by Greg Rhodea
A confession isn’t a confession unless one repents.
“Bless me, Father, for I have skinned.”
Loren frowned and leaned closer to the mesh that separated confessor from penitent. He’d been at it for three extra hours now because Father Tim hadn’t shown up. Night had fallen, and the church outside the confessional was as gloomy as a closed mouth. This would be the last confession of the night, and Loren was tired and eager to get out of the ghetto and back home. He must have heard the man wrong. Yes, that’s it. “How long since your last confession?”
A sound began on the other side of the booth, like someone snapping an empty nutcracker together. Click click click. It took a while for the man to answer, and when he did it came in a whisper. “Five hours.”
