The earth was brown. The hills, the fields, everything, brown. Winter was ending and everything was still in the process of thawing out. Small blocks of snow and ice led to black pools and puddles. Some farm animals were out congregating in the fields, black sheep, white sheep, cows. A raven sat on a bare tree branch looking out to the same view I had.
I was driving into the countryside to give a dieing priest his last rites and deathbed confession. It’s kind of funny, giving a priest a deathbed confession. You really wouldn’t figure a priest to be much of a sinner. No, you expect them to be a more upright citizen, an example of how to lead your own life in some ways. I could only imagine his list of sins – Forgive me Father, but I didn’t say my morning prayers yesterday; forgive me Father, but I phoned in last week’s sermon. Sure, we’re all human, but you’d like to think those in service of the Lord try themselves to be a little better, trying as much not to give into certain baneful needs of our mortal shell.
Looking out, I still saw the monotonous brown landscape. I wish I could go faster, get in and out of this boring place sooner. You never realize how boring the countryside is until you’re actually there. The roads, however, were determined to make me take my time. They meandered up and down, and all around hills, and you’re never really quite sure if they’re taking you to the right spot because they’re so poorly marked. It wasn’t raining all that hard, but just hard enough to turn the roads into muck and hide the sun from both God and I. The rain clouds never got too dark, and only seemed to match the boring brown landscape. Only on the far horizon did the rain clouds seem dark and ominous. The animals didn’t seem to mind the rain. This rain was too cold and bitter to let out a thunder clap, so they had nothing to fear.
I remember watching thunderstorms in the summer with my dad. My parents were split up, so I spend most of my summer with him. When the power went out, we would just sit on the porch and watch the rain come down hard on the street. We’d listen as the rain hit the roof, run down the gutters, and into the sidewalk. We’d look out on the horizon for lightening, and then count out how many seconds until we heard thunder, and even though we’d be expecting it, it still surprised us sometimes.
But there were no surprises out here. No, how could there be? Where would they hide? Even if someone were to bury them underground, they’d still probably rise up with the wheat in the fall.
I saw the final road to turn onto. It passed between two hills and led to a shoddily built wooden house. It had stopped raining by now, but night had fallen and the clouds still hovered over, coldly blanketing the night sky in place of the stars. The moon barely peaked through, as the clouds stole the moon’s light, allowing them to glow in a manner seemingly unnatural. Even at night, everything was brown.
A man sat at the entrance. He had been expecting my presence. I turned off my headlights, turned off the engine, and opened the door. As I got out of the car, the man got up and approached me.
“Are you Father Abrams?”
“Yes.”
“This way. Father Fenris has been saving his last breaths for you. He surely won’t make it through the rest of the night.”
“Right.”
I opened my trunk to get my things ready for the sacrament. The rain unexpectedly came back, so I scrambled to grab everything, close the trunk, and get inside.
The man opened the front door to let me in, and then made it a point to disappear.
An old, defeated man lay in front of me on an old bed. He wasn’t connected to any machines. He was wrapped in dingy white sheets. His arms were as free as they could be, though he clearly had no will to use them. His hair was a dirty shade of gray. It was long, disheveled, and covered most of his face. His face was overgrown with a dirty beard. He was clearly a man who preferred to be clean shaven, but let his appearance go in his final days. Why should he care about what he looks like if he could only be hours away from death? Is there even such a thing as dieing pretty? But alas, he lay there, defeated by life and ready to accept death.
The room was palely lit by only a few lights. It was a cozy room, nothing fancy. A stool was placed at the bedside. I moved towards the stool and sat down. I brushed his hair away from his face with my hands. his eyes opened and revealed an unforgettable shade of yellow.
I could only think of one man with those eyes, and he was a devil, not a priest. I would have assumed this man would have been kicked out of the priesthood if they had any inkling of what he was capable of, and what he did. Maybe that’s why they put him out here, in the middle of nowhere, on the outer edges of the archdiocese. Out here his ability to harm and damage is contained; but where he used to be, the potential was unlimited.
As I saw those eyes open, I jumped back. This was a surprise revealed by the thawing of ice in spring, preserved in time by the ice so the memory remains so fresh. I saw the corner of his lips move up to form a weak grin. He was expecting this, he planned this.
A craggy, sinister voice let out, “Well … Father … should I tell you my sins?”
The volume was little more than a whisper, but it shook me to my very core. My hands were trembling. I had managed to stay away from this man for three decades, and here before his moment of death, he caught up to me.
I collected myself and replied, “Yes, tell me your sins.”
I could kill him now and no one would know. He’s so close to death, it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. Not even the man who greeted me would have to know. It would be between just God and I, and I’m sure God could forgive me for striking down such a wicked man.
He saw the anger in my eyes and said, “I know why you’re angry at me, it’s because of what I did to you, but I’ll get to those sins later.”
And he proceeded to let out a laundry list of undocumented crimes against the archdiocese, stealing from the weekly collection basket, stealing from money the archdiocese put together for this and that, and so on and so forth. With a list so long, I wondered how much the archdiocese knew about, what he got sent out here for, how he got away with so much. It was uncanny to see such an evil man dressed in holy garments.
I leaned back and smirked a little bit. This man could easily rot in hell. It would be unprofessional, but I could choose not to absolve this man of his sins, I am not the proper judge of this man’s fate anyway, so I should leave it up to God what to make of him. Never have I received justice for what he did to me. I never thought it could come, so I always tried running from possible future injustices. Now I could finally get it, feel appeased. All of these memories I tried so hard to suppress which now burst through me could finally be absolved.
He went on to start telling the story of the sin involving myself. A smile flashed over his face. The old perv was enjoying this.
I have tried to forget the events each and every day since they happened. I cannot. I have tried, and tried, and tried, but always at least a little bit remains; and yet it seems then it was I lost a part of myself, which as much as I tried, and tried, and tried, could not seem to fill.
He was the priest of my parish growing up. My mom always tried to find a male influence in my life, a male role model, and I give her credit there, but here she screwed up bad. I became an alter-boy, as well as being volunteered by my mom to do random odds and ends for the church -- volunteer for the fundraiser here, help out in the rectory there, etc. While she meant all for the best, unknowingly she threw me into the demon’s lair.
So there I’d be, too many hours of the week, under only his supervision. And needless to say, it would happen from time to time. He’d guilt me into it, threatening me with the possibility of hell, tell me there’s no way anyone would believe if I told, our bond was special, etc. Each time I would close my eyes and pretend I was elsewhere. Sometimes those glowing yellow eyes would pierce my eyelids and I couldn’t escape.
I remember leaving one day when it was cold. There was snow on the ground. I reached down to grab some, and I noticed someone had been making snow angels. I immediately wondered if demons also had wings, which led to the wondering of whether angels could be demons in disguise. These snow angels had no halos.
When Father Fenris left, I was happy. I thought he was gone forever, but here he is, right in front of me.
I tried to fill the void in my teen years, but nothing worked. I had a strange hang-up about relationships; viewing what was between Father Fenris and I to be normal, I couldn’t do anything. My mom also watched over me like a hawk, so drugs were basically out of the question. Even when it arose to her that maybe I could do them when not under her supervision, she took me to the slums to look at the junkees, meandering about a meaningless existence, teetering between the edge of life and death, so they weren’t really either. It worked; it scared the shit out of me.
Nothing could fill the void, so I turned to God. I eventually decided to go to seminary and become a priest. Father Fenris had to be the exception to the rule. Priests had to be good people, because they served God, who is good. I never saw it in those eyes that Father Fenris served anyone besides himself.
And there Father Fenris lay now, trying to spill his guts on everything he did wrong. I wouldn’t listen to it. He must have forgotten a few things, he had to have. I’m sure he committed crimes in his sleep without his own knowledge.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t absolve him of his sins. I know he didn’t feel sorry about them. I don’t even think he feared God’s judgment, if he believed in God at all.
I saw him slowly fade into a permanent sleep. His life was over. All I did was sit there and watched. It was over. I never had to deal with Father Fenris again. I saw it harrowed into his forehead, “pedophile.” Nothing ever escapes judgment. Sometimes we are even blessed to see it ourselves. I looked out the window and saw day was beginning to break. I should probably get leaving soon; get back to my own parish.
As I got up to leave, the man who greeted me was by the door, ready to see me out.
“Well Father Abrams, did Father Fenris die peacefully?”
“Yes, he did, in his sleep.”
I thought I did a good job of hiding my enthusiasm.
I left the house and looked back. The lights were left on the two top windows, glaring yellow back at my face. I quickly got into the car and drove away. I wanted to get as far away from this place as possible.
The morning sun was rising, as well as a pale pea fog from all the moisture of the storm. Even if the roads were dry, I’d still have to take my time getting out of here.
The landscape was still boring and brown. The mist did little to liven anything up. The hills and valleys flowed into each other seamlessly and effortlessly. If you hadn’t taken the time to notice, you wouldn’t see at all there was any change. The dirt road didn’t offer any charm, it just made the ride bumpy, and in some places, slow and muddy. They slowly paced around hills and through valleys. I don’t know how anyone lives out here. It doesn’t even look like the land is that fertile. No one has too many farm animals, and the fields look like they haven’t been used for harvest in years.
Fields slowly gave way to housing developments. Hills and valleys gave way to leveled surfaces. Dirt roads gave way to paved highways.
I was back in my parish, though it didn’t seem like it would ever happen. The drive took forever. I had to get some rest. Tomorrow I had to deliver mass. I had been awake all night.
I awoke the next morning early. The lights were low, as the blinds were closed all the way. Hardly a ray of sun penetrated through the window cell. I sat up and put my feet on the ground. I looked up at the top of the doorway and saw the crucifix. Jesus’ head hung low, eyes looking away. I leaned my head on my hands, thinking about what was to happen today. I knew I could go through with it. I knew I had to face judgment for my own actions. How to get to judgment was irrelevant, for judgment was more important. Justice had to be made for what I did. God helps those who help themselves; he doesn’t just pull miracles out of his ass and throws them to the ground willy-nilly. He gives someone an opportunity, and it’s up to that someone to turn it right or wrong.
I got up and walked to the window. I threw the blinds open, the sun blinded my face almost instantly, but I kept my eyes open. I looked out onto the streets below. It was early so there weren’t many people out and about, but a few people were already going about their daily lives without a second thought. Some people should reconsider. Not in a totalitarian sense as I have, but some people just aren’t doing what they’re supposed to be doing; how are they going to know the right path if they cannot look inwardly in an attempt to judge their own life.
I bathed and dressed, taking extra care. I walked downstairs and across the courtyard to the church building. Father Gomis was doing confessions today. I had the most serious of sins to confess to. The poor weather had continued from the day before. Clouds had hung across the sky for quite a while, and showed no signs of leaving. The rain was soft, not too hard; just present. Lightning and thunder crackled periodically.
I remembered the summers when I watched lightning and thunder with my father. He was the last good paternal figure in my life. He was taken too soon from me by death. My parents were separated for a few years beforehand, but it was death which divorced and annulled the marriage. It was after that my mom turned to Father Fenris to be a father figure in my life; a poor, irrevocable error.
The façade of the church was filled with images of dead saints and martyrs. I only wished my service to God could have been more complete, more holy, but my service is done. All of their faces seemed solemn. They accepted the fact they were about to die. It must have been disappointing for John. He didn’t even get the satisfaction of enemies willing enough to execute him. I wonder, though, if one reaches an epiphany when one hangs so precariously between the realm of life and death. It seems to be the perfect moment. Your physical being is such in the hands of others that you can tend your thoughts and energies solely on the reason of being. Ironic, I suppose, in the fact that if this were true most would never be able to realize the meaning of life in physical existence. I wonder if that would really be in God’s plan. I mean, if that were in God’s plan, to only find the meaning of existence as we are physically leaving it, then it would also be God’s plan for us to seek a path close to death, else we live in ignorance of why. Maybe the meaning is so crazy that if we figure it out outside of those parameters, we wouldn’t be able fully grasp it, or others would simply not believe. Maybe that’s why Jesus himself had to die and resurrect himself. He knew the plan, being God, but being man, his mortalness could not grasp it. Yet his words as he passes before the resurrection are my god, my god, why have you forsaken me? But why would he do that? Out of spite? Out of love?
I entered the church and proceeded to the service area. The cross towered magnificently above the altar. Stain glass windows lined the walls; if it were sunny out, lights of many colors would pour down into the pews. The pews ran in repetitive rows, position never being left to chance. Gilded statues of Mary and Joseph sat recessed into the walls on the right and left sides of the back. The stain glass windows showed images of the great saints. Saint Peter looked down at me, holding the keys.
I approached the confessional booth. I opened the door and immediately took a kneel. I left one hand at my side. I talked before Father Gomis could start.
“Father, I am about to leave my mortal shell behind. I do not know if the sin is suicide, but I wish to be absolved of it.”
“Well, how could you be absolved of suicide, if suicide is the sin you are about to commit, it is an unforgivable sin. You can’t be forgiven of a sin before it happens. Surely you can choose not to commit the sin.”
“No, the decision was made years ago, and I have been dead since. I merely wish to stop humoring this charade. I have been dead since my childhood; therefore I am not really committing suicide. The death has already happened in every manner except formally.”
I could not see his face, but father Gomis was speechless. How do you respond to this?
I pulled my hand up to my head, clutching a gun. I squeezed the trigger and felt the concussive blast of air from the exploding gunpowder. This split the skin on top of my skull open. I next felt the bullet bore its way through my skull. The rifling motion of the bullet helped ease it in, but it still forced its way through rather bluntly, smashing and shattering around the point of entry. As it moved into my brain, the turbulence around the bullet ripped apart flesh indiscriminately. The other side of the skull was waiting for the bullet, and as the turbulence within my head was building, the exit wound burst open, making a hole much bigger than the one it entered. The bullet entered the wall, but wouldn’t get very far. My brain matter, however, followed it, and left its own Jackson Pollock-esque artwork upon the confessional wall. I called it, “Breaking Wheel Broken.”
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