ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴀɴ

This World is Cruel

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November 2027

The church remained the same. Saint Peter's burial site carried on untouched and the gilded cherubs still stared down at you with unblinking eyes; milky and warm, if not a little creepy. And in the corner was the Pity, as motionless and as painstakingly agonizing to look at as before despite Mary's prostate position; one of forgiveness and openness.

You ducked under the cloth flap of the confessional stand before seating yourself in the small cubicle chair, staring through the porous holes separating you from the priest. Moments later, you heard his warm voice; like a spring breeze breaking through the winter haze.

You noted that it felt nice not to be spoken to as if you were a robotic monster only capable of murder.

"Good evening." He said, voice as clear as a church bell, and as devoid of the burden you felt in your own.

"Good evening, Father," You said in response, wringing your wrists a little nervously.

It felt wrong that a person as tainted as you would have the courage to dredge yourself into this place of worship. You felt like a demon in the sights of a saint.

Gulping, you looked up at the obscured priest with a furrowed brow and confessed, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"Dear child, what are your sins?"

"I've done the unspoken. I walk with tainted hands in the presence of innocents."

Your gaze followed the tracks of your fingers; over the valley of scars and the phantom blood splattering the canvas of all those you killed in your venture to seek revenge against Doflamingo. In hindsight, it was a good thing you came here at last -- to purge that singular fear keeping you shackled to your rage. It was only by chance that you, visiting Luffy in Italy, finally succumbed to the desire of wanting to revisit the Basilica -- Ace's final resting place -- and made your way to the front where the tiles were stained with his blood.

One moment you were gently rubbing at the eyepatch over your eye -- and the next your blood ran cold at the memories of all you'd done, and you clutched the broken beaded necklace of your former beloved. Guilt, you thought, fear coiling your muscles: but before you could think to sink into that insidious terror once more, the priest was gently coaxing you from the depths of your sadness.

"Child?" He asked, and you squeezed the necklace, turning back to him on a slight frown.

"My sins?" You mused, "Oh, Father, I have many. But I come here not to confess them, but to come clean and purify my heart of this sadness I feel. This endless, pitless sadness."

The recesses of your mind shook and the noise outside -- from stress, you assumed -- retreated into a high-pitched hum in your shock as you stared blankly through the crevices of the confessional.