Page 134 of Satan's Spawn
“Mind if I just look around first?” I ask, and the Father nods.
“Of course, I’ll give you your privacy. Come find me in the office to the right of the altar when you’re ready.”
The old man walks off with his hands folded behind his back, disappearing behind a large wood door he struggled to open.
I take a few more minutes of contemplating before I make my way inside, passing a woman in a headscarf leaving. I smile politely at her, then stop hesitantly in front of the small wooden stoup.
After checking for any sign of the priest, I dip two fingers in the basin, swirling them slowly in an attempt to become familiar with a process that’s become so foreign to me.
“This waters not for playing, Bex.” Daddy scolds me gently, removing my hand from the pretty bowl. “This is holy water, meant to cleanse a person before entering a holy place.”
“I can’t take a bath in that. It’s too big.”
Daddy scoops me up in his arms and places a kiss on my nose. “That’s right, you can’t. Because you, my beautiful girl, are full of light, therefore don’t need cleansing.”
“So why are you doing it?” I ask as Daddy dips his fingers in the bowl, then does that tapping thing to his head and shoulders.
“Because I need cleansing, baby. My light isn’t as bright as yours.”
Pressing my hands to Daddy’s cheeks, I whisper, “Here, have some of mine.”
Daddy runs his fingers through my long hair, kissing me again. “Hold onto that light, baby, don’t give it away for just anyone.”
I smile with the memory, watching my fingers create gentle waves in the water.
Closing my eyes I hold my breath and make the sign of the cross with my hand, reaching for my cross to place a gentle kiss on it for Dad.
I peer up at the arched ceilings as I make my way through the nave, taking turns between admiring the stained glass windows and running my hand over the old wood pews.
It smells just like the church me and Dad went to in La Jolla, a mix of frankincense and myrrh, and I can’t help but breathe both earthly scents in deep.
When I reach the front row before the altar, I take a seat, half expecting my Dad, or anyone really, to sit down next to me.
Nobody does, though, and I’m grateful for it because my eyes are already watering as I take in the large suspended cross over the table.
My hands fidget with my bag, trying to control my emotions so I can attempt inspiration to write.
It comes in the form of sniffles and blurry vision, and when I put my pen to paper the only thing staining it is my tears.
I became an outsider to a place I once held so dear to my heart.
Wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, I decide to take advantage of the offer I was given before I stepped foot inside the past. Maybe getting this guilt and grief off my chest will give me a sense of catharsis.
Or the very least, forgiveness from my Dad.
Leaving only my book behind, I rush through the crossing, finding the only door at the right of the altar, and knock gently on it.
“I’m ready for confession, Father.” I announce, quietly.
“Very good, my child, I will be right out.” He says from the other side of the door. “The confessional is to the right of the sanctuary.”
My feet are moving swiftly before I can change my mind, and it only takes me a couple dozen steps before I’m standing in front of the unexpectedly huge double-door booth.
Pulling the one on the left open, I step inside to find it more than spacious for a confessional.
There’s a red padded chair facing the entrance door, which I close, turning the space a darker hue as I sit and wait, securing my bag on the floor.
A few moments pass as I dance my fingers along my thighs, wondering what, besides old age, is taking the priest so long to get here. Doesn’t he realize there’s a holy war taking place in my mind?
