This is a few chapters later than my last story post, in case anyone gets confused. Something was dripping onto the floor. The sound echoed, a wet, lonely sound. His clothes were soaked, and water filled his boots. Xenon could … Continue reading
It must be strange, to take confessions.
How do you manage? As the masses come before you, spewing their dirtiest wrongs before your feet, what things go through your head? Do you pity them as you watch them fidgeting, with shifty eyes outside the window? Or some instead calm and silent, waiting to be absolved from the guilty burden on their shoulders. Do you wish them well as they depart, hoping that God will bless their endeavors to repent, to improve, to live a good life? Do you pray that grace and forgiveness would fall upon their souls?
Or perhaps your thoughts run on a different track. Mayhap you see them for the umpteenth time, saying the same exact thing, for the same exact sin, as the very first time they came to confess. And then you think that they might as well not come, because they haven’t really tried. You think that in their hearts they have no real desire to repent, and that they only come out of obligation. And if people do this out of duty and not in truth, well, every word they say to you could be a lie. Perhaps this goes through your mind and you begin to despise and mistrust them, silencing a weary sigh and forcing yourself to sound inviting when you see them outside the window yet again.
I don’t know what it’s like, to take confessions.
But one last thing I wonder, and I wonder it the most of all, is how you can stand holding the foulest secrets of the world in your heart. Maybe you don’t hold them all, whispering them to a fellow brother or sister when you finish your tasks. But if you do manage to keep them and not break I admire your strength.
I have had those dearest to me lay their souls open, and I’ve seen a mere glimpse of their inner monstrosities. The disgusting, enthralling depths of their hearts put in me a strange weight. I feel in myself an oddness…not quite pity, not quite fear, and not quite sadness…or perhaps it is all of them at once, plus a little more. Like a mother trying to comfort her child and chase the shadows away, I want to help, to fight for them, to fix their wrongs with what I think is right; because surely that would be better than what they’ve had all along. And then I realize, when I bare my soul to them, to myself, and to my God, that I am no better. That in my head lies nothing but an altered version of their helpless fantasies and sickening wrongs. That I, who would erase their sins and replace them with good, would only warp and twist and ruin if I tried.
Do you ever have these thoughts, when you take a confession? Does the weight of knowing a thousand sins become unbearable when you realize that you are powerless to fix them? That you, too, are a mere human, who alone can do nothing but try and fail again and again and again? Or do you push the confessions from your mind, ignoring them in full until you forget?
I am not an official in the church. I have no power of my own, and the masses would not come to me if I asked.
I will never have to take confessions.
Of that I am glad. Because seeing the wrongs of those closest to my heart will only ever bring before me the utter darkest depths of my soul. And when I see all these I can only cry, Oh God, Save Us.
I’ve had the ideas for this swirling around in my head for about a month and I finally sat down and wrote it. It’s rough and rather incorrect, I’m assuming, since I’m not Catholic and therefore am unfamiliar with how confessions work and all that…anyhoo, please feel free to comment, give critique, and suggest changes. I like how the concept came out but I’m not entirely set on all the wording yet. 🙂
This is the last full chapter of this story that I’m going to post for awhile. I do have more of it written, so I will be sure to post excerpts and other snippets of things I write. Enjoy, and … Continue reading
The soft notes of a violin concerto drifted from the speakers, distant in the tall ceiling of the banquet hall. The murmur of multiple guests conversing, occasionally interrupted by an interjecting laugh filled the room with a pleasant atmosphere. Mida … Continue reading
Xenon fastened his jacket, making sure all the buckles were tight. He slammed his locker and walked toward the school exit. His boots squeaked on the smooth grey tiles. Other students lined the halls, chatting in clumps and cliques. ‘Hey, … Continue reading
Here’s chapter two of my story in progress. I’ll be posting complete chapters up until chapter 5, and then I’ll most likely just put up snippets and excerpts. Please comment and critique if you wish. His watch read 8:15. They … Continue reading
I have a message and it’s essential that you all listen to me because people’s lives could be in danger. Correction: they will be in danger. I’ve been infected and I can feel that I have little longer to live. My head hurts and my body burns with a fever. I’m going to write this before my brain stops thinking straight.
Yesterday evening my two friends and I were fleeing from zombies, and in our attempt to find a hiding place, we opted to go under a dark porch. Don’t ask me why. It was a bad idea, I know. But we weren’t thinking. Desperation does that to people.
We crawled under the porch, feeling mud and sticks between our fingers, when my hand brushed another hand. It was not someone I knew. It was a dead hand, covered in grime and blood. I tried to back away, and I saw the slumped silhouettes of five bodies right in front of us. We all stopped, and even though I couldn’t see their faces, I knew that my friends were terrified. The bodies didn’t wake. Perhaps they were more recently taken by the disease and hadn’t reanimated yet. It was a stroke of luck for us. At least we thought so. Inching backwards out from under the porch, we managed to make our escape. The streets were empty. We made a mad dash and reached our house without seeing another zombie.
Inside, I went to the sink to wash the filth from my hands and arms. I noticed that I had a nasty cut on my hand. With a jolt I saw that the blood from the dead that was on my hands had touched the open skin.
So without a doubt I’m infected. I’ve told my friends, and my boyfriend, who was in the process of forming an escape plan just in case we need to leave the house. He’s a good guy, I’m sure he’ll make sure everyone is safe. I tried to tell my parents, but they were in denial and kept telling me I was playing a game with them.
I don’t know what to do. I suppose I wait till the disease takes me and then have my friends take my body somewhere far away. I will most likely die within the next 12 hours. The waiting won’t take too long.
Here is the request. If you see me as a zombie, don’t hesitate to shoot. It won’t be me. I can’t endure the thought of my dead body killing living people. Do away with my body. If you can promise to do that, then I will die in relative peace.
Oh hi guys. Yeah, so I had this crazy dream a few nights ago. It was basically what was written up there. And when I woke up and I was actually going to text my boyfriend and tell him to make sure to shoot me if I turned into a zombie. But then I realized it was 4 a.m. and that everything was actually ok in life. This all comes from watching The Walking Dead a little too close to bedtime. Zombies are cool, but seriously, I don’t think I want to dream about them every night.