CONFESSIONAL
The Church of Saint Augustus had always been known for its colourful back catalogue of tragedy. In 1571, Reverend Alastair Gillespie accidentally preached a completely Catholic diary entry to commemorate the birthday of Pope Pius V to a perfectly Protestant congregation. Because of a new order the previous year to persecute all Catholics, as ordered by Queen Elizabeth I, they butchered the good reverend in God’s name that same day.
In 1630, the witch trials graced its presence, with twelve members of the church congregation hanged for ‘bewitchment’– seventeenth-century code for being female and outspoken.
Thirty years later, in 1666, the Black Death made its way across Europe, killing millions. A well-meaning Reverend Claude Wolf took to hanging the bodies of butchered rats around the chapel to ward off the ‘demonic spirits’, only to bring the contagion to the entirety of his congregation.
In 1704, wood-cutter Cyril Bennett had what is now known as a psychotic episode, killing three people with his axe and barricading himself within the safety of the church.
In 1943, at the height of the Blitz, Liam Garland was fixing damage to the roof during a storm. A freak bolt of lightning struck, ending both his list of chores and his life on Earth.
And most recently, Wanda Sullivan, grandmother of five, slipped on disinfectant she had been using to wash the nave floor in 1968 and broke her hip. The family sued, given that a loose paving stone had contributed to the fall, leaving the church in a state of almost bankruptcy.
The Church of Saint Augustus thus existed as an infamous building for centuries, and as Reverend Peter Stephenson ran down the aisle of his beloved church, little did he know he would be a part of its final, sorry chapter.
The startled reverend focused solely on the small vestry door that lay a stone’s throw from the altar ahead of him. The breaking of wood, gushing of blood, and clanging of metal filled the poor man’s ears, all encased in a chaotic blanket of demonic sounds and biblical verse. A war was taking place in the reverend’s beloved church, and as his frantic mind raced to grasp the situation, a sudden bang tore through the building, and his body immediately fell to the floor.
He lay for a few seconds, ears ringing and heart pounding. Shaken, he sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow, his face splattered with blood. A thick cloud of dust obscured everything. The sound of rubble and breaking glass added to the surrounding chaos. The reverend brought forth trembling, blood-soaked hands. He panicked and crawled through debris to seek a moment of sanctuary behind a pew. The harrowing noises around him were unforgiving. As he stared cautiously through a dissipating fog toward the vestry, a lifeless body fell in front of him. The reverend’s tired eyes widened in horror as he stared into the cold, faded pupils of the poor soul in front of him. Brushing his grey hair aside, he shuffled further into the chaos, performing a hurried scope of his surroundings as he moved.
Bodies filled the pews from every angle, a blur of people and disarray. Debris from his beloved building had fallen, broken remnants of stained glass laying abstract at his feet. Despite this biblical carnage, something inside urged him to keep going. Whether it was divine instruction or an in-built human urge to survive, he listened to the voice.
The petrified reverend pulled himself up, inhaled, and moved as swiftly as possible through the graveyard of his fallen passion. He stumbled up to the altar, past a huge crucifix which had fallen from its domineering perch above. The figure of Jesus lay in a pool of blood. This macabre reminder to keep faith did little to motivate him. His saviour had fallen once more, and he was truly alone within a mass of sin. Keep going. The reverend exhaled and ignored everything his senses showed him: every blasphemous image, every haunting sound, every gut-wrenching smell. He pushed into the final hurdle. A wrinkled hand clung to the iron handle of the vestry door as he fell to his knees.
With his last ounce of strength, he dragged his weakened body through and slammed it shut. He placed any remaining faith in the idea that his body weight alone would keep everything at bay. The reverend rested his head against the door, body covered in dirt and panting for breath. Staring toward a cold stone ceiling, he closed his eyes and whispered The Lord’s Prayer. Fumbling through pockets, a small silver crucifix was cradled in shaking hands. His calloused fingers clasped the cross as blood ran down his arms. An abrupt noise hit the other side of the door, causing the reverend to jolt forward in shock. He closed his eyes tighter as whispered prayers turned to panicked cries to the heavens.
An incessant mumbling came within earshot, forcing the reverend back into reality.
“The game is rigged. The game is rigged. It’s rigged. The game is rigged…”
He knew the voice immediately, and as his eyes focused on the figure, the reverend saw an old family friend.
“Nicholas? What’s going on?” said the reverend, still fragile on the floor.
A man of twenty-nine stood in a leather jacket and jeans. Underneath, the reverend noticed a t-shirt, ripped and sodden with blood. His long hair, usually styled, was messy, falling in front of a blood-splattered face. Devoid of dust and dirt, the reverend could only deduce that his faithless friend had been there for quite some time.
Nicholas’ teary eyes were red as he stared blankly at the floor with each step. The reverend felt that Nicholas was only somewhat present as he continued to whisper, “The game is rigged… It’s rigged…”
“My boy, are you okay?” the reverend called out cautiously.
“We did everything…” he mumbled, trailing off with every sentence. The reverend could feel stress emanating from Nicholas and listened for any semblance of sanity within his broken friend’s ramblings.
“They’re everywhere. They’re fucking everywhere. I can’t even sleep. I can’t let my guard down, and they’re gone. They’ll get me. Fuck!”
“Who will get you, Nicholas?” the reverend whispered.
Nicholas suddenly snapped back into the room and, as he locked eyes with the reverend, blurting out, “Peter!”
Relieved to have his friend’s attention, Peter smiled as warmly as possible, considering the circumstances. His friend didn’t return the gesture and instead slumped into a chair behind the vestry’s desk. Pushing every bit of emotion back, Nicholas said weakly, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”
Peter had always known Nicholas as a confident and well-put-together man, but now a family friend sat before him, wounded and broken.
“Nicholas, this isn’t a Catholic church. I don’t offer confessional here, you know this,” said Peter gently as he got to his feet, trying to grasp the situation.
Nicholas groaned in pain or exasperation. “Well, can I please talk to you? It’s all the fucking same, isn’t it? Bullshit words for self-satisfaction?”
A second bang against the door came shortly after, as though the entire building shared his frustration. Peter jumped and nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, of course.”
Peter’s entire body shook. A dilemma of wanting to console a friend but also contain the carnage outside lay in front of him. He took a step towards Nicholas but was interrupted.
“NO! This… This won’t take long.”
Nicholas looked up at Peter, pressed against the door, and said forlornly, “I’d like to confess the sin of… everything. I’ve done… everything.”
“What are you talking about, Nicholas? You can tell me what’s going on. Why has this hell entered my church? Is this you? This can’t be you, surely?” Peter stopped shaking and stood transfixed by Nicholas, who struggled even to sit up. Blood fell from his fingers, dripping down the arm of the chair and to the floor.
“I’m so tired…” said Nicholas, his eyes watering.
“Nichol––”
“No! Don’t make this harder than it already is! The truth is… I brought this here. Everything out there is exactly where it needs to be, not that it would matter, anyway. It’d just happen somewhere else…” His voice tapered off into a sigh, soon broken by yet another bang against the old wooden door.
Peter’s caring nature took hold as he attempted to disregard the havoc outside. He surrendered the dog collar and became the friend Nicholas had always known. He slowly took a step towards Nicholas and then another, desperately trying to reach out and comfort the wreck of a young man who he had known for so long.
“Nicholas, we all have trials at some point, and some are worse than others. Today we got pretty unlucky, my boy.” Peter smiled nervously. Nicholas returned the favour, albeit out of politeness.
“Do you remember when I was little and I saw you at the beach?” Nicholas whispered, causing nostalgia to sweep over Peter.
“I had an ice cream cone. I don’t even like fucking ice cream,” he said. Peter smiled, warmed by the memory, as Nicholas continued.
“We were on that beach all day. Then I saw you. You were with your wife in a t-shirt and swim shorts, walking through my field of shit sandcastles.”
A metallic bang threw them back into reality. Peter’s heartbeat quickened as the scream of a woman came from behind the door. It was a gut-wrenching and visceral sound, but Nicholas simply kept staring at the floor, immune from anything outside this tiny pocket of calm.
“Do you remember what you said to me that day?” Nicholas said, looking up at Peter. His eyes shone green and hopeful beneath all the pain.
Peter smiled and put a shaking hand on the desk next to Nicholas. “You asked me if I could make you like ice cream because all the other kids thought you were weird.”
Nicholas laughed, the creases in his face forcing out a tear. It was the first time he’d laughed truly and genuinely for so long.
“I believed that if you helped people in church, you could do something as simple as make me like ice cream… It was a kind of faith, I guess… But a faith in you. It was what you said that stuck with me. You said, ‘Being weird is one of the best things you can be. You can only be yourself’.”
He paused for a moment and, with a shaky voice, said quietly, “I just want to say thank you. Thank you for telling me that. I mean… There’s just so much of me which doesn’t seem to fit…”
Peter smiled. “Then don’t fit.”
This gentle reassurance brought Nicholas to tears. Peter held his hand, ready to comfort him, but stood and let him drain the emotion that had been building in his soul for so long. A minute or two passed with a young man crying in front of an old friend. A strange bubble of therapy and solace encased the tiny room. However, calamity was calling, trying harder and harder to break through. After some time, Nicholas composed himself as best he could and stood up from behind the desk to look directly at Peter.
“Thank you for letting me know I am accepted. It’s the best gift any person can give another. Invaluable…” He trailed off before continuing. “You’re the purest, nicest person I’ve ever met. Which is why…”
Nicholas fell silent as he reached into his coat pocket. A scratched handgun appeared, and immediately any feeling of comfort and serenity dissipated. Nicholas shakily aimed the gun at near point-blank range towards Peter’s forehead.
“N-Now Nicholas! This isn’t the way! This is the wrong thing to do! Please, my boy! You know I have a family!” Peter put his hands up and went as far back against the door as he could, choosing to risk sinking into chaos than be in this scenario.
Nicholas stammered to speak under the weight of his emotion and replied, “I’m so… fucking… sorry.” He removed the safety, took a deep breath and whispered, “The Devil made me do it.”
Peter looked straight into Nicholas’ red raw eyes and said softly, “I’ll pray for you.”
Nicholas lowered the gun for a second, only to adjust his grip with both hands and raise it once more. Shaking, he choked out the words, “Please do,” before pulling the trigger to give Reverend Peter Stephenson the silence he had so desperately prayed for just moments ago.
The reverend’s body slumped to the floor, a pool of blood forming around his head like a gruesome halo. Nicholas’ face cracked and his bottom eyelid flickered, trying desperately to fathom the reality he had created in front of him. It was too much, and as a frantic knocking on the vestry door became more frequent, Nicholas raised the gun to his head. The chaos had found him, and it was calling his name.
He choked on the tears, struggling to breathe from the weight of the emotion escaping his fractured soul. His body could not function, and his mind had broken. He simply found reality unbearable.
Nicholas turned to a small window, and through the frosted glass, he saw the postcard image of a normal sunny day. Cold metal rested delicately against his skull as he whispered, “Praise Satan,” before pulling the trigger once more.
