16. Naughty, Nasty Confessions
Chapter sixteen
Naughty, Nasty Confessions
Cassian
Confessionals began slowly, as they often did on weekday afternoons.
Each word was absorbed by the confessional walls.
I offered absolution where I could, advice where it was needed, and tried to give them scripture to guide them back to the light.
And yet, as I listened, my own mind drifted.
How could I absolve their sins when my own hung over me like a storm cloud?
How could I offer guidance when I was lost, drowning in desires I couldn’t control?
Still, the door to the penitent’s side would creak open.
Footsteps echoed on the polished marble.
They knelt, trembling, some already choked with guilt before a word left their lips.
And then, like a dam breaking, their sins spilled out—envy, anger, lies, lust—each confession more raw, more sordid than the last.
“I. . .I can’t stop thinking about her,” a man confessed, and his words punctuated by shaky breaths. “My brother’s wife. She’s. . .so beautiful.”
I exhaled slowly.
“She leans over during Sunday dinners, and her blouse. . .I know it’s wrong, but I can see her breasts, and I can’t stop imagining what they’d feel like in my hands. In my mouth.”
My jaw tightened as his lust vibrated through the screen like a pulse.
Another penitent followed; their sin no less damning.
A woman’s voice, breathless and quivering, “It was in the office. My boss—he’s married, Father. But the way he looks at me. . .I couldn’t resist. He’s much older. My own father’s age, but. . .I don’t know. I let him. . .touch me. I wanted him to. . .”
She faltered, and I could almost see her through the screen, biting her lip.
“What did you want him to do, my child?”
“To take me,” she whispered. “To ruin me.”
The shadows seemed to shift, wrapping tighter around the confessional as her words hung in the air.
There was an ache in her voice, a plea for absolution but also for my permission to fall deeper into the sin she clearly craved.
Later another woman entered.
“Father, I’m thinking bad thoughts. I want to do something terrible.”
“Go on,” I urged softly.
She let out a shaky exhale. “It’s my ex, he left me—no, he didn’t just leave me. He abandoned me. Tossed me aside like I was nothing, after years of devotion. And now. . .now he’s with her and. . .”
“Yes, my child?”
"I want her to die.”
There was venom in that final word, a bitterness so thick it felt as though it had seeped through the screen, staining the air between us.
“I’ve been following them,” she confessed, her words spilling out faster now. “Watching them. I know where they live. Where they work. I’ve seen her at the café she likes, sipping her overpriced lattes as though she’s never known a moment of pain in her life. I’ve seen him kiss her, hold her, love her the way he should’ve loved me.”
My hands tightened on the arms of my chair.
“I’ve thought about it,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Killing her. Killing them.”
The space grew colder.
“How often do you think about this?” I asked carefully.
Her laugh was soft but hollow, void of humor. “Every day, it’s like a movie playing on a loop in my mind. I imagine her face when she sees me—the shock, the fear. And him. . .oh, how I want him to watch. To see what he’s done to me reflected back in her blood. And then. . .”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. Maybe I would finally feel peace.”
“You’ve allowed your pain to consume you,” I said after a moment. “But this path you’re imagining—it will destroy you as much as it destroys them. Perhaps even more.”
“And what am I supposed to do instead, Father?” she shot back. “Pray? Forgive? Let them live their perfect little life while I’m left with nothing but my broken pieces?”
My heart ached for her. “Forgiveness isn’t for them, it’s for you . It’s a way to free yourself from the chains of hatred that bind you. But you can’t do it alone. Let God into your heart and let Him guide you away from this darkness.”
She fell silent.
"My child?”
“Will you pray for me, Father?”
“I will, but only you can choose to walk away from this. Let go of the anger, even if it feels impossible. Trust in God to heal what you cannot.”
"How?" she asked softly. "How do I do that when all I feel is hate?"
"Start small. Think of the things you once loved. The things that brought you joy before this pain took hold of you. Did you have a hobby? A passion? Something that made your spirit feel alive?"
She hesitated. "I used to love painting. But it’s been so long since I picked up a brush."
"Then start there," I urged. "Pick up the brush again, let the colors speak for you when words fail. Art can be a way to process your emotions, to release the anger in a way that doesn’t harm others—or yourself."
Her breath hitched as though she were considering it. "And what if that’s not enough?"
"Then expand your focus outward, consider volunteering. Serve meals at a shelter, read to children at the library, or spend time with the elderly who are alone. When we give to others, especially those in need, it reminds us of our shared humanity. It shifts our perspective, allowing us to see the world beyond the lens of our pain."
She let out a soft, shaky laugh. "You’re asking me to help others when I can’t even help myself."
"Sometimes, helping others is the way we heal ourselves. Acts of kindness and service have a way of softening the sharp edges of our grief. They reconnect us to love—the pure kind, not the kind that demands or destroys."
I hoped I was getting through to her because she didn’t seem like a truly murderous woman, just one who had been severely betrayed and had a broken heart.
She sighed. "And when I see them? What do I do when I see them together, and all I want to do is scream?"
"Remove yourself from that situation. Avoid the places where they go. Seeing them will only reopen the wound and keep you chained to this cycle of anger. Remember. Distance is not weakness—it’s wisdom."
"But it feels like running away."
"It’s not running away, it’s choosing peace over chaos, healing over harm. And in that space, where they are no longer a constant presence, you’ll have room to rediscover who you are without this anger tethering you."
"It sounds impossible."
"Impossible things become possible when we take the first step," I said. "And you are not alone in this journey. Trust in God’s strength when yours feels insufficient. Open your heart to His guidance, even when it feels hard. And remember that healing takes time. Be patient with yourself."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Thank you, Father."
"May God grant you the strength and courage to take these steps, my child, and know that I will keep you in my prayers."
The faint sound of her rising from the kneeler followed, and as the door on her side of the confessional creaked open and closed, I sat there in the silence, my heart heavy with both hope and sorrow.
For her.
For me.
For the sins that bound us all.
More confessions came.
One after another, businessmen confessing to affairs, wives admitting to fantasies of strangers, young lovers grappling with the consequences of their first mistakes.
This was a sanctified theater where each confession was a performance of shame and sin laid bare.
Some sought forgiveness, others seemed to relish the opportunity to speak their darkness aloud, as though voicing it made it more real, more thrilling.
And through it all, I remained still, cloaked in my cassock with the weight of my collar pressing against my neck.
My role was to guide, to absolve, but there was a part of me today—a darker, hungrier part—that leaned into the confessions, that hungered for the intimacy of their truths.
Soon an elderly woman knelt on the other side, and her voice rose as she spoke of her impatience with her grandchildren.
Apparently, one of them she had daydreamed about kicking in the bottom every day, but never acted on that fantasy. . .at least not yet.
Next, a businessman confessed to coveting his colleague’s success, a success he described in vivid detail—the sprawling mansion with a view of the city, the private jet parked at an exclusive airstrip, the gleaming sports cars that his colleague never seemed to drive but always flaunted in company parking lots.
The envy ate away at him, festering like an open wound he could neither heal nor ignore.
And due to that jealousy, he had begun an affair with his colleague’s wife.
“She’s exquisite, Father. A woman you couldn’t dream up, even if you tried. Her skin is like silk—smooth, radiant. And her scent. . . it’s intoxicating. It clings to me, even now.”
I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my voice steady. “You allowed your envy to lead you to sin?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I wanted everything he had, and when I couldn’t take his wealth or his power, I took her. She is the one thing he values most, the jewel in his crown. And when she touches me—God, forgive me—I feel like I’ve won.”
His words grew more fevered. “It started with stolen glances at the company gala. Her lips were painted red and her pink dress. . .Dear God. She caught me staring and didn’t look away. She smirked, Father. Like she wanted me to notice.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “You chose to act on this temptation.”
“She invited it,” His voice cracked. “The way she brushed her hand against mine as she passed, the way she lingered a little too long in the coatroom after everyone else had left. And then. . .that night in the elevator. We were alone. Her perfume filled the small space. She looked at me, her lips parted, and before I knew it, I had her pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist.”
I pursed my lips together.
“She didn’t resist. She kissed me back with such hunger, such desperation, like she’d been waiting for someone to notice her beyond her husband’s shadow.”
The image he painted was sinful, indulgent, dripping with forbidden allure.
I spoke, “You violated the sanctity of her marriage?”
“Yes. And it hasn’t stopped there. We’ve been meeting in secret for months now. In hotel rooms, in my car, even in the office after hours. Every time I touch her, it’s like I’m stealing a piece of his life, and I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”
I took a deep breath.
This was more than jealousy; this was a man consumed by desire, driven by a need to possess what wasn’t his—not just a woman, but the very essence of his rival’s success.
“You’ve let your envy control you,” I said softly. “And now you’re drowning in the consequences.”
His voice grew quieter, almost broken. “The worst part, Father, is that I don’t regret it. Not the way I should. Because when I’m with her, it feels like I finally have something he can’t take from me. I feel powerful. Desired. Worthy.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “You have allowed envy to take root in your heart, and from it, your actions have borne sins against both your colleague and his wife. It is not my role to judge you—that judgment belongs to God. But to truly repent, you must confront the choices you’ve made and take steps toward redemption.”
The man remained silent.
“First,” I opened my eyes, “you must cease this affair immediately. Every moment you continue to sin with this woman, you deepen the wounds of betrayal and move further away from the grace of God. You must let her go.”
“But—” he started, and his voice trembled again, “I can’t. I—”
“You can, and you must, if you are sincere in seeking forgiveness.” And I felt like a hypocrite.
He exhaled sharply.
“Second,” I continued, “you must confess to your colleague. Not to clear your conscience, but to take accountability for the harm you’ve caused. Repentance without accountability is hollow.”
“I. . .don’t know. . .”
“And third,” I swallowed. “pray for humility and strength. The sin of envy thrives in comparison. Redirect your focus—not to what others have, but to the blessings in your own life. Ask God to help you find contentment and to cleanse your heart of jealousy.”
Silence lingered for a moment.
“How. . .do I even start, Father?”
“Start by surrendering, acknowledge that you cannot fix this alone. Pray every day for the courage to face your sins and the discipline to walk away from temptation. As penance,” I added, “I ask that you dedicate time each week to acts of service. Volunteer, give to those in need and humble yourself before others. Let your hands do the work of healing as a reminder of the path you’re choosing.”
“I’ll try, Father. I’ll. . .I’ll try.”
“That’s all God asks, surrender to Him, and He will guide you.”
But was it truly that easy?
I found myself in the grips of sin with no true solution in sight.
“Thank you,” the man whispered.
Next, the sound of him rising from the kneeler echoed softly in the confessional.
As the door on his side clicked shut, I bowed my head, praying that his resolve would hold firm and that he would find the strength—unlike me—to turn away from the darkness that had consumed him.
The confessionals continued.
A new person entered on the other side.
The door closed.
The person kneeled, and a dark voice sounded on the other side. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
A dangerous edge laced those words.
I knew without seeing his face who it was.
Don Fortunato’s here for his weekly confession. Why does he come if he will not truly repent?
I adjusted my posture. “Speak, my child. God is listening.”
The Don was chillingly calm. “I have blood on my hands, Father.”
The admission was stark, but not uncommon in Obsidian Bay or even uncommon for him.
Yet something about his tone made my pulse quicken.
“I see her. This woman. She doesn’t know what she does to me, how she invades every thought, every breath. She’s. . .my everything.”
Unease curled in my stomach.
“I am obsessed with her. And. . .today I’ve yet again made sure no one else can have her.”
Tension gathered in my shoulders. “What do you mean, my son?”
“I've killed for her again and again, but this man is number ten.” His confession was delivered without a hint of remorse, his voice as steady as if he were reading scripture. “He asked for her number after she auditioned for a ballet. And. . .she gave it to him.”
I swallowed.
“So I made sure he would never be able to call her later.”
I kept my voice calm. “You’ve taken lives for her?”
“And I’d take a thousand more. She’s mine, Father. Mine in a way no one else could understand.”
This wasn’t just sin.
This was idolatry—a worship of flesh and desire, of possession and power.
I had heard confessions from men like him before, but none so deeply intertwined with their obsession. “What do you hope to gain by confessing this? Do you seek forgiveness?”
There was a low chuckle— humorless and dark. “Forgiveness? No. I don’t think men like me are capable of being forgiven. I came here because I wanted to hear what you’d say. What a holy man like you thinks of a man like me.”
I leaned back slightly, pressing my hands against the armrests of the chair. “You came for answers.”
“I came for honesty.” His voice sharpened, and I could feel his gaze even through the lattice. “Do you think I’m damned, Father? Do you think God would have me cast out for loving someone so much I’d destroy the world for her?”
The intensity of his question pressed against my chest. “Love, my son, does not demand destruction. True love seeks to protect, to uplift, not to possess or harm.”
He scoffed. “You think I don’t protect her? I’ve done more for her than anyone else in her life. I’ve kept her safe, made sure no one touches her, no one hurts her.”
“At what cost?” I countered. “Her freedom? Her peace? Her soul? You speak of love, but what you describe is control.”
There was a pause, the longest yet.
When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, but no less intense. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do want to control her. But isn’t that what God does to all of us? He demands our devotion, our worship. He tells us we’re His and His alone.”
“God’s love is unconditional,” I said firmly. “It is not possessive or destructive. It is not jealous in the way of men. What you feel is not God’s love—it is the love of the flesh, of power, and of pride.”
His laughter was softer this time, almost sad. “You’re good, Father. Better than I expected. But you don’t understand men like me. You don’t understand what it’s like to have someone burrow into your soul until you can’t tell where they end and you begin.”
I blinked.
But. . .I do. . .now I do. . .
Celeste’s face flashed in my mind.
There was a faint creak as Don Fortunato stood on the other side. “Perhaps. . .I’ll pray, Father.”
Speechless, I parted my lips.
“But if God doesn’t answer, I’ll keep doing what I have to until she’s mine, until she’s trapped in my cage.”
Before I could speak, the door to the confessional opened and closed, leaving me alone in the silence.
My hands trembled slightly as I rested them on my lap.
His words echoed in my mind, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my own hypocrisy.
Am I so different from him?
While I hadn’t killed over her, my own thoughts of Celeste were no less obsessive, no less consuming.
I closed my eyes and bowed my head. “Lord, grant me the wisdom to guide others, even as I wrestle with my own sin. Help me to find the strength to be the shepherd You called me to be because. . .I’m lost right now. . .”
Yet, the silence in the confessional offered no answers.
Only the faint scent of incense and the lingering shadow of a don who had walked too far down the path of darkness to turn back.
Someone knocked on my door.
“Yes?”
Sister Agatha’s voice sounded next. “The last confession is here. We will be heading for our dinner soon.”
I checked the time and confirmed it was 5:20pm. “That is fine, Sister. Enjoy your meal and I will see you for evening prayer later.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Sister Agatha’s soft steps retreated away from the confessional.
Then, the door on the other side of the confessional booth swung open again, and a new soul came to unburden themselves.
The scent of jasmine and honey filled the space and my heart ached.
Celeste.