This is a short story, written for Coventry Writers’ Group. The theme was “Seven Deadly Sins”. This was my interpretation. Enjoy!
Trigger warning – contains references to abuse that some readers may find upsetting.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
The confessional is shadowed, but the voice belongs to a young man. Father O’Connell runs through the preamble on autopilot, then settles back to listen to the man’s transgressions.
“I have committed all of the deadly sins,” says the visitor.
“Tell me,” the priest instructs. This’ll be more interesting than the usual old ladies there only because tradition dictates they receive penance before taking communion.
“I confess to pride,” starts the man. “In my appearance and in my accomplishments.”
O’Connell grunts encouragingly.
“And yet I remain envious of others. I have no need for increased wealth, but my greed drives me to gather more. But … sometimes a darkness descends on me, and I can’t bring myself to move. I am consumed by sloth.”
“Do you know what drives these passions?” asks O’Connell, his curiosity triggering a rare interruption. Something about the voice is familiar.
“My upbringing,” says the man firmly. “I was abandoned as a child, then raised in a loveless environment. There was never enough to go around, and the result when I finally had more than necessary was gluttony.”
O’Connell is feeling uneasy. The voice behind the grill has a manic edge. The bishop recently instructed priests to gently persuade those in turmoil to seek outside assistance beyond the spiritual. In O’Connell’s opinion The Church has muddled along just fine for 2,000 years without such nonsense. But, he concedes other professionals might have something to offer; what the man calls sloth, sounds more like depression. Before he can open his mouth, the man continues.
“And then there is lust. The unspeakable, unnatural acts that I experienced as a child awakened dark desires. Devilish desires.”
O’Connell starts to sweat. It’s not possible, he tells himself. After the … incidents … at the home, his then-bishop had moved him on. To this small, far-flung parish. How many priests in the UK share his name?
“Well, Jesus forgives all of our weaknesses,” starts O’Connell. He wants this over, desperate to prescribe a few Hail Marys, then leave by the back exit.
The man giggles. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences, Father. I don’t want your help seeking forgiveness.”
“Then what do you want?” O’Connell croaks.
“To complete the set.”
O’Connell casts his mind back. He counts six sins. Panic mounting, he struggles to recall the missing vice.
It is his final thought before the bullet rips through the thin grill separating him from his victim.
Wrath.
