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I sigh and shift my gaze to the ancient clock perched on the medieval tower. My mind goes blank, and in those moments, I can sense what's about to happen.
Memories start to stir me up.
I can vividly picture myself, hand in hand with Samael, on the night of the Last Fire, hoping that my dreams would come true, that I'd be welcomed into a circle of people I'd known forever.
How naive!
Back then, I only knew a fraction of the truth.
My skin crawls, and a shiver runs from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head when the song on my playlist changes to one of my favorite songs. “Haunted” by Taylor Swift plays on my wired headphones. I tremble slightly and look anywhere but at the church, but no matter where I look, I see tombstones that remind me of the inevitable, and the thought of death depresses me even more.
I hate time!
My dad is still not coming out, so I swallow and gather the courage to enter the church. The scent of incense and burnt candles overwhelms me. This place still echoes the story of my teenage years. I swallow hard again and walk among the old wooden pews, which creak softly with history, urging me to sit down and tell me about the past. I see someone coming out of the confessional, and I imagine that's why my father is late closing the church.
I remove my headphones and go take their place, thinking this will make everything easier. The creaking of the old wood in the confessional cabin makes my stomach tighten, and neither the darkness inside nor the cramped space nor the scent of myrrh with a hint of desert flower, my favorite, helps.
I kneel down and interlace my fingers, looking at the floor.
My tongue feels heavy, and the words are slow to come out. All I manage to do is to sigh loudly.
“You have nothing to fear. You're in the House of the Lord,” my father's warm voice shakes me to my core.
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
I'm distraught.
And not because his tone isn't low enough or his soothing voice doesn't soften my soul, but because it's the first time I've heard my father's voice in three years.
A soul-deep pain floods my chest, and I clench my teeth when I summon the courage to say something.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...”
“Amen,” my father finishes, just like any other confession.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I close my eyelids, and I feel my teeth grinding.
“I want you to know that the Lord is full of love and generosity. So, there's nothing that you could’ve done capable of distancing Him from you. With these words, I ask you to trust in our Almighty and Kind Lord, that He will enlighten your mind and help you recognize all your sins,” my father notices my hesitation, and even though his schedule has ended, and like any other person, he wants to go home and relax after work, his openness to confession demonstrates that he is still a good priest, preaching from the heart, not out of duty.
“I don't know where to start.” I'm lost, and my mind goes blank.
“You could start by telling me when you last confessed.”
I burst out loudly because I remember perfectly when that happened. It was the day after the incident when the church had nearly burned to the ground, and my father caught on to my involvement. He punished me by making me sit on walnut shells and confess. I had refused to say a word about the Last Fire, about The Crasnics, about being marked by them, or about my dumb desire to be one of them, to be part of a pagan cult. I clenched my teeth and heroically endured the primitive punishment.
I, the priest's daughter, as the others called me, had desired to defy my father's teachings, who represented religious authority, the Holy Hand of the Lord in this town, and surrender myself to the unorthodox practices from the pagan stories
I remember that day as if it were yesterday, the day after the Night of the Last Fire. With knees reddened and pierced by the sharp edges of walnut shells, looking down after every question, the scent of holy myrrh, burnt candles, and incense lingering around us, immersed in a heavy silence.
“Probably years ago? I don't remember exactly.”
But I knew exactly. It would soon be five years.
“Well, you did the right thing by coming. It's never too late to confess your sins. The Lord is waiting. Better late than never.”
“Yes...” I sigh and realize that my father hasn't noticed it's me behind the confessional panel. “Should I start with the smaller sins or the big sin?”
“You can begin with what you feel most comfortable with. Only the Lord can weigh them.”
