Sacrament of Penance

I have come from church. That squared-in religious cubicle they call a confession. Through those gothic, wooden-stuttered windows I sighted a gray bearded chin. Above that was a crooked nose and, above that, wire-framed glasses. I did no talking. I had nothing to say to that man. My sins were between me and God. Started three months ago, my sins did. I was to be a husband. Wedding was three months away. Over the next few weeks I heard that sick coming from him through the bathroom door. That kind of sick that sounds like a soul expelling evil to make room for more sins. His eyes sucked into his face and the valleys between his ribs grew deeper. He tells me he met someone else months ago. That time he said he was visiting his sister in Iowa, he was in Key West, Florida sucking his own death from an eighteen year old Puerto Rican. You know how brides-to-be are suppose to have that glow? Brides and mothers, they're suppose to have it. That glow left his body when his soul did too. He got rid of it. Took my glow with him.

Today would have been my wedding day. That voice inside my head telling me to commit those sins, I've pushed it out. Every now and again, on those nights I can't find my way, I hear that voice in the alleys next to me, behind that door. Begging for me to let in in. Up in that church, I had no strength left to say no. That beard in the boarded-up window turned black and fell away. The glasses shattered and pierced the man's eyes. Blood dripped upward from those empty sockets, a puddle grew on the ceiling. The man in the space next to me was no longer a priest. That man smiled at me. His teeth turned yellow and his tongue black. His nose retreated into his face, all that was left was two empty ovals in the center of his head. That musty, wooden divider between us broke apart, evaporated. That voice in my head was no longer in my head. I've come from church.