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When I wake up the next morning, my head is throbbing, and my mouth feels like cotton, hungover and feeling like shit, one thing is obvious in the gray murk of my brain.
I need help.
There is only one person in the whole world who might be able to help me right now. Maybe he can offer some guidance or at least listen to my fucked-up confessions.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I snatch up my keys and phone, heading down to the car, and I set off.
As I approach the church, not too far from the city center, its old stone walls and stained-glass windows seem out of place in the bustling hub. It’s been a while since I set foot here, but the familiarity brings back memories of our family’s twisted connection to this sacred place. Our mafia ties run deep, and even the holy ground isn’t exempt from our reach.
Entering the church, I take a deep breath. The smell of incense and old wood fills my lungs, reminding me of the church back in Dublin that we attended every Sunday in a hypocrisy that still makes me shake my head.
Spotting my cousin, Father Ryan Gannon, at the altar, lighting candles, I stride over. He is the odd one out. His dedication to his faith has never wavered, despite the darkness that surrounds our family.
“Ryan,” I call out, my voice strained and hoarse from last night’s drinking.
He turns to face me, his expression warm yet concerned. “Ciarán, what brings you here?”
“Can we talk?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly. “In there?” I gesture to the confessionals.
“Of course,” he replies, leading me over.
Stepping into the confessional, I pull the heavy curtain closed behind me. The dim light seeps through the tiny window above, casting shadows across the small space. It’s been years since I’ve been in one of these, and the tightness in my chest grows with each passing second.
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” I begin, trying to sound like the remorseful cunt I’m supposed to be. “It’s been...well, a fecking long time.”
“What weighs on your heart, my child?” Ryan’s voice, so familiar yet so distant, comes through the partition.
“I fucked up, cuz. Badly. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I couldn’t control myself.”
Silence.
Hearing him take a deep breath, he murmurs, “Go on.”
I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. “My obsession with her consumes me, and I don’t know what to do. You know I can’t let shit go, well, this is one of those times where it’s bad. Real bad.”
“Have you asked for her forgiveness?”
“Not yet, cuz. I can’t fucking face her.”
“It’s Father Ryan, and I’ll ask you not to swear in the House of God.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, feeling the whip of chastisement land over my heart. “Look, cuz. Ry. Father Ryan. Fuck. I don’t even know why I came here.”
“To seek guidance.”
“Then give me some.”
“You already know the answer.”
“Help me,” I practically snarl.
“Fine,” he sighs, his exasperation evident in the strained tone that betrays his priestly demeanor. “But you must understand that this conversation cannot continue within these walls if you’re going to carry on as you are.”
“Understood,” I murmur, relief flooding through me at having someone to confide in. “I’m just...lost, Ry. I did something terrible, and I can’t take it back.”
“Then seek forgiveness, not only from God but also from the person you’ve wronged,” he advises, his voice regaining its calm, reassuring tone.
“Is it that simple?” I ask, doubt creeping into my voice.
