Last Confession

CW: Murder / gore mention

Father O’Connor leaned over to grab the newspaper before ascending the church steps, the headlines identifying more victims of the serial killings that had gripped the city of Boston with fear for the past three weeks. Seemingly every day, more were found dead. The Father shook his head in disbelief and sadness as he unlocked the church doors and headed in. 

The serial killer had already claimed at least 15 innocent lives that the authorities knew about, or had been reported by the media at least. One of the victims, Nancy Murdock, had family members that attended Sacred Cross Catholic Church; Father O’Connor had performed the services for the late young lady. O’Connor was a seasoned professional of 22 years, but that was one of the toughest ceremonies of his life.

The media had dubbed the murderer ‘The Butcher of South Boston,’ as he had a propensity for particularly gruesome handiwork, cutting up the bodies until they were barely discernible. 

After several minutes reflecting on the horrors of recent events, O’Connor cleared his head and prepared for the day ahead. The morning passed without significant event, a fairly typical pre-lunch routine for the priest on a day without A.M. service.

He would be the primary clergyman for confessions in the afternoon. Confession had some routine to it as well, but the Father had grown fond of the responsibility, in part due to the unique aspects of the ritual, namely the idiosyncratic tendencies of the wide variety of souls seeking redemption.

Penitents came and went, the Father blessing each of them with his own love and care, in addition to the Lord’s absolution. As the Father prepared to close down the church for the evening, the heavy wooden doors creaked open revealing one last sinner. He apologized for the late hour of his arrival and requested confession. The Father was happy to oblige and took his place in the confessional booth.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession,”

“Please begin, my son.”

“Father, before we begin, is it true that you won’t break the seal of confession no matter what?”

“That’s correct.”

“I am responsible for the recent string of murders,”

O’Connor’s heart stopped for a moment.

“Responsible how?”

“Responsible as in: I am the killer the authorities are looking for.”

O’Connor swallowed hard. He searched for words, but none appropriate came to mind. Even if they had, he wasn’t sure they would make it out of his mouth. A short time passed in silence.

“Are you there, Father?”

“Yes, my son, go on,” the Father replied, thankful the habitual words found him.

“I’ve killed 37 people. I’ve performed despicable, heinous acts on the bodies of those people, both before and after their passing.”

“Go on, my son,” replied the Father, still unable to form original words in his shock.

“I never meant to..” the killer began before starting again. “I’ve lost all control. What began as a dark curiosity has turned into an obsessive addiction, an incorrigible sickness.”

“You sound serious and remorseful, at least to some degree, for such acts. As humans, we all sin; it’s what we do. The Lord forgives us all of our sins, but you must cease these actions at once before you can begin to repent and atone for these grievous breaches of the Ten Commandments.” 

O’Connor stayed in the confessional booth for a time after the troubled young man finished unburdening himself and made for the exit. O’Connor watched from the cross-symbolled cutout of the wooden confessional booth door, waiting for the last repentant to depart; he dared not stand face-to-face with him again. He memorized all the features of the man. 

O’Connor found little rest in the darkness that night. His mind still reeling, replaying the circumstances in his head over-and-over, whether he wanted them to or not. For the first time in his 22 years of service, doubt crept into the Father’s conscience. He could stop this madness by reporting the killer, but he was under no illusion as to the momentous consequences of even such a thought; it betrayed everything he stood for and believed in as a man of the cloth. Yet, O’Connor knew in his heart that if another atrocity occured at the hands of that monster, he would be partially responsible.

He was certain that security cameras of the church and local businesses would catch the killer from multiple angles. It was no matter of possibility, only judgement.

He wrestled with his thoughts for hours before sleep finally overtook him.

The Father grabbed the morning paper on his way up the church steps, as was his customary routine. However, this time he waited for the sanctuary of the holy building before he dared subject himself to any details. After unlocking the doors, he briskly ushered himself to the nearest pew and unloaded his weight onto the sturdy wooden bench. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat and his mind raced with trepidation. He couldn’t catch his breath, nor could he deviate from what was happening to even make such an attempt anything more than half-hearted. Despite his panic, there was only one topic on which his mind was singularly focused, even if it was a frantic, chaotic train of thought. 

He unrolled the newspaper; his gut sank as his worst fears had been realized.

“No!” O’Connor sobbed, collapsing entirely in the pew as he was overcome with grief and guilt. “No! How can this be God’s will?”

A 13-year-old girl, the youngest victim thus far, had been plucked from her house and brutally murdered overnight. 

The Father did his best to collect himself over the following minutes before turning to his long most trusted medium of counsel and reflection. He clasped his hands and begged his Lord for advice; surely this was not the intent of the Holy Church or God when the sacred tradition of confession was devised?

His prayer received no immediate response. For the first time in his life, O’Connor’s prayer felt hollow, and for the first time in his life, his faith was shaken.

Culpability ate at his consciousness until he could bear it no more. He made his way to the church office to find the phone. He grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear. Before dialing the numbers, O’Connor paused to consider the 22 years of service and faith to the Catholic Church that was about to be undone.

“911, what is your emergency?”