‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…’ The confessional chair broke painfully into his bony knees. He slowly fidgeted to make himself more comfortable but the only thing he achieved was the loud creaking of the old wooden structure, which muted what he was going to say.

‘I’m sorry, son, I can’t hear you,’ someone said from the other side of the latticed opening.

He stopped wriggling, and the wooden prie dieu hastily reminded him why he wanted to move in the first place. His mind fired a blank. All the things he memorised in preparation have been crowded out by the pain, and the distraction of trying to peek through the densely latticed opening to catch a glimpse of the priest.

‘I kicked my brother in the back.’ It slipped out. It was one of the things his mother told him to confess, and it immediately reminded him how annoying his little brother could be with his constant whinging. He whined about everything. When he pinched him, when he tripped him playing football, even when he only looked at him. The little shit. He gets away with everything, because he’s mummy’s little sunshine. And he didn’t have to go to confession. He is always allowed to look at his stupid little picture books when they went to church. And he was always allowed pudding before main. All he had to do was whine, and he got everything.

The priest said something. It was long, and boring, and littered with the shouting of his brother outside the booth, which made him bite his lips. He tried very hard to listen, but the pain was radiating from his knees, and the walls of the booth started closing down on him to squash him and trap him in and never let him out to play his favourite games again.

‘… and I absolve you…’

Finally, these magic words, to absolve him from the punishment of having to kneel in this wooden box of horrors, sentenced by his own brother. The door opened, and he stepped outside, and there he was. His little bother, hiding, but curiously peeking out from behind his mother, and there, he could only see half of his face, but he noticed the grin on that face. Yes, it was unmistakeable. That grin made him reexperience all the pains of the confessional booth, and without realising, his fingers slowly curled into a fist.

*

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…’ he whispered, and anxiously looked around the stained wooden booth to see if its walls were secure enough to keep his darkest secrets contained. It was a hot day, and the booth felt like a furnace, hot enough to incinerate all those sins that people dumped in there.

‘I mastr…d,’ he mumbled, as intelligibly as it was possible without making it sound deliberate, and he knew immediately that he had to repeat it to be heard. The air stopped moving in the booth, and he felt a steady stream of sweat rolling down his back. He cleared his throat.

‘I masturbated,’ he said abruptly, and paused, and then immediately realised that he shouldn’t pause, because a pause punctuates what he just said, so he quickly continued that he also forgot to say a prayer in the mornings, and often in the evenings, and actually, always in the evenings, unless looking through his messages on his phone in bed counts as thanksgiving for all the things that had happened to him that day. Maybe it does, in a way.

The words were now coming out effortlessly and he wasn’t sweating any more, and he wasn’t sure if he felt good because it was out, and he no longer had to say that word, or because his sin was now forgiven. He heard the priest talk lengthily about the importance of purity of the soul and the body, and that he could try and exercise when he gets the urge, which reminded him about gym, and that he had leg day, which takes about an hour. Then shower, and then he really needed to revise. Five days to the first exam, and he still hasn’t started revising, and has no idea how to solve differential equations, which everyone said was guaranteed to be on the test. She said it too. Not directly to him of course, but he overheard her say it, and her words cemented in his mind, her tone, and how her lips formed those words, and the genuine concern on her face. Maybe he should offer to her to revise together. They’re always at the library in the afternoons. Yes, the library. He needs to get there. What time is it?

‘… and I absolve you…’

He quickly did the sign of the cross and sprung out of the booth. The fresh air moved gently and brought with it a sense of relief, which could have been mistaken for being grateful, and he made a quick mental note not to watch porn, so he won’t have to come back to say that word again. The sunlight streamed through the open church door and caught the edges of the pews where he stood. Leg day next. He smiled, then moved on from his mental notes to planning his gym routine and pranced through the door.

*

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…’ He swallowed, and closed his eyes, and tried to recite an ancient rite to summon the Holy Spirit, which had become a routine, although he still wasn’t sure if it worked, or if the whole thing just developed into a Pavlovian reflex to make him feel more sincere.

‘I was inpatient with my children,’ he said and wondered if it sounded as lukewarm to the priest as it did to his inner ears. He went on to give an example and pick up some enthusiasm on the way. His mind slipped into delivery mode, and he was now fully focussed, just like being on the stand in front of the unforgiving ears of judges and jury, and beautifully sculptured words and phrases painted the air with sincere remorse and understanding of the gravity of what’s right and what’s wrong, and that knot in his stomach became stronger and more distracting because he knew it was just an act to delay the inevitable, which came when his attention momentarily slipped and left him vulnerable to his conscience.

‘I cheated on my wife.’

The silence that followed was different from the crushing silence he was used to in the courtroom, which could feel like a brutally swung axe to split time and tell weak from strong. This silence felt purifying. Details of actions and remorse followed, and the words were flowing with uncomposed ease.

The knot in his stomach disappeared as he listened to the priest, and he made a solemn promise in his head to repent, to be a better father and husband, and to sever all connection with this other woman. Yes, he will do that as soon as he’s done here. She only knows his phone number, not even his full name. All he has to do is delete her number from his phone and block her number, and he will be free, and next time he won’t have to find a different church for confession, feeling too embarrassed for repeatedly telling the same thing to the same priest.

He stepped outside the booth and took his phone out.

“Confirm deletion?” The whiteness of the fonts on his phone almost burned into his vision. His finger stopped just before touching the screen. This is the time. Whilst he has the strength to remove her from his life. One click to eradicate the source of all his sins.

‘Let us pray!’ The loud voice from the altar startled him, and he dropped his phone, which clattered as it hit the stone tiles. A few churchgoers turned their heads towards him. He quickly bent down to pick it up and looked at the screen, which switched off in the fall. He slid it into his pocket, turned around, and slunk out of the church.

*

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he adjusted his tie and paused ceremonially before he started his carefully composed self-reflection of good and evil, his willingness to fight it, and his weakness of always falling over. He always started confessions like this. Not because he was worried about getting straight to the point, but to show off his intelligence.

‘There’s no other way to put it, Father, I stole from others,’ he said firmly, and stopped. It somehow didn’t quite do it. It couldn’t be this simple. He needed to give details. To justify what he’s done. To show this faceless pair of ears behind the latticed opening that he’s a victim of his circumstances. He spoke about his feelings of irrelevance as he’s fallen behind times, and his younger colleagues became all the rage. The ruthless fact that his work no longer sold. His feelings of being obsolete, his lack of purpose, and the two months he had to stay away from work to go through a hip-replacement, and the realisation that nobody noticed his absence. Yes, he did steal. But he only did it to become relevant again.

The priest talked about pride, and that we do everything for God, and once we accept this, we no longer feel jealous that someone does it better than us. As he listened, he felt it was the right moment to have tears in his eyes, and repeated the priest’s thoughts in his head, to remember that his colleagues are also part of God’s plan, and to stop being jealous of their success. They deserve success. Even John. Even he deserves success. Despite his incompetence. He’s so bloody incompetent. How could he deserve it? How could no one see that, unlike John, he brings so much quality to the company. Maybe people are just unaware. Maybe he should do a better job telling people how great he is. Could he have that absolution now?

‘… and I absolve you …’ he heard the priest, hastily threw the sign of the cross, and rushed out of the booth.

His head was spinning in excitement as he was planning what he needed to do. Pop in the office first, and message his boss. No. Message all his colleagues. Let everyone know that the last report was his work, and John was nothing more than a painful obstacle. Yes, he just needs to make it clear for everyone to see. Then he won’t be overlooked again. Then he won’t have to steal their work. Then he won’t have to come back here with this nonsense.

*

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…’ His laboured breathing made it difficult for him to talk, and even the slightest pressure to his cancer-laden bones felt like a thousand knives cutting into his synapses. His head was propped up by flattened pillows, and he turned it to the side to see the priest, who sat on the chair that was placed equidistant from the bed and the window.

His brain hit a block. The whole thing didn’t feel like how he remembered confession. Maybe it was the absence of the latticed window between them. A feeble strain formed over his skeletal face. There he was, trying to say something important, something he’s had on his chest for decades, and he couldn’t even get a normal confession, only this distant substitute, lying in a bed, probably soaked in his urine, not even having the dignity of knowing. He needs his brain catheterised to syphon out his confession and hand it to the priest in a drainage bag.

He turned his head back to the ceiling.

‘I don’t think I felt sorry for anything bad I’ve done,’ his voice rasped into the silent room. He was still looking at the ceiling. His mouth was dry, and the words didn’t come out the way he had heard himself confessing the same thing endless times in his head. He didn’t have the strength to repeat it. He closed his eyes and waited for that familiar sensation of post-confessional euphoria to fire up the remaining little dopamine in his brain. Nothing.

‘Are you sorry for them now?’ the priest asked.

He opened his eyes and waited for his mind to fully process the weight of the question. Of course he’s sorry, he’d waited years to be able to confess it. How could this priest be so obtuse?

He nodded.

‘These are the sins that I remember,’ he added quickly, to prompt the priest to a response rather than another stupid question. The priest looked at him, smiled again, and said something about the readiness of the Lord to forgive all sins and all that. Unconditionally. All he had to do is feel sorry. He sighed audibly. Yes, this was that old familiar feeling of relief. Realising that he was still able to feel it amplified his comfort.

Then the priest gave him the absolution, and he closed his eyes again, and kept them closed when the priest left. He heard some unintelligible conversation outside his room, then a car reversed out of the gravel driveway of the leafy old cottage.

He was carefully savouring his emotions. This is it. The last thing he had to take care of. Now he’s ready to go.

“Are you sorry for them now?” The priest’s question was still ringing in his ears, and he was looping over it, again and again. His eyes suddenly flung open.

Doubt crept up his brittle spine and his fingers grasped the freshly washed bed sheet into a fist. What if he’s not truly sorry? He was never truly sorry in his whole life. What if he’s only sorry because the end is so close? Does that still count? It must still count. This is the best he could do. But sometimes the best is not enough. How could he make himself feel more sorry?

A picture of the cynical grin of a young boy looking out from behind his mother emerged gently from the distant darkness, and he saw himself standing there, slowly unclenching his fist, smiling back at the boy, and as much as his shrivelled body could allow, tears started to flow and washed away all the doubt he had.