Page 53 of Billionaire's Sins
"You mean Jesus?"
He nods.
"We have no reason to believe otherwise."
"And you, Father?" He turns to me. "Do I have reason to believe otherwise with you?"
I peer down into his features. The uncombed hair falling about his face, his worn-out but clean shirt, the faded jeans that hang off his hips, hinting that he may have been healthier at one point in time, which is, honestly, not too difficult to imagine, and it’s not because of his clothes. It’s the defeated slump to his shoulders, the faded look in his eyes, as if he’s lost all hope. Something I am used to… For it is when they’re at their lowest that people most often approach me. Is that why I chose this profession? Because I recognize kindred spirits?
Because I want to cling to that part of me that feeds on my grief, my helplessness, my lack of control I had in that time when I was taken and made to do things which I’ve never confessed to another.Maybe to her? Only to her. Where did that thought come from?I let go of her, remember? I walked away from her. I chose Him. Which is why I am here, ready and willing to do His bidding. To help others. Like this man.
"I am happy with my lot." I hold his gaze. "How can I help you, my child?"
"I need to confess."
23
Edward
"Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been…many years since I last confessed."
He swallows, shuffles his feet. The air in the booth grows denser. I shift around to make myself more comfortable. Not that I begrudge the fact that he came this late… But the fact that he interrupted my time, when I was talking to God? I’m not too happy about that. Still, I’d never turn away someone who walks in and asks for help. I lean forward, press the tips of my fingers together, "Go on, son, what would you like to tell me today?"
He fidgets around some more, then leans in, "I… I did something very bad, Father." He pauses, gulps audibly, then blows out a breath. "It was because of me that many lives were spoiled."
"How is that?"
"I helped some bad men when I was much younger. I didn’t realize what I was doing then, but it was because of me that many other boys found their futures changed completely." His voice wavers, and he buries his face in his hands. "If I could only turn back time, I’d never have given information of the movements of my classmates to those men."
"How old were you when this happened?"
"I was twelve." His voice breaks. He clears his throat. "I may have put those boys in jeopardy, but it might as well have been me who was taken, as well."
The hair on the nape of my neck rises. "Taken?" I keep all inflection out of my tone. "Who was taken?"
"The boys I spied on." His tone lowers, "I… I couldn’t help it, Father. My parents were well-off, but then they lost all their money in a stock market crash. It was only because they'd been patrons who had made large donations that I'd been able to continue my studies in the same school." He shuffles around some more. "And I needed the money." He glances away, then back at me, "I uh, you…you understand what I am trying to say?"
"What did you need the money for?" I can hazard a guess, but I want him to spell it out for me.
"Alcohol... drugs." I sense him shrug.
"You were an addict?"
"That’s putting it lightly." He barks out a self-deprecating laugh. "Vodka for breakfast, coke, and not the drinking kind, for lunch, all combined with downers for supper. I was in terrible shape."
I stare through the pattern in the partition, try to make out the expression on his face, but of course, I can’t. Who the hell is this guy? Why did he walk in here, of all the churches, and what is he trying to tell me? "How did your school authorities miss that you were an addict?"
"Oh, I was very well-behaved in class, the epitome of the model student. No one, not even my schoolmates, guessed just how far gone I was. If it hadn't been for the fact that my parents lost their fortune..." I sense him shrug, "I could have maintained the status-quo. But it was not to be... I... I—"
"You needed money?"
"You can say that again. And as with all things, when you are desperate, the vultures find you." He drags in a breath. "I was only twelve, Father. You need to understand, I didn’t have a clue about the seriousness of what I was going to do."
I curl my fingers into fists, force myself to breathe, breathe. "What did you do?" I finally ask.
"This stranger approached me when I was trying to track down my favorite dealer, who had refused to take my calls because, of course, they know when you are desperate. When you need them the most, that’s when they desert you. Have you found that, Father?"
He’s blathering now, trying to stray off track, trying to lead himself and me away from the topic at hand. Typical. I’ve found this pattern to be true of many who come to confession. It’s almost like they are in the therapist’s chair here. Though, unlike the reasons that lead them to see a therapist, they come here because their conscience doesn’t permit them to stay quiet anymore.
