I walk past the women softly chanting the rosary in atonement. I make no noise on the thick
carpet as I kneel and make the sign of the cross. The holy water is cold and I shudder. I listen
for a moment to the soft whispers of the women in the front three pews, the quiet whisper of
their prayer, the clack of their glass beads, the desperation in their voices. I wonder for a
moment about them, about their sins, their confession.

I look to the back of the church and see that one of the rooms is open, the light burning dimly. I
walk in and notice there is no screen. No screen to shield my face, to hide my shame, I consider
leaving but Father has seen me by this point and he motions to chair in front of him. His robe is
white and the stole a royal blue. There is a crucifix on the wall and a Bible next to his chair.
There is nothing next to my chair or on the wall behind me.

I'm uncomfortable and unsure as to where to start.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." The words are mechanical, rehearsed.
"How long has it been since your last confession, child?" He asks.
My head comes up for a moment. That smell. It filters into my brain and erases everything I
came to say.

Confession. The air is thick with liquor and I pour out answers and confession. Sins and
transgressions fall off my tongue and through my lips. I want to ask him for his confession, his
sin, his shame. But all that comes from me is my own shame, my own sin, filling the space between,
hanging in the air.

He moves towards me, his breath is strong as he breathes on my cheek. I turn my head and I feel
his lips on my neck, anointing me , the smell is in his hair, in his clothes, on my skin, in my tears. A
hand on my breast, acrid mumbles, breath on my neck, ragged gasps in my chest, my eyes search
wildly and settle on that cross on the wall. Down to the Bible, to the folds of his robe. I turn
myself and move away from his embrace, but his hand catches my dress. He holds onto me and I
look into his eyes. Can I look for forgiveness there? The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, those
bags give him away. Does he question this? His mouth is open, his lips wet, I feel his saliva run
down my neck, onto my shoulder. Confession.

I stumble out of the room, past the women still chanting, their droning bouncing through my skull,
into the fresh air, streets slick with the morning rain. I look up at the black marble angel, arms
outstretched, face heaven bound. I collapse at her feet and beg for confession.