Forgive Us Our Sins

Trigger warning: gore, mental health, substance abuse, physical violence

This Monday evening already felt like a mistake. The air was cold and heavy, barely fifty degrees—a rarity in March for Arizona, you know the land of never ending heat.

I’d lived long enough to remember when this land was nothing but dry, cracked earth and wind that could strip skin from bone. Now it had grocery stores, coffee chains, and megachurches made of glass and steel.

I parked in the far corner of the church lot, hands resting on the wheel. I always waited here until just before seven. The rain tapped softly on the windshield, and the broken heater hummed a low, unpleasant whine. I’d never bothered to fix it—there was no point. I didn’t feel the cold the way they did. My bones had known worse.

The building rose in sharp lines and smooth windows, more like a museum or modern art gallery than a place of worship. A long glowing cross hung above a small banner that read: come as you are.

I wasn’t sure they meant me.

The small clock on my dash read 6:58. Time to go. I shut off the engine and stepped out into the rain, my worn boots squelching with every step across the soaked pavement.

Inside, the lobby smelled like cinnamon and disinfectant. People milled about near the coffee bar, exchanging hugs, settling coats on hooks. The grief group always met in the same room—down the hall, past the prayer wall and the minimalist bookstore, tucked into a corner that looked out over a man-made garden lit by string lights.

The food table was already full. Someone had brought deviled eggs. There was a pile of cold cuts, crackers, and a vat of chili that steamed gently in a slow cooker. The smell made my stomach clench. I walked over, picked up a sugar cookie with pink frosting, and took a bite.

It was dry. Too sweet. Like chewing drywall dipped in syrup.

But I chewed, and I swallowed. That part matters. That part keeps questions away.

“Evenin’, Elias.” Ron’s voice snuck up behind me, loud and grating. He always wore the same wrinkled flannel and talked about his ex-wife like she was Satans incarnate.

I nodded. “Evening.” I spoke casually, uninterested.

The circle of chairs in the center of the room was already half full. I slipped into my usual seat before Ron could corner me with casual conversation about the weather. I waited there, sipping from a cup of black coffee—lighter fluid at best—watching as the others trickled in. A mix of familiar faces and new ones, some carrying food for the potluck table, others carrying nothing but pain.

Everyone brought pain.

That’s what we were all here for, after all.

Grief. Regret. The kind of guilt that doesn’t wash off, no matter how many nights you cry or how many strangers you tell.

I’d been coming for almost two months, but I didn’t come to talk. I came to listen.

Hoping that something—or someone—might lead me to the forgiveness we were all searching for.

Mara settled into the last open chair and called the meeting to order with a soft clap and a tired smile. Her oversized cardigan hung loosely around her small wrists, and a notebook rested on her lap. There was a calmness about her—not forced, not fake. The kind that came from surviving something awful and choosing to live through it anyway. She never talked much about what had happened to her, but I didn’t think she needed to.

“Let’s check in,” she chimed. “You can share or pass. Whatever feels right tonight.”

Ron started, of course. He always did. Something about his ex-wife’s new boyfriend buying a boat. A few chuckles moved around the circle, a few sympathetic nods. The usual dance.

I kept my gaze low, my cold fingers wrapped around the lukewarm coffee cup. I didn’t plan on speaking—obviously. A few newcomers shared their pity-party stories, fumbling through grief like it had just landed in their lap. Then Devon spoke.

“I saw someone today that looked like my brother,” he said, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “At the gas station. Same walk, same shitty denim jacket. For a second, I really thought—” He stopped short, his body tightened. “Anyway. It messed me up. Made me feel like I lost him all over again.”

Mara gave a soft nod, her eyes steady on him. “Thank you for sharing, Devon.”

“Thank you for sharing,” the room echoed in a low chorus.

Devon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been here longer than I had. Young—early twenties at most—but hollow in that way only people who’ve already lived most of their life can be. His brother had overdosed. Heroin, I’d gathered. He never said it directly, but the bitterness in his voice gave it away. It was all there.

Synthetic happiness was not only an epidemic to humans but vampires as well. The drugs, the chemicals, the garbage they pump into themselves—it’s in their blood. Feeding off them is like drinking from a rotting well. I never know if I’ll get drunk or high or worse. Every time feels like a gamble, and not in a fun way.

Three more people had shared their stories before I tuned back in, snapping out of whatever fog I’d drifted into. I hadn’t even realized it was my turn until the silence wrapped around me, pinning me in its spotlight. I must’ve looked like a fool, sitting there, staring off into nothing.

Before I could even mumble the word “pass,” the door creaked open.

Everyone turned.

She stepped in—young, a little breathless, damp from the rain. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, with a few strands clinging to her cheeks. She wore a long, vintage green raincoat and brown boots that looked at least a size too big. She met the group with an apologetic smile as she wiped a few stray raindrops from her forehead.

“So sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t find the right room.”

Mara greeted her with warmth, nodding toward one of the older men. “We’re glad you’re here now,” she said, as he slipped out to grab an extra chair.

When he returned, he tucked the metal seat in—right next to mine. How wonderful.

The girl peeled off her soaked coat, turning slightly as she sat. Her honey-brown eyes met mine.

And everything in me stopped.

That look. The curve of her face. The faint scar above her eyebrow. Her scent—not something most people would notice.

But I did.

It was her.

She hadn’t looked like this the first time we met. She’d been younger. Crying. Bloodied. Terrified.

All because of me.

She didn’t seem to recognize me. Or maybe she did, and she was choosing not to show it. Either way, the air between us felt sharp—charged.

Mara’s voice became a distant murmur, muffled beneath the roar in my ears.

Forgiveness.

That’s what I’d come here for.

And here she was—my biggest piece of guilt, living and breathing, sitting two feet away, pretending we were just strangers on a rainy Monday night.

They always said God had a sense of humor.

Though this didn’t feel very funny.

“My name’s Eva,” she began explaining to the group. “And… I’ve been carrying something for a long time. Something heavy. Not just grief, but the kind of pain that makes you question who you are. What you’re worth.”

My chest tightened.

Eva.

She’d had a different name back then.

“I was hurt,” she continued, her eyes skimming the circle but never quite landing on me. “A long time ago. By someone I trusted. Or thought I could trust. And I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to put myself back together. I thought I was past it, honestly. But then I started dreaming about it again.”

Every word landed like a stone in my gut.

“Something told me I needed to stop pretending the pain was gone just because time passed. Maybe I’d find something if I came here. Relief, maybe. Or…” Her gaze flicked past me, too quick for anyone else to notice. “Or at least a place to say it out loud.”

Mara nodded softly. “Thank you for sharing, Eva.”

“Thank you for sharing,” the group echoed again.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My grip on the paper cup had turned my knuckles white.

She knew.

She knew exactly who I was.

And she’d come here anyway.

I forced myself to remain calm, to remain normal for the rest of the meeting. Yet, I don’t think I heard a single word anyone said after Eva spoke.

The moment Mara closed us out in prayer, I practically bolted. I muttered something that could pass as a goodbye and slipped out before anyone else could stand.

I burst through the front doors of the church, gratefully letting the rain soak into me. It poured over my face, my shoulders, into my collar like I deserved to drown in it. My boots hit the pavement with a splash, and for a second, I thought I could disappear into the night.

“Elias.”

She was a few paces behind me, standing in the glow of the church lights. Water clung to her lashes, and her coat flapped open in the wind. For a second, we just stared at each other.

Time had caught up with her.

There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes now. Her face had matured—less round, more defined. No longer the terrified girl.

She was a woman now.

“Can we talk?” she asked, her voice quieter now. Not a demand. Not a threat. Just a simple question.

I could disappear right now, I thought to myself. Just turn and vanish into the fog, start over somewhere new. That wasn’t a new concept for me. I’d done it more times than I could count in the last hundred years.

But I didn’t move.

“So… you do remember me?” I asked, my voice low, careful.

Eva stepped a little closer, her boots making soft splashes in the puddled sidewalk. Her eyes didn’t waver.

“I know what you are,” she said simply.

“I never meant to hurt you,” I said, and it sounded pathetic the moment it left my mouth. Too late. Too small.

Her expression didn’t change.

“After that night… after I got out of the hospital,” she said, her voice quieter now, “I searched for you. For a while, I thought you were a fever dream. A made-up man.”

Emotion finally broke across her face—soft, fractured. The kind of pain you don’t show often, because once it’s out, it doesn’t go back in.

Twenty years had passed since I began to love her.

But back then, I knew her as Maddie.

She was twenty-one. A runaway. She liked to party, to dance barefoot in fields of flowers, to sing badly and too loud. She was one of the most free-spirited women I had ever met. She was the flame—burning and beautiful. I was the moth.

She was fun.

She made me fun.

We spent months wrapped up in each other—night drives to nowhere, slow mornings in random hotel beds, long conversations about everything and nothing. And somehow, through it all, I managed to conceal who I was. What I was.

I had left my makeshift coven behind. I was tired of blood. Of shadows. Of being something that lived in the cracks of the world.

Maddie made me believe I could be more.

Turning to humans was the best decision I ever made.

And the worst.

I let myself have something real. Something good.

Good things don’t last for creatures like me.

The last night I saw Maddie, we’d gone to a party—one of those huge, wild, chaotic ones. Music loud enough to make your teeth ache, people packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and too many bad choices.

And when I say humans are full of gross shit, I mean it.

Some drunk asshole had been trying to sneak into a women’s bathroom. He reeked of cheap cologne and entitlement. I dragged him into a dark hallway and fed.

What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t have known—was that his blood was laced with something. Some random drug I couldn’t name. The effect on me was instant. Like fire in my veins.

I lost control. Blind with rage. I didn’t remember the details. Just flashes. Her scream. The look in her eyes. My hands—bloody. Her blood.

And then silence.

When I came back to myself, she was barely breathing. Crumpled on the floor like a discarded doll.

And I ran.

I left her there. Called 911 from a payphone three blocks away like that would make it better. Like anonymity could count as atonement.

But it didn’t.

At least she was alive.

“‘Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.’” She paused, letting the verse hang heavy between us before adding, “Ephesians 4:32.”

A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “We’re made to forgive, aren’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying me. “And yet… I wonder if God will ever forgive you.”

The words weren’t angry. They weren’t cruel. But they struck deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

She turned before I could respond, walking off into the parking lot with her hands tucked into the pockets of that oversized green coat. No dramatic exit. No final glance.

Just her fading silhouette swallowed by mist and night.

And me—still standing on the church steps, staring after her, unsure if the place I came to seek forgiveness had just condemned me in silence.