Confessor

    Only one patient remained in the infirmary given to Smallcharms’ care. She washed her hands slowly, ensuring she removed every last particulate of visible debris before removing her hands from the bowl and washing them on a clean towel set nearby. She looked at the mirror and adjusted the badge on her off-white monk garbs, slightly soiled from today’s work. She let out a small sigh, put on her best smile, and turned toward her final patient’s draped room.

    She was born without a name; Smallcharms was orphaned on the doorstep of a local monastery, although this has become more and more rare with the flourishing of her city’s infrastructure and the overall citizen’s wealth since her birth two decades ago. Without a formal name to call her, the well-meaning but uncreative bishop named her after the decorative wristband she’d been left around her wasting forearm. She couldn’t have been more than six weeks old.

    And it stuck; Smallcharms could hardly argue about it.

    She found the patient’s chart enclosed in a file hanging from the wall adjacent. She heard the muffled cries of a young child, and made the educated guess that she had the right patient. They became louder when they heard her approaching; the one allowance to Smallcharms’ uniform was a large pair of combat boots donated from the military to the monastery, and you could hear her coming for miles. She wore them because, while not necessarily being accused of occasionally sneaking up on people, she was mercilessly teased about it. The boots were a compromise to make her life and others easier.

Inspecting the chart revealed a nine year old male, Gabriel, presenting here following a skateboard accident. Wrist injury, right side. She flipped to the paperwork the patient’s mother would have filled out for his history, and noted small ripples on the paper near the bottom. Mother was scared, she judged, suspecting the ripples to be damage from the teardrops she would have shed while filling the papers out. She replaced the chart and pressed three buttons just barely in her reach if she stood on her toes, then grabbed a single sheet . She cleansed her hands once more at a pump, and opened the drape. 

The mother was on the bed with her child, cradling his head. He was bracing his wrist, keeping it elevated at an awkward angle. He had tears streaming down his face as well as his scalp, but Smallcharms suspected they weren’t all his.

She placed the paper on the desk next to her and wrote out a couple small words, then underlined them. She handed the paper to Mom, who took it wordlessly. It would describe the treatment she was going to perform, what the follow-up steps at home would be, and how long he’d need to be in a cast for. 

Including the underlined instructions at the bottom, in an otherwise blank space:

NO SKATEBOARDING FOR THREE MONTHS.

“Is he going to be okay?” the woman asked Smallcharms. She nodded in return, with a serious face. It seemed to soothe her, so she pet his hair and kissed his scalp. “It’s going to be fine, sweetheart.”

With that, a gentleman in a similar garb to Smallcharms’ came through the drape and placed a tray on the desk. “Hello, Confessor,” he said to her. Then he looked at the child and asked, “Gabriel, was it? What color would you like your cast to be?”

Gabriel had stopped crying, and took only a couple of seconds to decide. He pointed at a vibrant green roll out of the several colors the man was holding up.

“Excellent taste. That’s Smallcharms’ favorite color!” 

“It is?” he asked, looking at the woman in white. Smallcharms allowed herself a small smile in concurrence.

“Of course it is! It’s the color of her eyes.” She shone them now, directly at Gabriel, and for a second he was lost in them. They were jade, with small specks of black, as if an artist dripped some onto the iris when painting her pupil. She broke the spell by blinking twice, giving him a warm and confident smile. The fear he had on his face was missing now.

The gentleman left the green roll on the desk and exchanged bows with Smallcharms before leaving. Then she focused on her patient’s wrist with her eyes, and proffered a hand to him. He allowed her to take it in her hands, and with a final look at his face, sat down next to him on the bed and began to work.

She knew it was broken by the angle it was at when she walked in, but now she felt precisely where the fracture was. The swelling in the cavity of leaking interstitial fluids and bruising allowed her to pinpoint the source of the ruptured veins through the bones, and she began knitting them with care. The pain was intense, she could tell, and she began to siphon some of it into herself to fuel the healing. It took several minutes, and she had to withhold herself from wincing in agony. When she was satisfied that each lumen connected back up properly, she began setting the bone with her hands.

Smallcharms was exhausted. She’d been seeing people for 5 hours her shift, and had been siphoning pain from them all day. She had residual pain of several back aches, a fractured toe, and a heart attack; that last one was new, and she was not sure she’d ever hurt so much before. They were still lingering, but the siphon was wearing off, as it had for everyone before them, hopefully in better position to take it back.

But she had a limit, one she could not control. She had reached it several hours ago, and was forced to rely on physical care in some aspects. So she set the bone, taking as much of the pain into her as she could to minimize his suffering, and used it to fuse the bone just a little bit to encourage regrowth on it’s own. 

There is a surge of electricity that jolts through her every time this happens. To conceal herself, she kissed the boy’s wrist at the moment it would transfer to him. Boys always felt jolts when pretty girls kissed them, anyway, and while he jumped in surprise he showed no signs of trepidation. 

She bandaged his wrist and applied the cast, letting it set and colored it green. She was finished.

“How long do I have to wear this for?” he asked Smallcharms. She simply pointed at the sheet of paper in his mother’s hands. Three months to a child, she knew, was simply unacceptable. But if he caved after six weeks, her healing would hold.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” his mother told her. “I don’t know if you… do you accept hugs?”

Smallcharms gave a warm, small smile, and nodded gently. She was prone to the loneliness of her life, and graciously accepted the tight grasp the motherly figure gave her. She wrapped her arms around her, too, and rested her head on the woman’s shoulder. They left for home then, saying goodbye.

Smallcharms collapsed on the still-dirty bed and stared at the ceiling. She began working the muscles in her aching wrist, hoping that she’d alleviated enough of the pain that the kid wouldn’t have felt the setting. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths.

“The world is a brighter place with you here.” said the gentleman from earlier, cleaning up the shreds of fabric and casting that she’d littered on the ground. His nametag read Chuck, and he was similarly abandoned. In his case, he was only hours old.

She looked up and smiled gratefully at him, her eyes softening in her way of saying thanks. He did not need to clean up after her, but she was having difficulty raising her head as is. 

“Don’t mention it. You’ve had such a long day -- why don’t you wash up and go to bed? Your day tomorrow’s going to be just as rough.”

She paused for a moment, but conceded to his wisdom. She got up from the bed, placed a hand on his shoulder in grateful camaraderie, and made her way upstairs after cleansing her hands for the last time today.

Just as she’d changed into her nightgown, a knock occurred at her door. She answered it, sleepy but excited for her weekly visitor. It was Taimi, her younger sister.

Taimi had found Smallcharms one night after their mother drunkenly confessed to her biggest regrets early in life. There was enough detail that Taimi, with some sleuthing, was able to discern that her big sister would be here. This much Smallcharms knew, and not much more; they’d both agreed that it would be better if Taimi kept things secret. Only that her mother had done better in life and was able to care for her second born in the manner that she couldn’t with her first. 

Instead, the two girls got to know each other. They clicked immediately. Communication was difficult at first, but they got along so quickly that Taimi hadn’t missed a Saturday night visit since. Their first meeting was nine years ago, when she was just eight years old, and they knew each other’s secrets all hidden. She was Smallcharms’ only friend, only sister, only family; and she desperately wanted a family.

Smallcharms began making tea while Taimi chatted at her. How her week had been, what her goals were, rambled about the horrors of applying to university. It was therapeutic for her, and Smallcharms had no intention of letting her stop talking. She was just bringing the tea to her table when Taimi’s face got serious. Smallcharms raised her eyebrow quizzically and kept her face curious.

“You remember that boy I’ve been dating for a little while now?” She nodded, not losing her quizzical look but a small grin was encroaching on her cheeks. “Well, I wanted to tell you sooner but we’ve just had so much to talk about and, oh I will just go ahead and say it! He proposed to me two weeks ago and I said yes!”

Smallcharms gasped in excitement, and pulled a hand to cover her mouth. Then she jumped out of her chair, ran to her cupboard and pulled out a bottle of red wine that the monastery made. She grabbed a glass for her sister and brought them to the table, opened the bottle and began pouring a gentle amount for Taimi.

“That’s not all, sister,” she said, placing a hand on Smallcharms’ wrist. “I can’t have any wine.”

Smallcharms had a confused look on her face for several seconds, staring at the glass, wondering what the cause would be. Even she was allowed wine, on very special occasions. But not too much. Then, all of a sudden her eyes met with her sister’s, and understanding dawned right away. She must have given everything away on her face, because Taimi took her hand and pressed it to her lower abdomen.

“You’re going to be an auntie.”

Emotions flooded Smallcharms like no other. They’d discussed this before; any child of Taimi’s was a child of hers. Since she would likely never bare any herself, she lived for this moment, and celebrated as if she were expecting herself.

She stood up instantly, moved to her sister and embraced her tightly around the neck. Tears were streaming down both of their faces, and soaking each other’s collars. She pulled away, knelt down and placed her ear on her sister’s abdomen.

Taimi laughed. “You can’t hear them yet! It’s the size of a strawberry!”

A small sigh escaped Smallcharms’ mouth, who had yet to move. She splayed her hands around the belly, wanting to feel anyway. 

“I have to go now,” she said. “I want you there for the birth. Can you get away when it happens?”

She could. She stood then, faced her little sister and nodded encouragingly, her eyes bright with bliss. She would be determined to get one day off; she was currently owed seventy.

“I hope she has your eyes,” she says, then points at the wineglass. “Don’t let that go to waste. You celebrate, for me, okay?” Smallcharms nodded, brought the glass up to her in toast, and drank a small sip. She replaced the glass, then gave her sister the tightest hug goodbye she could manage.

“I’ll see you next week! I’m so happy for us!” Taimi said, then closed the door behind her. 

Smallcharms finished the glass, recapped the bottle and cleaned the dishes. Then she lay in bed, her head swimming with emotions. She did not know when she fell asleep, because her thoughts before and after dreaming were about playing with a toddler under an open sky.

She woke the next morning and began her rituals for cleaning herself. She dressed for work, but not in the off-white monk garb that she normally would. On Sundays, she was a Confessor. 

The gown was in jade and black. It was the opposite of the state’s Inquisitor force, which bore red and white; their roles could not be entirely different. Smallcharms sat for people wishing to relieve their conscience of wrongs they did, and absolve them of their crime. Inquisitors would torture you until you confessed to a wrong, and then hung you for the crime. Smallcharms was certain that, in her field, all of the people seeing her really did what they told her they did.

And she kept them secret. That was the deal; you took on someone else’s burden, and you were quiet about the pain it caused you. It was not dissimilar to her work with patients.

Her booth was different from her colleagues’; there was a meshed screen, but it was one-way. The confessee could see her clearly. She did not assign penance. Typically, she found that those seeking absolution would find her expressions sufficient to make up their own punishments.

She sat inside, ready to accept devotees. She let out a final yawn, loosened the laces on her boots, locked herself inside and flipped the switch that would let outsiders come into the adjacent booth.

One rushed in the moment the door was available, slammed into the opposite wall and yanked the door shut behind them. They were hyperventilating as they locked it with some fumbling, and once certain they were safe began slowing their breaths.

Smallcharms smelled something strange on the penitent. She could not name it, but could taste something metallic in the air. She placed her face in full view of the mesh and cocked her head.

“You have to save me,” a male voice told her. She maintained her quizzical expression; he seemed genuinely frightened.

“There are people out there trying to kill me! Please, do something!!” He was not looking in her direction, she guessed. She tried tapping on the frame, hoping to catch his attention. She saw a shadow turn, and finally knew he had seen her now.

“Oh… it’s you,” he said, with some malice. The shadow seemed to reel back, and a fist emerged from the mesh screen right away. Startled, Smallcharms fell back against the booth, watching him tear the mesh away.

The smell got worse, and looking up she realized he was covered in congealing blood. She could not identify a wound right away, and he was too active for someone who’d lost that much blood; she guessed right away it was someone else’s.

“You don’t know what it’s like. Caring for your family, being the only one who does anything for them. They won’t even do for themselves, and you have so few rules you ask of them. And they won’t listen anyway. You’ll never know. I work hard for my family, and to have them betray me like this…” he let the sentence hang.

She risked a calming hand on his arm, now resting in the gap where the mesh used to live. She hoped it would help, giving him a reassuring smile, hoping to convey everything would be okay.

“I killed my daughter, you know? She was going to leave us. Found some prick with a lot of money, and ended up pregnant. Didn’t say a damn word until tonight.”

Smallcharms immediately felt her stomach drop. 

“I didn’t mean to hit her so hard. But once she hit the floor, it was so easy to get all my anger out at once. She always looked better in red.”

She exited the booth, hyperventilating herself. 

A mob was gathered in front of her.

“Let him out of there, Smallcharms. We know what he did to that poor girl. He’ll hang for it.” Nooses were present. It was no bluff.

She looked at the door he was locked in, and felt absolutely terrified. She wasn’t sure she had anything left in this world.

But she placed herself in the way, arms spread apart. She pointed to the sheriff, and beckoned.

He came close to her, and leaned to her ear. “I know that was your sister. You let me in, and we’ll end this quickly.”

She shook her head vigorously, sobbing uncontrollably. She held her wrists out to him in surrender.

He looked puzzled. “You want him arrested?”

Vigorous nodding.

He sighed. “You have my word I will take him as a ward of the state where he will stand trial, then.” He turned to the crowd in dismissal. “He’s under my protection at this time, citizens. Go home.” Begrudgingly, they dispersed.

He retrieved shackles from his belt, and nodded at her. She released the lock, and the maniacal man found himself in no condition to fight. He was sobbing loudly, but was compliant with the sheriff’s directions.

Smallcharms, for her part, was afraid that the chest pain she borrowed from her patient yesterday had returned.