street, our parents decided it would be best for us to walk home together, the buddy system and all. I was neutral about the whole decision. I didn’t have any sort of problem with Anthony, he’s done absolutely nothing to upset me, but he also hasn’t done anything to intrigue me so walking home with him was neither a pleasure nor pain. Until his next door neighbor Ms. Sandrac accidently ran over her pet cat when she was trying to back out of her driveway. The commotion attracted half the street to come take a look at the hysterical Ms. Sandraccurse herself for killing her beloved Smokey. It was truly a sight to witness, but while Ms. Sandrac was being comforted I noticed that Anthony’s eyes were averted from her and completely focused on the dead cat.
“It was like he was in a trance of some kind.”
When Smokey was eventually scooped into a bag that’s when the trance broke and what Anthony said next would make him the most interesting person I have known yet.
“Let’s go.” he said in the calmest voice I’ve heard, like he didn’t even see the show that transpired.
“Now, I need to make myself clear. We saw Smokey get run over. We heard the screech of his voice and of the tires that came to an immediate halt after the voice. We saw the life leave that cat.”
That is the closest thing to an R rated movie that eight year olds were going to get and he had absolutely no comment about it. It baffled me to such an extent that I had to comment on his lack of commenting.
“What was that?”
“A cat getting run over.”
“So you did see it?”
“Yea, it was cool.” he said.
I paused for a moment, so that my eyes could finished widening, “What do you mean cool?”
“The cat, it was cool to see.”
“You think it was cool? Watching the cat die?”
“No, I mean the dead cat itself was cool to look at.” Anthony became interesting.
“Don’t you ever look at the things that people run over?” He became really interesting.
“There is this squirrel that my brother hit with his motor scooter yesterday, wanna go see if it’s still there?” He became a really good friend of mine.
We would look for roadkill on our walk home from school, sometimes going over to neighboring neighborhoods or even in the backyards of the ones next door. It was like a scavenger hunt for who could find the grossest, oldest, freshest, biggest, or the weirdest looking anything. It was nice. It was really nice to share a hobby with someone, especially one that was so strange. I actually thought because it was so strange that it made us even closer as friends because who would understand it besides the two of us.
The summer camp we went to was right off of one of the busier roads in town, which meant it always had a constant flow of new things for us to look at. A lot of the critters were small, rats mostly, so Anthony and I started collecting them in a shoe box. After a few days we snuck out of our houses while our families were sleeping and put all our rats on the doorsteps of everyone’s house.
I couldn’t sleep that night, I was too excited. Thinking about the reactions people would have. Wondering if anyone wouldn’t notice the rats and accidentally step on them. Maybe the Flanders’ dog would pick it up, bring it into their house while they were eating breakfast. My mind was racing with the possibilities of what might happen in the morning, but what really had me excited was the surprise.
After Anthony went in for the night I hung out in Ms. Sandrac’s yard until I saw her new cat, Trixie. I remember being so happy when I was proven right in thinking that she would go for the rat. I was even happier when mimicking the cat noises I saw on TV worked in getting her over to me, but what made me the happiest of all was thinking about how Anthony would react to the dead cat on Ms. Sandrac’s welcome mat as I skipped home that night.
The next morning I started sprinting to Anthony’s house so that I could see the look on his face when he saw what I did, but when I saw a police car out front I stopped in my tracks.
Ms. Sandrac thought he did it. She thought Anthony killed Trixie; and I didn’t see the point in correcting her.
There was a long pause.
“As penance for your sins, recite the Act of Contrition—”
“You know that’s not the only animal she killed.” I continued without regard.
Hanna would kill several animals after Trixie and put them all in Anthony’s yard. Watching his family struggle to hide the wicked deeds they assumed were their son’s. Watching Anthony’s descent into madness over not recalling any memory of killing any animal. That became her new hobby and the enjoyment she got out of it was too easy to spot through her smile. Her smile gave it all away.
“Just like your’s does.”
“I beg your pardon.” he asked me in worried confusion.
Hanna’s form took on the defining feature of my own when my wings sprouted from her spine. I accompanied the sound of the priest’s hysterical breathing with a soft laugh, it always amuses me when they finally become aware of my presence.
I took a calming breath before crossing myself right outside his compartment. As I drew back the curtain I couldn’t help but to crack my own smile.
