I was hunched over, but the moment he touched me, I stiffened—which he felt, and it caused him to remove his hand. After he did that, I shook my head slowly.
“Tell me what you need, and I will do my best to give it to you.” His voice was so warm, so kind, I didn’t know what to think of him. He wore all black, save for a little white near his throat.
This wasn’t the first time I’d come to the church. My father had mentioned how much religion had helped my mother through the years, and lately he’d been pushing me to go. I’d come a few times, sat in mass once or twice, though I’d never gone up to have communion. I’d watched, listened, tried to understand the people who flocked to this place weekly—or daily, depending on the person. I’d tried to be like my mother, but I wasn’t her. I was the farthest thing from it.
What did I need? I thought about Father Charlie’s question, and an answer didn’t come to me right away. The tears had stopped spilling, if only due to the fact that I was no longer alone here. At this point, I didn’t know what I needed.
I knew what I wanted, though, and that was to talk, the one thing I could never do with my own father. A priest was sworn to silence, right? Anything said in confession he couldn’t repeat, could he?
Did I even care if our conversation stayed between us? I didn’t know. There were so many things I didn’t know anymore. How the hell I was going to live after this was one of them.
“Could we,” I stopped, turning to stare into his eyes. They were a watered-down brown, a hazy amber color. “Could we have confession?” I didn’t know how to ask something like that, and kneeling there beside Father Charlie, I felt stupid. He seemed so worldly, so full of wisdom, and I was nothing but an ant compared to him.
His lips were measured in smiling. A tiny, gentle expression, and he gave me a short nod. “Of course.” He got up, offering me his hand, which I did not take. It was a somewhat wrinkly hand. I didn’t know how old he was; my best guess was somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair was mostly gray. He was exactly who you’d think of when you imagined a priest.
He waited until I stood up on my own to lead me around the pews. The confessional was on the left side of the church, not too far from the front pulpit. He held open one of the small doors for me, made sure I got in all right, and then went to get in on his side. A thin divider sat between us, full of small holes. Enough holes that I bet you could see through them during the day, when the other lights were on in the church, but here and now? It was nothing but shadows in this confessional.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest, and I sniffed, wiping at my eyes now that I had some privacy. How embarrassing it was to let a priest see me cry. How embarrassing to cry in general, really. I was Giselle Santos; I shouldn’t know what crying was.
It was times like these that made it hard for me to remember I was only fifteen years old. God, I felt so much older than that.
“I’ve never… I’ve never done anything like this,” I whispered, my voice a little hoarse from all of the crying, and, I supposed, the running. This church wasn’t exactly next door to my house. I had to make it all the way across the city to get here—and do it in the rain.
“It’s okay,” he reassured me from his side of the small, cramped space. There was barely enough room for a seat in here, and I was small. I couldn’t imagine a larger person squeezing themselves in. “Start by telling me how long it’s been since your last confession.”
“I’ve never confessed before,” I told him.
Father Charlie kept assuring me it was all right. He guided me through what to say. It was a relatively straightforward process; I didn’t know why, but I was shocked. I thought there was more to it than basically admitting how long it’d been since you last confessed and telling the priest your sins.
“Tell me your sins, child,” he said, his voice a mere whisper on the other side. Not menacing, not like what I was used to. More patient than anything else. “Tell me whatever you want to. God does not judge, and no matter how bad the sin, he always forgives. Remember that.”
I could see why my mother liked the idea of this. No matter what you did, as long as you repented, you were forgiven by the big man upstairs. You could lie, you could kill, you could fuck over an entire city’s worth of people, and still make it right with God.
“I… what if it’s not my sin I want to confess?” Although, I supposed, a lot of things were considered sins in God’s eyes. I supposed, in the end, what I’d done was a sin. Allowing it to happen, letting that man touch me like that. Rocco Moretti. I’d never forget his name, or his face, or the shitty way I currently felt. “No,” I went on. “No, it’s mine. I… I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Not being strong is not a sin.”
“I didn’t say no.” The words left me quickly, before I could pull them back in and swallow them down. I didn’t say no. That was it, wasn’t it? I’d been too shocked, too stunned that I would be put in that position to begin with. Not once, not even when I was in that room with Rocco, did I ever say no.
I didn’t fight him. I didn’t struggle. I’d… I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me because my father had told me to.
It was a moment before Father Charlie spoke again: “We all make mistakes.” I couldn’t tell if he knew what I meant by my words or not, but when he said that, I knew he had no clue. “What didn’t you say no to?”
My breath caught in the back of my throat. I couldn’t speak. New tears bubbled up in my eyes when I remembered. Being in this small, dark confessional was not helping me any, and talking to Father Charlie was leading nowhere. Anything I could do would lead nowhere; in the end, I would wind up back home, under my father’s thumb.
Even hell would be a better place.
I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, but no more words came out of me. A tear slid down my cheek, and I shut my eyes. When I did, I was thrown back to that room, and the feeling of hands on me, touching me in ways I didn’t want, resurfaced. I wanted to throw up.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.” I opened my eyes, pushing out of the confessional. I hurried through the nearest pew, moving to the main aisle.
Father Charlie had exited his side, calling after me, “Wait—”
But I didn’t wait. I took off in a run. I left the church, busting out into the wet night. Rain immediately pelted my face, and I stood there for a few moments, not knowing where to go. I sure as hell didn’t want to go home. I didn’t… I didn’t want to go anywhere. In that split-second, I made a decision, and that decision was not something I could ever take back.
So I ran.
I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran as far and as long as I could, not stopping for anything. The streets were mostly empty, allowing me some degree of freedom. I couldn’t stop. I… I didn’t know where I was going until I arrived, and when I got there, my feet stumbled into a halt, nearly slipping on a puddle.