Page 50 of Heathens
“I will hear your sins,” I say, my voice serious. I may not be a priest yet, but I really do try to be genuine and sincere.
“Thank you.” A pause.
She doesn’t continue, so I ask my next question. “Are these sins mortal and venial?” I ask, leaning close to the small holes.
She sniffs. “Definitely mortal sins. Several of them.“
I frown. Mortal sins are the worst ones. Venial sins do not result in a complete separation from God and eternal damnation in Hell. “That’s okay. That’s why I’m here. You sin, you repent, and I save your soul.”
I can’t help but smile when I hear her laugh. “I have thoughts of murdering a man who did me wrong,” she starts, her voice stronger in her confession.
“It is normal to feel revenge. Vengeance is one of the strongest human emotions. Have you acted upon this revenge?”
Her voice drops two octaves. “Not yet.”
I ignore the goosebumps breaking out across my arms. I'm not sure if it's the conviction in her voice or the way her voice affected me. A low murmur. Shaking my head, I continue.
“God won’t punish us for our thoughts. Tell me about these thoughts.”
She’s so quiet on the other side that I wonder if she slyly snuck out, halfway out of the church doors by now. She inhales a sharp breath. “This was a mistake. I should go.”
I hear her stand. “Wait.“ I see her pause on the other side of the screen. “I'm here to listen. I'm going to give you advice—from God—, and when you walk out of here, it's up to you to listen to that advice.“ I pause. “If you still want to go, that's fine, but... I am a good listener.“ I try to make my voice soft, gentle.
“Most people never listen,” she replies. Her voice is so sad, so broken. “Not really.”
I smile. “I know.”
She sighs, and I hear her sit back down. Oddly, I’m relieved. “I feel so lonely. I have this fire inside of me, except it’s not a fire, it’s a dark, inky, swirling mass. Maybe it’s revenge. Maybe it’s grief. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
I feel my throat constrict. Why? I don't need to hear more to ask my next question. “What happened?“ Sometimes, those two words can cause an unleashing of words. For this woman, it makes her pause.
“I lost my best friend.”
I let out a steady breath of air. “I'm sorry.“ Two more magical words. Though, this doesn't feel like a normal confession. It feels like a woman—young, from the sound of her voice—needing someone to talk to. Needing a friend, an ally. Needing an outlet for the pain.
And somehow, I recognize her.
I recognize a complete stranger.
“I just want the guilt to go away,” she whispers from the other side of the screen.
I can’t help it. I study the screen, trying to discern what she looks like, needing to see the fragmented person sitting a mere foot away.
Brown hair. Long, by the looks of it.
Moving and squinting, I see pale skin.
A pretty face, from what I can make out.
A siren in a red coat.
The quatrefoil holes don’t allow me to see any more than that.
“Guilt is to the spirit what pain is to the body,” I murmur, wanting to reach through the screen and take her hand. “Take care of yourself. Forgive yourself.” I take a deep breath. “God forgives you.”
“He shouldn’t.” Her voice cracks on the last syllable.
Crying. She’s crying. For the first time, I hate this. I hate the screen that separates us. I hate these quatrefoil holes. I want to go to her. The urge is stronger than it’s ever been. I always hope penitents find the peace they so desperately seek in these situations, but with this young woman, I want to be the giant eraser—the thing that can blot out her pain.
