Speaker 1: The church was empty. It was just me, the candles,
and the rain tapping against the stained glass like a
restless child. It had been storming since dusk, an unending
curtain of water from a bruised sky. I sat in
the confessional with my hands folded loosely in my lap
and my eyelids heavy, but not from a lack of sleep.
It had been a long day, with two funerals, a
hospital visit, and a broken boiler in the rectory. I
just started to think I might close early when I
heard the door at the back of the sanctuary open.
A gust of wet air followed someone in, along with
hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular parishioner's confident pace.
I straightened, Then the curtain slid aside. I heard the
soft squish of wet fabric as they settled on the
opposite side of the confessional, then a faint rasp of
his breath, and how his weight shifted, like someone fighting
the instinct to bolt. Finally, he spoke, low and unsure
but clear, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. The
ritual took over. My voice came easily and automatic, though
something in my chest had tightened God is always watching
my son, I said, speak freely. The Lord offers mercy
to all who seek it. At first, he said nothing
in return. Yet the way the air changed betrayed his
lack of response. I knew then that he was going
to tell me something, and it wasn't going to be easy.
His voice came again, steadier, now, like he had stepped
back into the safety of memory. I grew up on
a farm, he said, Just me and my mama, out
past the river bend, where the road turns to gravel.
We had no neighbors close enough to wave two. He
exhaled slowly. She was a believer. She didn't just speak
the word no, she lived it. Every evening before supper,
she'd read from her old leather bound Bible. I remember
her soft but unwavering voice. Even when the storms came
and the lights flickered, she'd light a single candle and
read Psalm twenty three like it was a promise she
was making to both of us. He paused, and for
a second, I imagine, and he might be wiping his
eyes as he remembered a fond memory of his mom.
She carved crosses into everything, the fence posts, the barn, doors,
and even the wooden spoon she stirred us dough with.
She said it kept evil out, and reminded the Lord
we were watching back. His tone dipped into something warm
and fond. It wasn't a fancy life, but it was ours.
We had three hens, Pearl Marigold and little Sister, and
a stubborn old goat named Moses, who chewed through more
of our laundry line than I'd like to admit. We
had potatoes, turnips, and a patch of carrots that only
ever grew crooked. Sometimes we trayed our eggs for milk.
There was never more than we needed. But she always
smiled when she said it, the Lord provides. I could
hear something shift in his breath, like he was close
to brushing up against the memory in which his I
don't mind saw the truth. Winter was the hardest. I
remember one year she boiled onion skins just to make broth.
She told me it was French soup and made me
sit up straight, like you were in a Paris cafe.
She even folded a towel for me to use as
a napkin. I believed her. That's the kind of woman
she was. She could make suffering, feel like theater. The
confessional had gone quiet around us, the storm muffled by
thick stone walls. But at that moment, I swear I
could feel the cold of that farmhouse kitchen, the scratch
of old quilts, and the soft light of candlewax dripping
Beside a prayer. I let the silence hold between us,
on able to shake the feeling that whatever was to
come would be a heavyweight for us both to bear.
It started with Pearl, he said, the oldest hen. She
stopped laying, which wasn't unusual, But then she started acting odd,
wondering in circles, pecking at her own feathers. One morning
I found her standing motionless in the yard, eyes leaking
this dark red stuff like tears. She didn't squawk or anything.
I ran to tell Mama. She looked at Pearl for
a long time and whispered, And the next day Pearl
was gone, buried. Mama said, but they never saw a shovel.
Then it was Marigold, then little Sister, then Moses. All
of them followed the same pattern their eyes. Something in
their eyes was just, But Mamma told me she'd take
care of it, and that everything would be okay. The
garden turned next. One by one. The carrots split open
from the inside, like they'd been cooked in the dirt.
The turnips came up black and soft, and the potatoes,
when we harvested them, were little more than husks, like
something had suck them dry from the inside. I asked
if we were curst, and she said no, and that
the Lord is testing us. I could tell she believed it.
She prayed harder than ever. She would hardly eat so
I could, And in the middle of the night I'd
find a knelt beside the kitchen window, whispering scripture to
the wind, sometimes just mouthing the psalms into the dark.
There was something sacred, and how he spoke of her,
like a child calling the warmth of a hand that
always knew how to hold his without needing to say
a word. She didn't panic, not once did I think
anything was wrong. She did everything to keep me calm.
Even when I asked what we'd do without food, she
just looked at me and smiled and said, he will provide.
And in that moment I heard it, the quiet turn
of something in his voice. It was the next morning,
he said, the frost hadn't even lifted when Mamma came
to me, her hands wrapped in a shawl, like she
was cradling something delicate. She said, go to town to day.
Look for someone called, someone who's hungry. Bring them here.
The Lord reward's kindness. It made sense at the time.
That was how Mamma thought. When times were lean, you
gave more, You opened your door wider. That's what she
taught me. So I went. I walked all the way
into town, kicking rocks and counting steps and praying i'd
find someone to help. Near the train yard, I found
a man. He was older, wrapped in layers of newspaper
and threadbareed denim. He was humming to himself, eyes half closed,
like he was dreaming of food. I told him we
had warm soup and fresh bread, a barn to sleepin'
if he didn't mind the hay. He looked at me
like I was a ghost. Then he followed. Mamma greeted
him like she'd known him all the life. She called
him brother. She sat him down at our little table
and served him a bowl of stew. The smell was
so strong it made my mouth water, and the bread
was still warm. I don't remember where She said she
got the flower. I didn't think to ask, in fear
that it would disappear if I acknowledged it. He stayed
the night in the barn. I brought him an old
quilt in a lantern. They thanked me and said we
were angels. The next morning he was gone. Mama said
he'd left early. She said he was grateful and traded
us some things before he went. He inhaled, sharp and shallow.
There was meat on the table that morning, real meat, pink, marbled,
steaming in its own broth. She said it was a
blessing and the man had traded goods, and I I
didn't question it, thanked God. After that we always had something,
not a lot, but enough. Every few weeks she'd send
me again to find someone alone and hungry. I didn't
understand it. Then she started a new tradition where just
before eating, she'd take white linen napkins from the drawer
we only used on Christmas and carefully draped it over
her head so it hung down like a veil. She
told me to do the same. I remember the first time.
I giggled and said she looked like she was playing
dress up. But she didn't laugh. She just looked at
me through the cloth and said, that's the point, baby.
We hide our faces so God doesn't have to watch
us eat. We eat in private, hidden from the eyes
of heaven, and then we'd say the same prayer, always
the same words, like a song. Only the two of
us knew. Lord, bless this meal, Bless the soul who
gave it, and keep our hands from shaking as we
take what was given in grace. She made me whisper
it three times before touching the spoon. It was never skipped,
he swallowed. We'd eat in silence, chew slowly, and pray
again when we were done. I was a child. I
didn't understand. All I knew was I gained a weird
sense of hunger that only that meal could quench. I
sat back slightly in the confessional, the warmth of the
wood against my shoulder doing little to ground me. I
wanted to believe this was all a metaphor, that he
was speaking in the language of parable, of symbolic hunger
and strange rituals born of grief or madness. But some
part of me there was a sharp and instinct honed
from years of hearing the worst of people. Wondered where
those people he had brought home had gone, the ones
who never came back, who were needy yet still had
things to trade. Still, I could not accuse that wasn't
my place. But I felt the hair at the back
of my neck begin to rise. I crossed myself quietly,
more out of reflex than faith at that moment. I
was thirteen when I found it. He continued. It had
rained the night before, and I was out behind the
barn dumping the meat scraps. Mama said we couldn't use
for breakfast. Into the slop draft for the young pigs.
We managed to buy something white bobbed up, half floating
in the grease. His voice trembled, now, just slightly. I
thought it was a chicken bone. I reached in, thinking
it wouldn't be good for them, but it was soft
and pale. When I turned it in my fingers, I
saw the nail and the shape. Oh God. I squirmed
in the silence, shifting slightly on the bench. The air
inside the confessional felt too still, like the world itself
was holding its breath with me, waiting for what came next.
I clasped my hands tighter and kept my voice locked
behind my teeth. This was his moment, but God help me,
I wanted it to pass. I walked into the kitchen
and held it out like I was handing her a riddle.
She looked at it, then at me, and said, some
lambs are meant for the altar, like it was scripture,
like I should have known already. His breath hitched. She said,
the desperate, the forgotten. They don't have much to give,
so when they offer themselves in their weakness, we're supposed
to receive that. She said, it made us holy. My
hands tensed just enough for my knuckles to wake. There
it was a confirmation of my suspicion. The clarity of
it made my stomach twist into knots. And yet I
knew better. I am not a judge. I do not
wield the sword, only the word. I have heard things
in the booth that would make most men sleep with
the lights on. My duty has been and still is
to listen, to witness, to guide. But at that moment
I could not deny to tremble in my breath or
the heaviness that settled in my ribs. I nodded. He continued,
his voice dull because that's what you do when you're
a child. Your Mamma's word is final. So I nodded
and sat at the table. That night, I ate the
stew and wore the cloth to hide my sin from God.
But something had cracked. I started waking up, sweating, chewing
my tongue roar in my sleep. I stopped praying out loud,
out of shame. I started skipping bites, then whole meals.
She noticed, of course she noticed. One evening, she reached
across the table and idly pulled the cloth off my head.
Her eyes didn't look angry, but they had gone hard,
like cold river stones. Don't waste what's been given, she said.
Don't turn your nose up at blessings that cost someone
else their place in the kingdom. I nodded again, like
I believed her, But I didn't not anymore. I couldn't
look at her the same way. But it was strange.
I still wanted her to hold me when I was scared.
He was quiet for a long time, Then, after a
long inhale, he kept going. It lasted almost two more years.
I tried to forget what I saw. I think I
stayed because part of me still loved her too much
to leave, because she smiled at me like nothing was wrong.
She kissed my forehead tenderly every night, and she still
sang hymns while cleaning the kitchen. How do you walk
away from someone who taught you everything, even when you
find out some of it was poison? But when I
turned fifteen, I packed her bag silently and walked out
while she slept. I didn't leave a note, only took
what I could carry. He paused, and I never went back.
I told myself I'd start over. He said, clean slate,
clean soul. I ended up in foster care, two towns over.
They were kind, mostly kept the fridge full, took me
to church when they could. His voice thinned to be normal.
I did everything Brochure said, joined clubs, and took therapy seriously.
I even started cooking real meals from recipes. I made
myself believe that the hunger was just trauma, just something
I could fix. Her breath sharp and frustrated. I went vegan.
I thought maybe it was guilt, but it didn't work.
Then I tried a carnivore diet, but that didn't help either.
Then raw food, paleo, fasting, ice, chewing clay. I even
gnawed at the edge of a belt once, just to
feel the resistance. He shifted on the other side of
the screen, wood groaning unto him, and at that moment
a terrible thought flickered across my face. Unwelcome and absurd.
I picked his hands slipping through the slats, cold fingers
gripping my collar, and his mouth opening wide to take
a bite out of me, like I was bred and
flesh both. The image was so vivid I almost flinched.
He was a silly thought, one I was not proud of.
But it sat there, pulsing at the edge of my reason,
refusing to be dismissed. Every meal was a disappointment. Every
bite tasted like paper. Even the things I used to love,
like roast chicken, corn bread, sweet potatoes with brown sugar,
they all turned to ash in my mouth. His voice
dropped lower than it had all night. I know now
what it is I miss. He let the words settle
like dust in a crept. It didn't hit all at once.
It came in flashes. The smell of broth, the way
candlelight hid steam, The weight of linen over my head
was so nostalgic I thought I was just remembering, but
he wasn't memory. It was want, a need. I told
myself I could resist, that I was better than her,
that I didn't have it in me, but the hunger
it I planned it carefully. I chose a man I
saw often on the corner outside the train station. He
wore a gray hoodie and plastic bags around his shoes.
He never asked for anything, just sat there. I watched
him for a week, made sure he was alone, that
he didn't speak to any one, that no one would
notice if he disappeared. A pause and her breath. We
walked side by side through the quiet part of town.
He kept glancing at my face, like he was trying
to figure out if I was real. The whole time,
my chest ached with something that felt like guilt. He
looked at me with trust, with quiet awe, like I
was saving him. I wanted to deserve that. But underneath it,
deeper than anything I could name, there was the hunger
gnawing through every step. A single thought echoed through the prayers.
I muttered to drown it out. What will he taste like?
At one point he laughed, low and wheezing, and said,
you're one of the good ones. Huh. I told him
I was trying to be. I brought him back to
my apartment, told him I a hot shower and some
food waiting, and mentioned spare clothes, socks, and even a
razor if he wanted. He looked up at me like
he couldn't believe it, with eyes wide rimmed, red, hopeful
in a way that made my chest tighten. Really, he
asked like he thought the offer might shatter if he
touched it. I nodded. That's all it took, and it
hurt because I knew I was lying. I let him
take the hot shower first, gave him a towel I'd
laid out earlier, let him eat the bread and drink
the tea while some soup simmered on the stove. He
looked so grateful, called me a saint, and I must
have been raised right. His voice cracked lightly, but the
cloth was already in the drawer. He didn't elaborate. He
didn't need to. By now I knew what that meant.
I bought it from a linen shop two towns over,
just like the ones Mamma used, pressed it flat, folded
it three times, and put it in the drawer under
the knives. Silence stretched between us. The stew was rich,
the meat practically melted in my mouth. I had cooked
it that long, he said. I ate it under the cloth,
just like before. I said the prayer every word, three times,
like Mamma, and for the first time in years, I
felt full, really full. He exhaled slowly, and I heard
the shift, the tremble that it clung to him like
wet wool was gone. In his place was a strange calm,
like he was waiting for me to speak, So I did.
I cleared my throat softly, My son, I said, carefully,
measuring every word. There are things in this world we
carry that were never meant for us. Burdens passed down
like inheritance, cloaked in love and devotion. He didn't interrupt,
so I kept going. You are not your mother, and
you are not beyond redemption. But if you truly seek absolution,
it must begin with truth, followed by repentance, and then
by surrender, not just of your sin, but of your will.
I felt the sweat cooling at my temples. God half
as mercy, yes, I said, but not without caste. You
must never do this again. You must turn yourself in.
You must choose a path that leads away from this
hunger silence. There was a faint shift, followed by a hush,
and when I peeped between the slats, he was gone.
He hadn't waited for my blessing or absolution. He vanished quietly,
as if the act of confession itself had been enough,
and maybe for him it was. I sat there a
while longer, hands clasped, eyes closed. I prayed not to
carry his burden with me into the world, that whatever
darkness he left behind would stay sealed in that booth.
I prayed that Marcy still meant something, even when offered
to someone who may never stop doing the thing they're
sorry for. When I finally stood, I moved slowly through
the empty sanctuary, checking locks, I stepped into the parking lot.
The night air was damp and cool, and the storm
had passed. My car engine grown to life, and the
headlights carved through the dark. I pulled onto the main road,
and there, under the flicker of a street lamp, I
saw a man huddled against the bench, wearing only a
thin coat and no shoes. I slowed, and for a
long time I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel.
I couldn't get the Confessor out of my mind. How
he spoke his truth like a man unburdened, while all
I was left with was silence. And in that silence,
wondered if the Confessor would stop, if anyone was safe,
if he was still nearby, And all I could do
was pray.