Unholy Sanctimony

The cathedral stands like a stone ship in the heights of the coastal city, Saint Carlon. The confessional smells like candle smoke and rain. Inside, Father Matthew sits alone, the small light of the booth turning his collar into a thin band of white in the dark. The hour is late, the cathedral nearly empty except for the rustle of a broom somewhere near the nave. A hinge squeals as someone enters the other side of the booth. Expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, confident with an air of mystery. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man says, “Though I doubt you’ll forgive what you’re about to hear.” Matt straightened. “When was your last confession, my son?” Although they are roughly the same age. “A decade? Maybe longer. But I’ve been busy,” he chuckles, “I run a business where temptation pays better than virtue. Here are my sins.” “I took the lives of three persons this week, ruined the lives of two others. No kids involved, of course, unless-unless it’s bad for business. Speaking about my business, these may or may not be sins, but it’s a front for exchange, money laundering, manipulation, coercion, extortion, and a few times, elimination.” Matt listens, jaw tight, sighs, “Like I’m one to Judge,” he thinks to himself. “I’m married and having an affair with my wife’s little sister, who’s also married, mind you. My insatiable hunger for pleasure, s****l, violent, and even demise. Maybe the new girl will do.” The seal of confession chains the hands and tongue of Matt. “She’s seeing a man who doesn’t deserve her, soft, naïve. I’m going to fix that soon.” The words hang there, deliberate. Through the grille, the man’s silhouette shifts as the light catches a signet ring, sleek, silver, engraved with the letter V. Matt’s stomach drops. Vallon, Eddie Vallon, the billionaire. He’d seen the name before on donation ledgers, whispered among parish sponsors of ‘creative industries’. “Confession demands contrition,” Matt says, He laughs, “I don’t believe in guilt, Father. I believe in insurance. If I confess, I can’t go to hell, right?” Matt’s silence unsettles him. “You seem tense”, he teases. “Is the room too small for both our ghosts? Matt forces himself to calm down. “Every soul is equal before God.” “Equal, sure. But not equally entertaining” “For your penance, say the lord’s prayer”. A smile audible in the dark. “It’s comforting, knowing you can’t tell anyone what I’ve said.” Eddie exits, dropping a folded hundred into the poor box as if tipping a valet. “See you next week, Father,” he mutters as he steps into the rain. For a long time, Matt doesn’t move. Thunder rolls over Saint Clarion, rattling the windows like distant applause. He whispers the closing formula ‘Ego te absolvo,’ but the words feel wrong, like scripture spoken backward. He steps out into the empty cathedral. “At the end of the day, how different am I with sins as grave as mine?” Matt whispers to himself. Beep! A text message, ‘Hey Handsome’ from her, he stares at it breathless for a moment and takes a deep sigh. “This needs to end, as soon as possible.” Matt is ever determined to sever what separates him from his calling. Matt notices a damp business card, half-smeared with ink, on the floor just outside the confessional. PleasureHauz Studios — Eddie Vallon, CEO. Matt turns it over, and the rain has blurred the phone number into a thin, bleeding cross. “Brother Theo,” the young seminarian, Theo, steps out of the sacristy. “Please, could you help me tell Father Batiste I’ll be closing early tonight? something came up.” “Sure thing, uhm, father, are you serving at six tomorrow?” Theo asks, Matt, not paying attention to Theo’s question, pockets the card and heads towards the storm, already suspecting that whatever just entered the confessional tonight hasn’t left it. “Father” Theo’s left hanging.