Short Story / The Confessional
The sidewalk was a gritty white slab of stone and he was walking to the tune of his sandpaper steps. He walked nervously between a rod-iron fence to his left and parked cars to his right, holding on to his pockets for dear life. He was wearing his civvies: a tan windbreaker, light blue shirt, blue jeans, and brown leather dress shoes. But the holster was a dead giveaway.
The department shrink had pushed for a grant from the precinct. They gave him leave until further notice on account of the prisonbreak. It seemed like ever since, his mind had been more AWOL than the actual escapee.
He was jumpy. He nearly drew his gun at the sound of the seven o’clock church bells. The way he turned his neck to scope the place, he looked more like an owl than a forty-year-old man. His eyes rivaled those of a chameleon.
He entered what looked like an inverted Noah’s ark, ornate with stained glass murals and low-hanging ceiling lamps. He rarely attended a service, pulling frequent all-nighters at the station, but on stress-ridden vacations like this, he found it consoling to cross himself with holy water and knock on the door that read ‘FATHER JOHN KLEINER.’
“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one year since my last confession. These are my sins.”
After the priest gave him his usual two-decade prescription, the tone changed to that of dinner time.
“You really like it here, John?”
The priest breathed a sigh of laughter.
“You ask me that every time we meet. Priestly life is wonderful, David. I feel humbled to stand at the altar everyday and be God’s voice.”
“Yeah… Yeah, that’s really something.”
”...Why so distraught, David?”
“Dis-traught? I’m fine. Why do you say that?”
“Well, you rolled your sleeves up to your elbows and cracked your knuckles like you do when you’re nervous… and your staring at the doorknob like your ready to shoot if the light hits it differently.”
He bit his thumbnail and stared at the light seaping in from under the door. He was checking for shadows out of instinct.
“Y’know, Mom says you never answer her calls… You should give her a ring sometime; let her know your not dead,” the priest said to the man’s right ear.
The man stood up and paced the eight by six room.
“Don’t count your eggs, John.”
“What do you mean?”
”... Nothin’.”
“No, what are you say-”
“I’m sayin’ I can’t lie to my own mother! I’m sayin’ I hope Fr. John knows how to spell ‘Dear John’ ‘cause I’m afraid she won’t be able to hear it from me!”
”...... This is about the breakout.”
“Yeah, no shit it’s about the breakout.”
“Have faith, David. God is just. You protect people. God’s the Protector of protectors.”
“Just, huh?... Why’d he take Benny?”
“David-”
“Why’d he take Benny?!”
His lips curled in as he bit them, and his faced scrunched up as if ready to implode. Tears almost burnt his eyes but he swallowed them back. The blood in his arms ran warmer, anyway. He kept his fists tense at his sides, releasing them only to bang on the wall.
“That son of a bitch took my partner. He took Benny… Yeah, real fair, John. That’s justice, if I ever saw it… Right in between Benny’s eyebrows.”
“That’s free will, David. I’m not trying to vindicate your friend’s murder but it happened for a reason. If God willed it, it’s for the better. But you can’t blame yourself.”
“Well, there you go. Benny tries to bust a druggie, he gets capped a third eye socket. I finish the job, fucker breaks out. Now he’s casket shopping for me, all ‘cause I jailed ‘em. Free will’s a bitch.”
The man’s face was throbbing, so much so, the sweat on his temples felt almost feverish.
“Calm down. You gotta sit.”
“Calm down? While I got an armed “street pharmacist” hot on my tail, watching me when I take a shit?! You’re fuckin’ baked, John. You’re danked. You’re outta your mind… He’s coming for me.”
“You’re paranoid. You need to relax and hold your mouth in here. No one is on your tail. No one’s going to kill you, but you’re doing a fine job yourself. If you’re that scared, you can always bunk in the seminary.”
“Haha. No thanks, John. You know what they say about Mic priests-”
“Don’t-”
“They’re only sober ‘cause the wine’s for the altar boys-”
“You’ve got real nerve, you know that?!”
“Fuck yeah, I got nerve. Nigger kills my partner and breaks out the pen to get at me, course I’m nervous.”
“No, I mean you’re a basket case. You don’t believe in anyone or anything. You dishonor our mother with that mouth o’ yours and I don’t know where the hell you think you are, but the street ends at the front doors. Have some respect.”
“Nobody merits respect in this town, this town is shit. This WORLD is shit. I’m a cop, I know everything that happens, everything that goes on here. So don’t Jesus me, John. I do God’s dirty work for ‘em.”
The priest ignored the man’s rant. He closed his hands together in prayer.
“What’re you doin’, man?”
The priest continued silently in prayer.
“John, listen, I said what’re you doin’?”
“I’m interceding for you. I’m begging God not to disregard your confession because I know you meant it.”
“It don’t matter, John, I’m still goin’ to hell.”
“You’re not going to hell.”
“All cops go to hell. Benny’s cookin’ in the sauna right now.”
“Repent and thou shalt be saved.”
“Cut the crap, alright? Verses don’t work on badges… Did you know he was Catholic?”
“Who, Benny?”
“No, the nigra. Did you know he was Catholic?... Since when do Catholics kill cops?”
“David-”
“Oh, right. It’s practically Sunday School.”
“No, David-”
“Middle finger to the law, right? ‘Ba-ho cone la po-lee-cee-a.’”
”... I knew he was Catholic.”
The man looked the priest over like he’d just sprung out of the ground and he was trying to figure out how.
”... What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Johnny? That’s confidential shit, we ain’t told nobody.”
”... He was a parishioner. He comes back sometimes, I hear his confessions.”
The man angrily pulled his chair three inches away from the priest’s knees in disbelief. He grabbed the priest’s armrest tightly while supplementing his speech with the other hand.
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me, John. You mean to tell me you hear this monkey sing every day and you ain’t told me shit?”
“He’s got a name.”
“Motherfuck your firstname basis. Stephen, that it? Or does he prefer Chef Boyar-crack?!”
“My gosh, David.”
“This kaffer’s after me and you join his fan club?! You’re my fuckin’ brother, John. All those parishioners are children of God, what the fuck am I? You’re my brother, you gave me this!,” he said pointing to an old scar on his cheek.
“You gave this to me when we were small, John. What souvenir do you suppose this fuckin’ cutthroat’ll leave me, huh?!”
“You know what, forget you, OK?! You’re selfish! I understand you’re in the line of duty and I respect that! I would never purposely jeopardize your job, let alone, life, but you can’t do that for me. I’m a priest, David! I took a solemn oath, just like you. How can I respect you if you don’t even respect my vows?!... You don’t even know this man, yet you cast the first stone like those notches on your soul aren’t there. I’m warning you now, revenge will be the death of you. Vengeance it the Lord’s alone. ‘An eye for an eye’ makes the whole world blind.”
“They couldn’t catch that nigger with their eyes open. You know I’m damn proud o’ your vocation, John, just not when it gets me offed. Is that what you want for me?! The flags and bagpipes bullshit?”
“Heaven help you, David,” said the priest in his loudest whisper.
The door slammed. The priest had stormed out of the confessional. The man’s gaze penetrated the door. He cupped his face, then brushed the astonishment from his stubble. Unbelievable, he thought, un-fucking-believable. He got up, sat in the priest’s chair, and shut the screen. He mocked him word for word, tone for tone, like a child does a scolding parent. He realized this. He was going mad. He held his face and cried a saltwater rosary. He contemplated a bullet befriending his temple. Why give him the pleasure, he thought. But he was interrupted by hurried steps. Then an almost desperate knocking. And before he could explain that the father was out, he heard it. That deep pitch of devilish rhythm. That frugally terse pronunciation.
“Pops, iss me! Open up!”
‘T was the voice he locked away a year ago. His chest burned and his stomach stewed, just like in the court hearings. The door clicked open and, in seconds, the idol of his fear that lived only in his head sat humbly before him. Not another word was uttered before the man silently paged the police.
“Pops, I know yous ain’t gots no time to be lissnin to no sins o’ mine t’day, but da p’lice is chasin’ afta myself. I loss dem two blocks ago and I needs mah lass rites fo dey catch me.
Frightened as he was, the man didn’t miss a beat.
“Silly child, you’re not dying.”
“But I’s on da lam, and I can’t run wit dis in my heart no mo. And granmama always said ‘if you gon git in some trouble, git out some firs.’”
“Well, then. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Bless me, Fava, fo I has sinned. It has been one munf since my lass confession. Deez are my sins.”
Lethologica rendered the criminal silent for some minutes. Then he dared the presumed priest to recall their last meeting.
”’Memba when I tol you talk wif yo brova bout me? Diju?”
“Yes, he’s still quite bitter you took his partner from him?”
“But, Pops, diju ‘splain it to em?!”
“Explain what?”
“The truth! Dat his partnuh was bad!”
“Bad?! He was a trooper!”
“He was gon kill yo brova!”
He wanted to roar ‘liar’ at his face and feel the recoil. He wanted to strangle him against the wall.
”...What? Who?” asked the man dramatically.
“Da firs offissa who ‘rrived there. I was waitin’ to make a dillin at Fourth and Broadman and copper showed up talkin’ about some medal or ‘ward he gon get fo catching a ‘copkilla.’ Zact words was ‘copkilla.’ He tol’ me he was fin to shoot his partnuh soon as he ‘rrived and frame tax me twenny-five to life. So I panicked, Pops. My hands was up but I reached quick and outdrawed ‘im.”
The man felt an elightenment so large, it made his heart sink to his bowels.
“I knowed he was bad, but I killed ‘im. I killed a man, Fava. Please forgive me.”
Though oblivious to it, they cried unanimous tears.
“Fava, give me a prayer… Say sumpin’, please.”
Only silence.
Sirens approached.
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the prison break
His eyes rivaled those of a chameleon ? Chose a better image, I don’t think chameleon works.
the seven o’clock church bells—made his pull his gun? I’d make it something smaller, quieter that brushes him or a crinkling noise that startles him.. not the a loud noise like bells that would scare anyone.
I was into this story for sure, but I think it ended kind of flat with sirens approached.
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Good job with driptions! I mean right off the bat: “tune of his sandpaper steps” Great job!
The priest’s voice sounds like that of a preist!
“nigra” ? what is that? a misspelling?
Wow, just a thrilling story. What more can I say?
I have to admit, I’m quite impressed with this. There were only a few things that seem to stick in my throat a little. First of all, even though the priest addresses it within the framework of the story, if the cop is even slightly religious (as you prove by having him give confession) then he would be much more hesitant to curse in a church, especially so freely. Secondly, I understand that you’re trying to establish the character of the killer as a street thug, but the writing in ebonics takes away from the character for me, and really allows me to write him off as a simple stereotype. On the plus side though, you have a definite touch for clean, concise descriptions that almost border on noir. In particular, I liked the phrases “casket shopping”, “cooking in the sauna” and “verses don’t work on badges”. Congratulations. I’d love to see more work in this vein.
pretty fun read i thought your dialogue was great especially in the beginning. the ending overall plot and pacing fit well with the police thriller/genre. The end twist bordered on melodrama but hell, call it a hollywood ending and sell the movie rights. good stuff.
Although I feel you made the criminal a bit stereotypical, and the way he turns out makes him seem at least somehow honest and moral (in a way), I enjoyed this piece. I like the twist as well, and I think if you re-write it and really try you can make this say a lot about perception.
I enjoyed how you gave this story a twist at the end. It is so interesting in art and in life when we come to see the other side of the story. One sided stories don’t really interest me. This has great potential, I could see it being a movie or a book for sure. It is an interesting pair of brothers, the priest and the cop. You could do a lot with this. thank you for sharing!
It was pretty easy to see an ending like that coming, but overall I enjoyed it. I’m an atheist so when I first noticed this was going to have a God and forgiveness overtone, I almost didn’t give it a chance….but the duologue between the brothers reeled me in and I could not stop reading until the story ended. Great job, thanks for entertaining me.
This is a very good story. i had been jonesing to read a good one for a while now. I think you have to work on the punctuation and flow of the individual character dialog a little bit- make it so that each character retains his individual voice, the two brothers seemed to blend a little to me at first. The pacing, the story, and everything else are good though.
Um, okay. I was really uncomfortable reading this piece. Don;t get me wring, it’s very well written, it’s got a a strong plot and great character development it’s just that the stereotypical language and the slur usage really put me off. Before you publish you might want to tone it down. Not to the point of killing the story, just to make it a little more user-friendly.
I was really intrigued by your story. Even though the first paragraph felt too wordy, I kept reading and was pleasantly surprised. It has a really rich quality to it, deep and textured. I’m sure it’s been done before, like on some cop show or something, but it still kept my attention. So, even though the concept wasn’t that original I still wanted to keep reading. It kept me interested, which is the main goal of any writer.
The first paragraph had me worried. I thought, ” Oh no, here we go,” because people get so caught up in trying to make their story interesting that they get lost in the imagery. There was so much going on in that first paragraph that it felt forced:
“The sidewalk was a gritty white slab of stone and he was walking to the tune of his sandpaper steps. He walked nervously between a rod-iron fence to his left and parked cars to his right, holding on to his pockets for dear life. He was wearing his civvies: a tan windbreaker, light blue shirt, blue jeans, and brown leather dress shoes. But the holster was a dead giveaway.”
Too much going on. You need to simplify it. In fact, you really didn’t need the paragraph at all. If you start reading at the second paragraph this is really where the story begins. You didn’t need all the description in the first paragraph because, as I read on, the character and all of his qualities, inflections, emotions, etc… told me exactly who this guy was.
Listen, I bet you love the sandpaper line. I do too, and I know it’s hard to give up something that you really love, but put it away for another day. Use it in another story. You don’t need it here. I think that by beginning your story with the second paragraph you are telling the reader to listen to this guy. He will tell you exactly who he is. That is how you give a character their voice.
One more thing, the dialogue of the black man sounded a bit too much like Buckwheat. Sort of hard to follow, but it worked out alright. Also, make sure you keep the dialect, inflection, tone, slang, etc… throughout the dialogue.
An example:
“I was waitin’ to make a dillin at Fourth and Broadman…”
The character, whose social dialect was so pronounced, would have never said Fourth and Broadman. He would have said, “fofe an braman.” Not nit picking, just reminding you stay true to the voice of your character. It’s important for the character to stay believable to the reader.
Anyway, that’s my two cents. Hope it helps.
Love and peace,
Deb
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