In 1980's New York, Barbara Fritz is the "meek and mild" little librarian assistant that nobody thinks twice about. Shy, soft-spoken, and ridiculously self-critical, she doesn't turn any heads. Not until she brutally kills her own father in cold blo...
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Saturday morning. 10:00 AM.
Here again, with my head down, under the righteous eye of the Almighty; a place someone like me surely didn't belong... me, a sinful man. But to keep my soul from eternal damnation, I still came. I still believed that God was my only hope.
I slipped into the mahogany box and took my seat against a wooden support panel, with a thin scarlet padding underneath. I was careful not to confuse familiarity with belonging, as I had sat here many times before. Lately though, my visits were occurring often. Not because I was becoming more religious—quite the opposite, since I had been doing things that a sovereign and holy God wouldn't approve of. I was simply very thorough in my sinning.
Father Franklin was on the other side, behind the brown gridwork that separated us.
"Good morning, Father," I whispered, bound to the ache in my throat.
"Johnathan? You sound troubled."
Maybe it was the pitch of my voice, or the quiver deep in my throat swallowing me whole? Either way, I wasn't my usual self. And being known around New York as "The Doc," I thrived on predictability.
When people saw me coming, they expected a certain intensity, so I didn't let myself be "troubled" on many occasions. As a result, I tried not to worry about life or where mine was headed. If I died, I probably had it coming. I only hoped God would have mercy on me after death.
But today... perhaps I was troubled? Not for myself, though. For her. The woman I had exposed to a very dangerous drug last night.
My love. My Barbara.
"I'm fine, Father." The fabrication was just as strong on my breath as my last cigarette was.
"Would you have stepped foot in this church if you were fine?"
My knee paced up and down. As The Doc, I wasn't used to being spoken to in any manner that wasn't comely, but we'd known each other since I was thirteen, so Father Franklin got a pass.
"No." My sighing pushed me against the wall. Had I not known better, I would have sworn I was bolted down to this chair. I felt like a hostage, which was odd since confession was quite liberating for the soul. But my stomach was in a freefall. I didn't anticipate so much dread to gather inside me the moment I would open up about what happened. It had to be done though. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." In a single motion, I made the obligatory sign of the cross. "My last confession was a little over two weeks ago."
"Continue, my son."
Moment of truth. I had to get this off my chest.
"Last night... I hurt someone I care deeply about."
"You don't often talk about the people you love." The man of God's dry, raspy voice was suddenly dripping with curiosity, a cue I was not particularly fond of. "Has someone entered your life?"
