Page 102 of Vicious Behaviors
Good for me. Bad for them.
Unfortunately, after spending the last few hours locating them and making them scream out for mercy, I’m no closer to finding the peace I desired than when I left Izzie back at my place. The monster has been fed, so he’s content and quiet now, but my own self-deprecating thoughts continue to torment me.
Unwilling to go home, I find myself driving down the city streets until I park in front of St. Mary’s Cathedral. Its tall spires pierce the night sky, their shadows stretching across the empty street. The heavy wooden doors loom before me, carved with saints and angels whose faces are illuminated by flickering street lamps.
For reasons I can’t name, my feet carry me up the worn stone steps. My hands push open the doors, and a soft creak greets me. The cathedral smells of aged wood, melted wax, and incense long since burned. The air is thick but comforting, the quiet soprofound it presses against my chest. Candlelight flickers along the rows of empty pews, casting tall, wavering shadows on the floor, guiding me toward the altar.
Since it’s well past midnight, no one is here to see me kneel, to hear the heavy whisper of my prayers, my pleas, my bargaining with a God I’m not even sure I believe in anymore. I stare at the vaulted ceiling, where moonlight streams down from stained glass windows, painting the stone in crimson, sapphire, and gold. My hands fold in desperation, my body trembling, but no answer comes.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, kneeling before God, waiting for His response to ease my weary soul. However, it isn’t God’s voice I hear call out my name. “Marcello?” Alejandro says softly, stepping into the candlelight.
I am too wrung out, too tired to acknowledge his presence, much less stand. He must sense the turbulence in me because he doesn’t ask why I’m here at this ungodly hour or why my clothes are soaked in another man’s blood. Instead, he sits beside me at the altar, waiting for me to speak first.
To my surprise, I do. “Do you still want to hear my confession, Father?” I hear myself ask.
“If that will unburden your soul, then I’m all ears.”
“Unburden my soul,” I snort with a menacing scowl. “Sometimes I question if I even have a soul anymore.”
“You being here tells me that you do.”
“Right,” I scoff, but it doesn’t seem to faze Alejandro in the slightest.
“How many men did you kill tonight?” he asks, his tone neutral, devoid of judgment.
“Three. Three men,” I answer truthfully.
“Did these men have families?”
“If they did, they don’t anymore,” I reply, this time meeting his eyes, only to find no condemnation in them either. “Aren’t you going to call me a devil? A monster for killing them?”
“No.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely astonished.
“Because God doesn’t send His wrath to those who don’t merit it.”
“You make me sound like some avenging angel. Trust me, Father, I’m anything but,” I retort, letting my head hang low.
“Maybe to your eyes. But who is to say this isn’t God’s plan for you?”
“What if it’s the devil’s plan for me instead? What then?” I whisper and turn to him, searching his eyes.
“Do you think that’s what you are? An instrument to be used by the devil?”
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense to me.”
He stares into my eyes, still unbothered by my blood-soaked garments.
“Have you come for confession, my son?” Alejandro asks, his priestly patience intact.
“The last time a priest took my confession, I ended up killing him,” I remind him.
“Have you come for confession?” he repeats, unflinching.
I think long and hard about what he’s offering.
“Can a man like me ever find absolution after everything I’ve done?”
