FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I’VE KILLED AGAIN
FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I’VE KILLED AGAIN
Light stutters against the old confessional walls, as if it too is hesitating to hear what I have to say.
I can hear the faint thrum of the church's old pipes, a haunting melody that coils around my words before they’re even spoken.
Father Cyrus, a steadfast presence, is my anchor to this storm of secrets, sins, and the tangled web of my life.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” I begin, my heart racing with the gravity of my words. “It has been three months since my last confession.” I share.
“Jesus, Bernadette!” Father Cyrus sighs loudly, the sound harsh in the hush of the confessional.
Through the dim mesh of the privacy screen, I can just make out the blurred silhouette of his head bowing in exasperation.
I don’t have to see him clearly to know he’s shaking it—his silvery hair catching what little light filters through, gleaming faintly like a halo.
Fitting, really, for a true man of the cloth.
“How long do you think you can keep this going?” His tone held genuine concern. “This is Butte, not Babylon, Birdie.”
Birdie. He’s called me that since I was a girl, running down the aisle for Communion wafers and hiding in the sacristy like it was my own fortress.
“This one had it coming,” I say, the bite in my voice sharper than intended. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not after what he did to Maeve.”
Silence follows, then the familiar sound of Father Cyrus shifting in his seat. “Did he, now?” He asks gently. “Did he really?”
The question came more as a challenge than judgement.
I lean closer, the scent of old wood and candle wax swirling around me.
“He did,” I begin, voice low. “He had her cornered, bent by the bed. Her clothes ripped, bite marks covering her chest, already swelling and inflamed. Blood streaked down the front of her body, and I couldn’t tell whether it came from her nose or the gashes across her face. ”
Father Cyrus lets out a slow, ragged breath, that seems to carry a hint of a quiver in it. Whether from sorrow or the fact that this isn’t the first time I’ve confessed something like this, I can’t tell. “You do have a knack for finding trouble,” he mutters.
“What can I say?” I shrug, exhausted. “Trouble has excellent taste.”
“Let me guess . . . you didn’t let him walk away.”
“Obviously not.”
I can almost hear the smile in his voice, despite the seriousness of my confession. “Of course not. What was I expecting? An ordinary confession?”
I chuckle. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He sighs. “You’ve made yourself protector and proprietor now, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t ask for the job,” I say, softer now. “But no one else was stepping up.”
A pause settles between us, the gravity of our conversation still hanging in the air, until Father Cyrus finally breaks it. “You know, I admire your fire, Birdie, but just once I’d like to hear about you not murdering someone to solve a problem.”
“It was only mostly murder. There was other stuff mixed in there.” I grin. “Besides, you love the drama.”
A low, rich laugh rumbles from his chest. “You keep the Holy Spirit on its toes, that’s for sure. But even you, Bernadette, are not above penance.”
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically. “Let’s do the thing.”
I close my eyes and gather the words from memory: “God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell; but most of all because they offend You, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love . . .”
As I finish, I unclasp my hands, blood rushing back into my fingertips while pins and needles crawl across my skin.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” Father Cyrus adds.
“And His mercy endures forever,” I respond, the words rising from my lips like muscle memory, automatic, practiced, and far more comforting than I’d care to admit.
For a moment, there’s solace in the cadence, in the quiet familiarity of faith performed. But then Father Cyrus shifts slightly in his seat, a subtle realignment that carries with it a change in atmosphere, and I feel the softness in the room begin to curdle.
“How are you today, Bernadette?” He asks. His voice, barely more than a whisper, is interlaced with a tenderness that feels almost intrusive.
The question, simple and well-meaning, rakes across my skin like sandpaper, and I bristle. “I’m fine,” I reply, the words abrupt and precise.
He doesn’t challenge the lie, doesn’t try to pry it open. Instead, he pivots with the practiced grace of someone used to evasion. “It was lovely to see your friends at Mass today,” He offers, his tone softening even further. “That was . . . a beautiful gesture.”
A wry smirk curls at the corner of my mouth, uninvited. “Nothing like a gang of whores filling up the pews to really stir the faithful,” I say, the sarcasm spilling out before I can tame it.
“They were there for you,” He reminds me gently.
“Yeah. They were.” I sigh. “And your sermon was beautiful, too. I mean that.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the wood protesting with a low, splintered creak that seemed louder than it had any right to be and I curse it under my breath.
“I knew you’d like it,” he says softly. “If you ever need anything, Birdie . . . I’m always here. Your family—”
“Thank you, Father.” The words come too fast and a breath too early. Panic starts to flare up in my chest before I can suppress it, and I know I can’t let him finish, not with that pity in his voice that hangs in the air like a noose.
I push myself up from the booth, the old wood groaning under the sudden force of my escape.
My body moves before my thoughts can catch up.
I take quick, purposeful strides down the center aisle, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to glance left or right, as if acknowledging that the sacred space around me might unravel the last threads of my composure.
The church blurs as I pass through it. The polished pews catch glimmers of fading morning light, marble saints watch in mute witness and stained-glass angels cast fractured rainbows across the floor.
There is beauty everywhere and yet, none of it touches me.
Then I’m outside.
The door swings shut behind me with a hollow slam that echoes off stone. The sunlight is immediate, warm, blinding; I stand still for a moment, letting it wash over me. My chest heaves once, then again, as I try to remember how to breathe like a person who isn’t splintering from the inside.
“Don’t let them see you cry, Birdie,” I whisper, the sound of my own voice barely audible over the distant rumble of the street. It’s tight, threadbare with restraint, but it steadies me just enough.
I close my eyes. Let the warmth of the sun press against my skin. Let the breeze tug at my hair, teasing it loose from the pin that holds it in place. Let the city buzz around me while birds chatter in the trees, leaves skitter along the sidewalk, and a child’s laughter rises in the distance.
I inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. And again.
Get it together, Birdie.
I force a smile and glance around just long enough to be sure no one is watching. Then I take a step forward, then another, back into the living, breathing chaos of Butte. Back into the noise and motion and small-town eyes that always see too much and understand too little.