Page 19 of House of Sin
And then I criedmyself to sleep.
10
FORGIVENESS IS OPTIONAL, BUT BLOOD IS MANDATORY
THEN
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . a long time since my last confession.”
My voice barely rises above a whisper in the quiet of the church. I don’t know how longit’s been—months? Years? Confession was never a door I thought I’d need to open: I’d build my life on careful steps and clean hands, a mosaic of silence with no cracks to spill secrets through.
Father Cyrus doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, there’s only the faint rustle of his robes as he shifts, followed by the soft creak of the worn wooden seat beneath him. Then his voice, steady and familiar, “You are always welcome in the house of God.”
“I ...” My throat tightens. “I did something horrific.” The words fight their way out like broken glass. Just speaking them feels like an act of betrayal against the woman I used to be, against the pieces of her I’ve tried so hard to protect. But it’s too late for loyalty now; that version of me has already slipped away, fading somewhere between what I endured and who I’ve now become.
The confessional is silent, yet the air feels altered, as if my demons have drawn closer, summoned by the sound of my voice, waiting for the moment it falters so they can take hold and lay claim to what’s left of me.
I push the words out. “The worst part is, Father ... I don’t feel guilty.” I admit. “I wish I did. God, I wish I did. But I don’t.” I draw in a slow breath. “And if I’m being honest,” I say finally, voice barely above a whisper, “I would do it again.”
There’s a pause, and when he finally speaks, his voice is edged with caution: “What is it that you did, my child?”
“I murdered three men.” I say, and the words feel wrong here, as if the sacred walls shouldn’t hold such confessions. And yet, they belong to me now.
Silence seems to fill every corner before he whispers, “Why would you do that?” And something unsteady slips into his voice.
“They hurt me.” Just three words. Those were my justifications and I felt them to be enough.
I wait and give him time to say something, anything, but only silence answers. Though I can’t see him, I feel the weight of all that he’s choosing not to say, pressing heavy through the thin screen that separates us. I don’t blame him. Honestly, I’m not sure I could find the words either.
“They broke me,” I go on, the words gathering strength now. “They didn’t just touch me, they dismantled me. Piece by piece. They took my body, my spirit, and stripped it all away until there was nothing left. I fought them. God, I fought. Every second of it.”
And then I tell him everything.
I don’t dress it up. I don’t offer comfort or euphemisms. I give him the truth, unfiltered, as jagged and ugly as it really was. I tell him how their bodies crashed down on mine, how their hands locked around me, how their laughter, stinging and cruel, sliced deeper than any knife could. I describe the way it felt, being devoured from the inside out. How I wanted to vanish, to die just to stop feeling it. And while I didn’t die, something else did. Something deep inside me, something old and primal ripped loose, clawing its way to the surface. It had no humanity, it wasn’t kind, but it knew how to survive and that’s what saved me.
“Then Emil and Nell found me,” I say, my voice dropping to almost nothing.
“My god,” Father Cyrus whispers almost like he’s bracing for what comes next.
“I couldn’t stop what happened after that,” I continue. “Truth is, I didn’t even want to. Justice found them. And when it did, when I saw what became of them ... I felt alive again. Like taking the first deep breath after drowning.”
I don’t tell him about the blood, how warm it was, how it seeped into the whorls of my fingerprints. I don’t confess the details no one should have to bear: how we tended to the bodies afterward, how we wrapped them carefully before leaving them to the wild animals. I don’t admit how I watched the light drain from their eyes ... and never once looked away. I don’t say how good it felt. Howrightit felt.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Father Cyrus speaks, his voice quiet, almost distant, as if he were unsure of his own words. “Very good, my child.”
I freeze. “Very good?”
The words strike me like a slap across the face. It doesn’t make sense. My confession, this confession of horror and violence, isvery good?My insides twist into a knot, and I feel a strange,chilling emptiness wash over me. I had expected rebuke, condemnation, anything but approval. My mind scrambles for answers, for any kind of explanation. But there is none. His words don’t offer clarity or redemption, they only leave me more confused, more lost.
“You think ...” My voice is unsteady now. “Thiswas good?”
His voice shifts, lower now and textured with sorrow. “I think,” he says, slowly, like the words might splinter in his mouth, “that you’ve carried a burden no soul should be asked to bear. I think you survived something unimaginable, and in surviving, you lost something vital. But not everything.” There’s a quiver in his voice now. A crack in the calm that tells me he’s not unmoved. He’s shaken and he’stryingto hold his shape, but the edges of him are fraying.
“I’ve heard many confessions,” he says. “But never one like this. Never one that felt like ... prophecy.”
What the fuck?Prophecy. As if this was divine. Holy. I didn’t come here to besanctified . . .I came here to bleed.
“I didn’t come for absolution!” I snap, the words lashing out before I can soften them. “I came because I needed tosay it. Out loud. I needed to hear it echo back. That I did it and that I’mnot sorry.”
