#60 Short Story
The confessional booth was musty, carrying a hint of a well-known cigarette brand mixed with incense. It was not too dark inside, save for the rays of light outside passing through the gaps of the newly old confessional. The small frames and walls of the booth avidly showed the workmanship of the carpenter who had perfectly made it.
The true crème lay in the details: the heads of nails sticking out, the special parts of the frame within and without that squeaked undeniably when shoved by passing patrons. Truly, a man of great artistry had made this special place in the church.
Squeek.
The woman inside fixed her posture. Prickling sensations crawled through her numbing feet.
What’s taking the priest so long?
From the room next door came a strange, familiar hum. It was followed by the rustle and tussle of hair, as if someone were irritated. Then an ever-so-loud exhale, and a puff after taking a drag. There was a soul next door taking a break. The ears of the Lord were yet to be ready.
It was meant to be unseen by anyone—a picture covered by both the screen and the holy partition between them. Yet sound easily penetrated the hollowed walls.
“Father, are you there?” the woman asked.
“Oh!”
The voice from the other side sounded startled. There was a sudden thud, loud enough to send a fleeting echo through the alabaster hall.
With a forceful click of metallic locks disrobing, the partition door quickly opened. A bang of wooden frames followed.
“So, why are you here again?” Behind the spotted screen, the angry face of a priest could vaguely be seen.
The voice of the priest sounded familiar. Not as someone one knew—but familiar in another sense.
A flash of knife flailing. Blood splattered all over. A wailing child. Police and enforcers trespassing in to save a soul.
The woman shuddered at the voice of an angry man.
It was not too common, but a priest’s break from his religious, humanistic, righteous teachings could be cruelly—cruelly—satisfying to enjoy. And right now, his not-too-common peace was being disturbed by his favorite patron hostess—
“Oh! You’re not—” The priest’s tone shifted, taken aback. An honest mistake on his part.
“I’m sorry, Father—” The woman’s voice trembled.
“Forgive me,” said the priest whose break had been disturbed. “I mistook you for someone else.” His voice grew calmer, preachy, composed.
“No, Father. I think… maybe now’s not a good time,” the woman said hurriedly as she stood.
Unfortunately, it had not been long since she was cured of the fleeting ailment of numb feet. She limped out of the confessional.
Not long after, metal clicked behind the priest’s compartment. The door swung carefully, slowly, and out stepped a not-so-aged priest with growing white hair. He was not bald, nor was his hairline receding. The smell of mixed nicotine and incense clung to him.
The priest looked left and right, searching for a sinner in need of guidance. When he spotted a woman limping away in a hurry, he found his penitent.
“Hey! Wait!” His voice was loud, but not a shout.
The woman stopped and turned around. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She felt more exposed now than she had inside the confessional. It was the voice that pulled her out—and now, the man approaching her brought back memories, still fresh, still raw.
She did not want to remember.
She stooped her head, gaze fixed on the silky-smooth alabaster floor. A faint reflection of herself stared back, aware only of her tearing eyes.
When the priest drew nearer, the woman collapsed as if a puppet whose strings had been cut. She fell to her knees, shaking, arms shielding her vulnerable self.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The words repeated, just as the images did—both distant and recent, melding into one.
The priest sighed.
“And here I am, already getting used to people giving me this weird, special treatment.” He stopped in his tracks and stepped back. “Martha, do you know me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her thoughts had taken form. She was delirious, eyes still fixed on the alabaster floor, trembling arms a fragile shield.
The priest sighed again. He shook his head and lay down not too far from the woman. Flat on the smooth, cold alabaster floor, he waited.
Martha continued sobbing as flashes of memory grew stronger—until suddenly, something strange entered her awareness.
A priest. Lying on the church floor.
Truly strange.
Hold on?
She remembered where she was. She had come to seek guidance. With no priest she trusted enough to confide in, she thought of Father Oscar—the priest loved by the people. By luck, she heard he was in the confessional, even before the hour of confession.
And so—
Why was Father Oscar lying on the floor?
Her gaze lifted. Her sobbing stopped. The priest noticed.
“Are you alright now?” he asked.
Martha’s eyes widened. She wiped her tears and fixed her hair.
“Father Oscar… what are you doing?” she asked.
Just me and my eccentricities. I noticed you seemed to like giving the floor more attention than me, who was at your eye level. So I thought—why not?
“I just felt like lying down here.”
His eyes drifted from the eerily majestic murals on the ceiling to the woman still kneeling.
“So,” he said gently, “what did you want to confess?”
Martha stood and moved to help him up. He refused.
“I think I feel better here,” he said. “And before you get the idea of going back to the confessional, it’s already too late for that. Besides, there’s hardly anyone in the church at this hour—especially here.”
“But Father—” she began.
“There’s a chair beside the confessional booth,” he said. “Go fetch it, please.”
She obeyed, returning with a monoblock chair. He was still lying there. She tried again to help him sit.
He refused.
“I’m fine here, Martha. Go sit down and tell me your sin.”
His voice was warm and welcoming, yet his eyes were ethereal—almost dead, but not quite. They remained fixed on the mural of an archangel above.
“I… I’m sorry, Father Oscar. I didn’t come to confess anything,” Martha said.
“Sit down first,” he replied. “If it isn’t forgiveness you’re after, then tell me your story. I like hearing tales—especially while I’m lying down.”
He smiled, finally turning his gaze toward her. She was more composed now, breathing evenly.
The priest sighed.
Great. More duty for me.