Page 2 of Sinister Savior

“I’m not safe.” I utter the words aloud, like they repeat in my mind. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I don’t even try to wipe them away. This isn’t a figment of my imagination. This is real. He’shere. They found me. “I’m not safe,” I scream, shaking and trembling.

The banging is louder now. He got something to use as a battering ram. The entire door shakes in the frame. It’s going to come off the wall. It’s going to break into splinters. I have no choice. I back toward the bathtub and stand in it, using the butt of the gun to smash the window. Glass shards fall around me and out into the night. The tinkling sound as they sprinkle into the bathtub at my feet is drowned out by the smashing sound at the door.

He hits harder.

“Open the fucking door!”

More banging. More terror. My hands shake harder as I use my elbow to knock some glass free from the frame, and then the first chips of wood drop to the floor inside the bathroom. There’s a hole there. He’s breaking the door open. He’s going to get to me and I’m going to fucking die.

I don’t even think twice. I fire the gun, again and again. I fire until the thing stops working. My eyes are closed, both hands on the grip. The entire clip is empty, and I’m screaming, sobbing, and shaking. But the banging that I hear isn’t in the room anymore. It’s not the gun or the man battering the door. It’s in my head, the torment of my trauma hammering away at what’s left of my soul.

“I’m not safe! I’m not safe!”

But the gun trigger is frozen now, locked in place. No more bullets will come out of it, and the banging is silent—even the banging in my head.

I don’t even know how long I stand there before I open my eyes, but when I do, I see holes in the door. A large one where he started to break through, and several small ones from my shots. I stand frozen in the bathtub as a clap of thunder outside makes me shake again.

The man isn’t banging. He’s quiet. Why is he quiet?

I tiptoe to the door and look through the hole and see nothing, so I open it, and there he is, in a puddle of his own blood, lying on the wood. His eyes are open, glazed over, and his hand is clutching my rolling pin.

“Holy shit, I killed him…” I don’t know what to do or what to think. I hear sirens in the distance. I can’t stay here. Someone has called the police, and they will come for me now. I can’t let that happen. I’m not stupid. The men Tom worked for—Paolo Gatti’s men—they’ll have connections at the police force too. He’ll get to me through them.

Still shaking, I use the hem of my T-shirt to wipe the gun clean and drop it on his back, then step over him. I’m weak in the knees, shaking as I rush up the hall to my bedroom. Boots mewls at me as I pass him in search of my keys and purse. I can’t take time to feed him now. I have to leave. I have to get somewhere safe. Somewhere pure. Somewhere I know they won’t look. They’re coming. They’ve been coming, and they will keep coming and they will find me.

So, shaking, I get my things, slide my sandals on, and dash to my car.

And the only place I can think to go is the church. I need Father Clemmons and I need his absolution. And then I need to get the hell out of dodge. I can’t stay here.

2

MARIO

Wednesday nights are when the confessional booth is the busiest. I sit behind the divider with my identity obscured by the mesh through which the parishioners speak, listening to their pleas for absolution and forgiveness. I’ve recognized some of the voices over the years, but I’ve managed to keep my identity hidden for the most part. My brother doesn’t know where I am, so that much is good.

This evening, so late at night after ten o’clock mass, I listen to the woes of a line of people. Tom Haberdash tells me he returned his neighbor’s lawn mower broken and never told the man. Lindsay Young tells me she lied to her boss about being sick when she was just going to a concert and skipping out on work. If these are the worst sins these people commit, the world is in a better place than I once thought. But I know others have much graver sins.

Like me.

My past is full of them, my former self buried in the red stain of guilt that can never be washed away by praying over the rosary or confessing my unrighteous acts to a priest in a confessional booth.That knowledge keeps me here, planted on this hard wood bench for hours every day. Father Grieshop delivers the homily, and I receive the confessions, absolving any and all parishioners of their sins.

It's no different whether it be two o’clock in the afternoon or just after midnight mass. My penance is to serve these people who would otherwise waste away in their own guilty consciences and live a substandard life.

The door slides open as one parishioner exits and another walks in. This one is crying, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s a female.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She sniffles more and lets out a few sobs. “It’s been… God… three years since my last confession.”

“I see…” My tone is not laced with judgment at all, only understanding. A lost sheep has come home, and it’s my job to guide her on the straight and narrow. “What troubles you, my child?”

No doubt, this woman carries guilt over not having done her sacraments for years. This sort of situation makes me feel like I’m finally doing something of worth, that my life has meaning beyond what I can see or feel. I lean in, ready to listen carefully to her, though I know she’ll only feel better if she can absolve herself from the sins she is carrying. That’s the part I’ve had trouble with.

“I killed him…” As she utters the soft spoken words, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t say a word. I let her continue her confession of guilt. “He was coming after me, and I shot him, and I know the police are going to come after me, but he was in my house and…” She breaks down sobbing, and I give her some time to let it all out. She cries for ten solid minutes, but I’m patient. I understand this exact feeling of guilt.

Murder is one of the seven deadly sins—well, a derivative of one, wrath—one that if left unatoned for would sentence her to a life in hell. I’m not sure I believe in this so much as I know the folks who come to this parish do. If she didn’t, why would she be sobbing andfeeling guilty enough to plead her case in a confessional? A place where secrets are kept and mercy is handed out. That’s my job—it’s my duty.

“Child, please take a deep breath. Nothing is hidden from God. All things are open before him and he sees all. Now, please tell me what happened.” I don’t need to know any more to absolve her, but I find that letting the confessor get things off their chest is helpful for them. There aren’t many places someone would feel comfortable confessing to murder, even if it was self-defense. I try my hardest to accept her truth without passing judgment. How can I? I’m guilty of murder too.

“Uh… so…” She sniffles and blows her nose, then continues. “My husband was messed up with some bad people. Wait. You can’t tell anyone any of this, right?”

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