The Priest - Short Story 

(Nanowrimo Writing Prompt - Nov 2024)

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned”

How many more of these did he have to do today?

“It has been two months since my last confession.”

He stared through the metal grating at the silhouetted figure behind, his eyes glazed, somewhere else entirely.

“Since then, the sins I have committed are…”

He could barely bring himself to listen to the inane ramblings that followed, but such were his parochial duties.

He grimaced as the faces forced themselves once again into his mind, despite his best efforts to keep them out. To keep them at bay.

He dug his fingernails into his red and swollen palms once more, unconsciously reopening the poorly-healed wounds. Through the thousand desperate invocations, the aggravated grooves had eventually split, leaving not the respite sought, but only the sting of irritation and infection.

“Father Michael? Are you still there?”

“Yes, Mrs Beasley, I'm here.”

The faces faded into the recesses of his mind. For now.

“Isn't this the part where you absolve me, Father?”

“Quite right, bow your head.” He rattled off the absolution giving no more thought to the prayer now than the day he'd first learnt it at the seminary.

“... and may the Lord give you pardon and peace, absolving your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The rote words fell from his mouth, forming a meaningless pile on the floor. The hollowness he felt in them matched only by the cheap, wooden panelling of the booth walls they now bounced off.

A few minutes had passed before Father Michael realised that Mrs Beasley was gone and that he’d been sitting alone in the dark silence of the confessional. He rested his head on the grating and attempted to nurse his fraught hands. Parishioners had started making comments about them, asking if he was sick, or suggesting ‘such and such’ cream, barely masking their palpable disgust.

“Pardon and peace, eh?” he muttered to himself.

“And why should I be dishing that out to every old biddy that comes in here, when you won't allow me a single morsel of either for myself?”

As Father Michael returned to the vestry to hang up his alb and chasuble, he thought of the countless masses he had performed over the years: all the weddings and funerals he had presided over, all the baptisms he had given and all the confessions he had taken. How he'd felt less and less invested in them, as the once bright flame of his faith had shrunk to a flickering ember, and then been snuffed out entirely by a weary cynicism of his life and the state of the modern world. By the end of it all, June was the only thing that brought any joy into his life.

He still remembered the first day that she'd joined the parish, attending her nuptial appointment with her fiance, Caleb. Fr. Michael had been so struck by her beauty that he’d barely been able to answer June’s questions about using the church as a marriage venue in the upcoming spring. Obviously, fawning after a woman 20 years his junior was not appropriate for a man in his position, let alone one betrothed to someone else.

The guilt had chewed away at him for months. Subsequent appointments had become a highlight in his calendar.

Father Michael finished putting away his vestments and retired to his office; a dim room attached to the presbytery. He slumped down in the swivel chair and gazed out of the window at the wet November drizzle. He couldn't remember a single one of the confessions he’d taken that afternoon, despite the fact there’d been over a dozen. The whole time he’d been reminded of that first confession with June.

His stomach lurched just thinking about it, as if it wanted to fling itself out of his body. He had been so happy when he’d realised it was her; her gentle curls silhouetted through the grate, the intoxicating aroma of her expensive perfume filling the booth and betraying her identity immediately to him. They had started off in the usual rubric, until June had said something that took Father Michael by surprise: “Father, I haven't been completely truthful with you. There is something else I need to admit to."

“Go ahead, my dear, be not afraid. This is a place of reconciliation, and God's forgiveness knows no bounds."

She had sounded nervous.

"I know I’ve been married only recently in your church but I fear I may have made a mockery of my vows.”

The memory of her wavering voice emanating from the dark misted Father Michael's eyes as he now sat watching the raindrops roll down the window pane of his office.

“Caleb's outbursts were just becoming too much and I was scared, so I confided in an old friend from my time as an undergrad. He was so sweet and understanding about it, just like you are. But one thing led to another and I am afraid that I've been… unfaithful to Caleb."

Unconsciously, Father Michael drove the nail of his left thumb into the skin of his adjacent forefinger, leaving behind an angry, welted divot in the skin. Small drops of red dripped onto the grey carpet below

In that moment, he had felt nothing but overwhelming compassion. More than he had felt for his entire congregation in the last 20 years combined. In place of the judgment he knew he ought to feel for the admission of her adultery, Father Michael could feel nothing but sorrow for her and unbridled rage towards her husband.

“I'm just so scared, Father. What if Caleb finds out? I don't know what he'd do. That's why I came to you. You've always been so kind and listened to me when I've had problems.” He’d heard the anxious clinking of her lavish jewelry being fiddled with in the dark.

“I don't know what this parish would do without you”, she’d laughed through her tears.

The shrill ring of the telephone brought father Michael out of his reverie. An unwelcome clarion call back to the present.

"St Cuthbert's parish line, Father Michael speaking.”

“Good evening, Father, it's Mary Sprigg here. I was told to contact you regarding the flower order for next week's memorial service?”

The voice seemed so very far away, as if part of the world he no longer inhabited. He instinctively reached out and took the order of service off his desk he'd had printed that morning, staring, transfixed, at the pretty mop of curly hair on its cover.

"I pray that others get to share the same kindness that you've shown to me” she'd managed between sobs.

"Four wreaths of the finest white lilies you can find please, Mrs Sprigg.”

"Promise me you'll try and be there for others, like you have been for me.” She’d said.

“I will, I promise, for you."