#54 Short Story
It was hunger that made him want to feed them.
He, too, had once felt it.
He knew the pain and the unhappiness it brought—
truly, genuinely, sincerely.
And so,
to the rest of the world,
be he called evil or an oathbreaker,
he did not mind.
Such things were trivial
compared to the little souls
who would never again feel
what he himself once had.
—
A long line stretched across a not-too-distant, very isolated confessional in a quaint, quiet, yet all-too-familiar church. It was not eerily unpopulated; the season for sinners flocking had yet to arrive. Without festivities, saints and lords were mere titles. Without occasions, the gods called gods were decorations—more signs of caution than reverence. They were equal to a sign that read: Beware: Wet Floor.
The tragedy of faith.
The light on the penitent’s side suddenly turned green. Two ladies stepped out, smiling, giggling, as if they had just enjoyed the best of their time.
“See you in your room tonight, Father,” one whispered softly. The voice faint, yet unmistakable. Intentional. The priest paid it no mind.
“Do not forget your act of contrition and the mysteries,” the priest said, exhausted yet calm.
“Yes, Father,” replied the other. She turned back and, though hidden by the curtain, made a sensual gesture toward the priest.
“Bah!”
The priest’s voice echoed sharply. Instead of fear, chuckles rippled through the line of penitents.
“And don’t forget your mysteries—specifically the Garden,” the priest added, louder now, more emotional. The shift went unnoticed as the women departed. He had faith they knew which mystery he meant, though the parishioners merely laughed.
I hate this job.
The priest stepped out of the confessional, sighed, and composed himself. His gaze fell upon the long line still seeking guidance—eyes cold, voice monotonous.
“Forgive me, everyone. I feel a bit tired now. For those who still seek spiritual guidance, I want you all to—”
“Yes, Father. The Crowning with Thorns. We get you,” one penitent interrupted.
The line dispersed. Some knelt at the pews; others sat, their eyes wandering and drifting across the alabasters.
Before the priest could close the curtain, a hand appeared, offering a pack of cigarettes. Another followed with a lighter, incense, and a candle. It was routine. Everyone knew.
The priest sighed, then smiled.
I must not hate these people.
He closed the door, then the curtain. A metallic flicker sounded inside the confessional. The lights went out.
The nave fell silent. Wooden pews creaked faintly. Incense lingered near the distant confessional, mingling with the familiar scent of ash.
Priest loved by sinners. What a title for someone so pitiful—
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The priest froze mid-thought, mid-puff. He coughed violently, smoke spilling as he struggled to steady his breath.
“For f—” He stopped himself. “Can’t you see the lights are off?! It means I’m off du—”
“It means the confessional is empty and a priest is within,” the voice cut in. “And as far as I know, there is no such thing as an off-duty priest.”
The priest knew the voice now.
“And smoking inside the Lord’s sanctuary—much less the confessional—is a grave act of heresy.”
“Big words for a sinner,” the priest snapped. “Or, if you prefer, a fellow sinner.”
“I have kept the faith,” the voice replied calmly. “And pray tell—since when did the confessional become your private smoking area?”
Soft and rushed movements echoed inside the compartment.
The priest opened the door.
His eyes widened.
A familiar figure stood before him. A mirror of himself—yet grander. Taller. Broader. Carrying an authority that demanded respect. Nearly identical vestments, subtly altered to reveal rank.
It was someone else.
“Oscar,” the man said. “How has it been for the priest loved by the people?”
“More like priest loved by sinners,” Oscar muttered, his gaze fixed elsewhere, ignoring the one who stood before him.
His gaze dropped to the man’s immaculate shoes, then to his own worn pair. He clicked his tongue and looked away toward the open entrance.
Outside, people passed by, unaware of the war tightening in Oscar’s chest.
“You never changed,” the man said gently. “But please. I am your brother.”
Oscar never liked him anyway.
“Why are you here, Theo?”
“Must there be a reason? Can a priest not visit his brother once in a while?”
“No.”
Theo sighed.
“It has been many years,” he said. “Father is surely in heaven now. I am certain he forgave you before—”
“Or cursed me to hell,” Oscar snapped. “Look at me. I am older than you. I outperformed you in school. They called me the prodigy of Saint—”
He laughed bitterly.
“And for what? I am still here. Banished.”
He stepped closer.
“The higher-ups hated me. Their gazes. Their remarks. Their smiles. Don’t deny it. I am more intelligent than you, Theo. I always was.”
Theo said nothing.
“And still,” Oscar continued, “they cast me aside.”
He stopped.
Theo’s shoulders trembled. His gaze fell to the floor.
Theo was crying.
“That’s not it,” Theo said faintly. “That was never it.”
Oscar faltered.
“So I’m wrong?”
“They admire you,” Theo said. “All of us did. You were warmer than the rest of us.”
“We sent you here to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
“From how easily you could fall.”
Theo glanced at the cigarette butts. Oscar followed his brother's gaze.
“Old habits,” he muttered.
“They lied for you,” Theo said.
Oscar froze.
Who?
“They covered for you. The people would never betray the priest they love.”
Footsteps echoed nearby. Murmurs followed.
“I don’t understand,” Oscar whispered.
“There are things you don’t need to understand when you already feel them,” Theo replied softly. “You just have to accept it… and keep the faith.”
“Keep the faith,” Oscar repeated, but the echo of Theo's words lingered in his chest.
“You taught me that,” Theo said. “Don’t you remember?"