Sins of Smoke

Cooper's Confession

[Saturday 12th July, 06:13am]

'Dear Father, forgive me for I have sinned.'

I hear the words leave my cracked lips; shaky, uncertain. Almost as though even the air leaving my lungs couldn't abandon me fast enough. I was alone, and I knew it better than anybody. Alone in this heap of shit chapel with no other option than to turn hypocrite and plead to a deity that I had spent my whole life mocking. For that's what people do when they've got nowhere to run, right? I'd seen it a thousand times in the movies. The bad guy runs to his nearest God centre – funny how they always manage to find one. I spent hours driving across this goddamn wasteland – he repents for his sins, then atones only to find karma ready to swing back around and smash his backdoors in (not in the faggot way). Then, boom! A cataclysmic circle of life. If you do bad shit, you'll get your punishment right? That's how it's supposed to be. But what happens when the boundaries blur? If I read between all the lines then I'm innocent in all this. So why the hell is it that I'm sat here now?

'I'm listening my child.' The words float through the... trellis? (Hell I don't know what the correct term is... It's got to be some kind of trellis, right? That same stuff the gardeners use to encourage those creeper vines to find a tidier place to creep) and caressed my face. He has that calm, confident voice, flecked with the obvious tones of age that seems the custom of a preacher figure. I can see his outline. A bald head staring towards the ground. I can almost imagine that outta sight sits a newspaper, maybe his copy of the 'God Loves Me Time', checking for his latest submission to the St. Agony Aunt column. 'Tell us your troubles, dear reader. We'll get you your answers from God.'

'I suppose, in a sense, my confession should start with the fact that this is my first confession. I've never had much cause to seek counsel before. Little happens in my shitty excuse for a town that would ever cause me to need the services of the Almighty. Folks in my end are as backwards as they can get. Even driving here seemed to skip me forwards thirty years, and now that I'm here it all kinda feels like a dream. All one big goddamn dream.'

'Language.'

'Language? Oh, shit. I mean, right! Blasphemy and all that... Sorry, Father.' I hunch over, embarrassed, and twiddle my crimson-specked Stetson between my fingers, examining the accumulated rips and stains from only hours before. Preacher pipes up.

'You are forgiven. Please, continue when you're ready.'

Feels strange to be given permission to speak, especially from a stranger. I've never been one to wait my turn and say my piece, that's just how I was made, ever since I was knee-high and clinging to Ma's skirt. Every time Ma would try to talk me down or tell me off I'd jump two steps ahead and push my own agenda. Pa used to laugh but it would drive Ma nuts. He always used to say to me 'Cooper. That mouth of yours'll get you out of more scrapes in life than any kinda fisticuffs. Sharpen that tongue and keep your hands clean. You'll go far.' Then he'd down his bourbon and leave for work.

The first rays of the morning sun pick their way through the stains on the window shining a full palette of colour in my cubicle. I see the same patterns trailing across the old preacher's face making him look like one of them Picasso paintings they hang in the truck stops off the main road to make the place seem all sophisticated.

'I'll be honest, I don't know how to begin this one. I mean, I know the procedure, but I just ain't sure how to order my words to make this make sense to you.'

'Why don't you just start from the top? After all, it makes the most sense to begin at the beginning' – sarcastic bastard. I like him.

I rub my fingers together feeling the roughness of the callouses, watching the faint dawn light shimmer off the scar that lines my palm, and try to figure my words.

I could try and tell the truth in the order that it happened, but who in their right mind would believe me? People in my backwater town don't pay no heed to supernatural shit and lynch any of those that do. Davy Thrisket learned that the hard way. I was only a kid at the time, but story went that Mr Thrisket was hooting and hollering about some demon that jumped into his kid one rainy day, and the mayor – at the time – caught him trying to smack the devil out the poor bastard. Suffice to say, old Davy was dragged out for the rope to protect the townspeople, and his kid, from harm's way. Medieval justice, eh?

If I take out all the facts then I'm labelled a murderer. Black and white. I sure as shit would call someone the same. But, fuck it, I ain't. I ain't no goddamn murderer. Anyone that saw the whole thing start to finish would agree, but ain't nobody saw it all but me. Shit. Preacher next door is sworn to secrecy, right? That's why all the walls and pretence?

'Anything I say stays between you and me, right?'

'Just about, my child—'

I cut him off real quick. 'No offense, Father. But I ain't really one for formalities. The name's Cooper, though everyone calls me Coop. Which'll make you Father...?'

'Father Harrison. And of course, Cooper. Anything you say stays between us and the Lord above.'

The Lord above. If I was a firm believer then maybe I'd feel some pressure at that. Nothing like airing all your dirty laundry in a verbal three-way, eh? Though I have to admit that despite my atheism I can feel something... ominous. Something under the glow of the dust specks floating in from the thin rays outside. After all, who am I to question what's real and what ain't? Not after last night. That shit turned my whole belief system upside-down. So, why not? Maybe I can open my mind enough to believe there may be something bigger above us, watching (doing a shit job in my eyes, but watching nonetheless). Maybe He can hear me right now. Maybe it's God right now turning up the heat, making me sweat like a roasted pig bathed in Jack Daniels. Or it could just be my conscience. The walls feel cool to the touch, though I feel like the Devil himself is giving me a backrub. That's crazy talk though, I'm sure God would have some rules in place to stop the Devil entering his holy house.

'Cooper?'

Right. He's waiting on my story. I suppose, in a way, I am too. Though I can't decide which angle to take. If anything I guess now would be the time to let Jesus take the wheel. I'll use my God-given gift and just talk. Whatever comes out my mouth is what I'll roll with, and I'll deal with the consequences later.

I ask Father Harrison if I may begin again. The light bouncing off his bald cap lets me know that that's okay.

'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Last night I killed someone.'

'Oh?'

'Yeah. I killed a demon.'