THE PEARLY GATES CAN KISS MY ASS
THEN
The weather was pure shit. It was only drizzling when I first stepped outside, just enough to be irritating, but not enough to justify turning back.
Then, like some kind of sadistic mist trap from the heavens themselves, it began to pour the moment I reached the part of town with no awnings, no trees, and no hope of cover.
Naturally, I’d left my umbrella at home, a decision I began to regret with increasing intensity around the second block.
I paused on the church steps, letting the rain soak into my hair, trail down the line of my neck, and cling to my dress until the fabric grew heavy against my skin.
The wind picked up, and I let my eyes fall closed, bracing against a rush of cold air.
And there, in the quiet roar of rain, I let my thoughts drift to John.
I used to meet him on evenings like this, when the world had folded in on itself, soft and gray and utterly private.
He would bring me wildflowers he’d found out in the fields, wrapped in crumpled old newspaper, because he knew I hated anything that felt too perfect or polished.
He used to tell me I looked beautiful when I was soaked to the bone, as though the rain couldn’t put out the fire burning inside me.
I’d laugh, saying he needed his eyes checked.
He’d laugh too, but he never stopped looking at me like I was something worth surviving for. And now he was gone.
Now they were both gone. Ray’s smile, gap-toothed and full of innocence, haunted me more than the loneliness.
When I buried him, I buried pieces of myself too, pieces I never got back.
The storm pressed down on me, mirroring the weight of my grief.
It was both cleansing and cruel, relentless in its truth.
I made my way through the entrance of the church, my hands gripping the rosary that dangled from my wrist. The beads felt cold against my skin, and the familiar scent of incense clung to the air like it always did, wrapping around me like a shroud.
Inside, the quiet of the church felt unusually oppressive.
It had always been a place of solace, but today it felt like the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to speak the words that were going to change everything.
Father Cyrus had been my confessor for years, not just a priest offering absolution, but a man who had witnessed every shade of me: the good, the bad, and the messy, unguarded parts I rarely showed the world.
The lines etched into my face were familiar to him, as were the subtle sparks in my eyes, whether I was about to crack a sarcastic joke or silently carry a secret too heavy to speak aloud.
He wasn’t the kind of priest who delivered lectures or fired off brimstone-laden sermons.
Instead, he carried a warmth that gave a feeling of safety, as if you could lay bare every truth and every lie without fear of judgment.
I could hear his voice in my head, as if he had already expected something like this from me: I know you, Birdie, you’re not someone who hides her truth.
I took a deep breath, silently willing my heart to stop racing, and made my way to the confessional booth at the back of the church.
The sound of the rain tapping against the windows followed me, a steady percussion to match my nervous steps.
I pushed open the small wooden door and settled into the narrow seat, the wood creaking softly underneath me.
While the confessional was by its nature a confining little box, it offered a strange kind of refuge.
Father Cyrus was already there, waiting in the other side of the booth, his presence unmistakable in the gentle rhythm of his breath and the soft rustle of fabric as he folded his hands.
I couldn’t see him, but I could picture him clearly—silver hair neatly combed to the side, glasses perched low on his nose in that familiar, grandfatherly way.
“Ah, Birdie,” he greeted me, his voice a rich rumble. He didn’t use my full name anymore; to him, I was always Birdie, a nickname that had, at some point, overtaken Bernadette.
I leaned back slightly. “Not sure if it’s a compliment that you recognize me before I even speak, Father,” I said, dryly. “Could mean I’ve spent far too much time in this booth.”
He snorted, the sound soft. “Or that you’ve always had a distinct way of entering a room, even one you’re not seen in. So, what brings you here today, my dear?”
I raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Father, I’m surprised you haven’t moved to a warmer place by now. You know, somewhere where people aren’t so prone to confessing sins about, oh, I don’t know . . . running brothels?”
The screen between us was a mercy and a torment all at once.
I couldn’t see his face, only imagine it, but I heard the smile in his voice, heard the quiet huff of laughter he tried, and failed, to suppress.
“Running a brothel, you say? Well, I suppose I’ll have to hear this confession before I pass judgment. ”
I folded my arms over my chest and let out a short bitter laugh. “Good thing you’re sitting down, Father. I’ve got a lot to say, and I’m not interested in keeping it short and sweet today.”
He shifted slightly on the other side of the screen. “I’m listening, Birdie,” he said, the warmth never leaving his tone. “Go ahead.”
I stared down at the rosary in my hands, fingers running over the cold, smooth beads.
I’d held them so many times, clutching them during every confession, every moment of doubt or regret.
They were my security, the last thread that had kept me tethered to something resembling normalcy.
But today they felt different. Today they were just .
. . beads. Taking a deep breath, I turned my eyes back towards Father Cyrus, trying to steady my shaking hands before the words came tumbling out.
“I opened a brothel,” I said flatly. My voice didn’t waver, but it was quieter than I’d intended.
When Father Cyrus spoke, his voice carried no judgment, only that same calm patience I had come to count on. “And how did that come to be?” He asked gently.
I let out a short laugh, but it had no humor to it. “Well, it wasn’t exactly part of my life plan, Father. But you know what they say: When life hands you a pile of wreckage, you might as well build something out of it.”
“Is that what you did, Birdie?” He asked. “Built something from wreckage?”
“Hell, yes. And let me tell you, it’s a damn fine wreckage I’ve got to work with.
” I shot him a sly grin, though he couldn’t see it.
“You wouldn’t believe how many men there are in this town who think they deserve a bit of company.
A drink, a little something extra . . . and a place to forget their miserable lives.
It’s like they just can’t help themselves, Father. ”
Father Cyrus chuckled. “I’m beginning to think you’ve got a flair for sarcasm, my dear.”
I stared at the ceiling, searching for the words. “What can I say? It’s a gift.” My eyes narrowed, a spark of heat burning behind them. “I named it The Oily Cat.”
“The Oily Cat?” Father Cyrus repeated, his voice full of surprise. “Well . . . that’s unique.”
“Yeah, I know. A classy name, huh?” I couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at my lips, but there was an edge to it now, the kind of edge that comes from being both defiant and unapologetic.
“But it works. They come in, they get what they need, and they leave. No strings attached. No judgment. Just money for me and a bit of peace for them.”
“You know I’m not blind, Birdie,” he said, his voice still gentle but edged with concern. “I know this town has its share of places like that. But you—you’ve never struck me as the kind of woman who would choose that path. So tell me . . . why a brothel?”
“I had nothing left. Nothing. After John, after Ray, it felt like the world had swallowed me whole. And when those men attacked me, when they took what little I had left, I had a choice. I could crawl into a hole and die, or I could do what I needed to survive. And I chose survival.”
“And you’ve found peace in this . . . work?” He asked.
I snorted. “Peace? Father, if you think I’m walking around holding hands with angels, singing hymns all day, you’ve got another thing coming.
But I’ve found control. I’ve found a way to make sure I don’t let the world push me around anymore.
If I’m gonna play in the muck, I might as well own the damn swamp. ”
There was a long pause and I know he was studying my words, searching for the layers beneath them.
He’d seen the wife, the mother, the widow, the woman driven to the edge.
But now he was seeing someone different, a woman who had taken her pain and turned it into power.
“You know, Birdie,” he spoke finally, “the world will try to break you down, again and again, it doesn’t care about your pain or your choices.
But it’s clear to me that you’ve done what you had to do to rebuild yourself.
You’ve found strength in a place where many would have crumbled. ”
I sighed, rubbing my fingers over the smooth beads of the rosary, feeling their familiar comfort seep into my bones. “I don’t know about strength, Father, I just know I needed to survive. And if that means doing something I never thought I’d do, then so be it.”
Father Cyrus’s voice softened, almost a whisper now. “I think you’ve always had strength, Birdie, you just didn’t know where to look for it. And maybe, just maybe, this is where it’s led you.”
“You don’t think less of me?” I asked quietly, the vulnerability in my voice a stark contrast to the bravado I’d been carrying thus far.
Father Cyrus huffed. “Not in the slightest. But I do worry, my child, this path . . . it will be hard. It will demand things from you that you may not have anticipated. But remember, you are never alone, not truly, not with the faith you carry.”
I gave a wry smile, letting his words sink in. “You’re a good man, Father, but don’t go getting soft on me now. I still need you to keep me in check, keep me from crossing the line.”
“I’ll do what I can, Birdie,” he said with a chuckle, “but I think it’s clear you’re not someone who needs a lot of saving.”
I stood up, smoothing the folds of my dress. “No, I suppose I’m not. But a little guidance never hurt.”
“You’ll have it, always.” Father Cyrus said warmly. “And if you ever need someone to talk to, know that I’m here.”
I nodded, turning to leave. The door of the confessional creaked again as I pushed it open and walked back through the church ready to step back out into the night.
The rain was still falling in steady sheets, but for the first time in a long while, I felt like I had made peace with myself—not with my sins, but with the woman I had become.
I wasn’t the woman I thought I’d be, but I was the woman I needed to be.
“Take care of yourself, Birdie,” Father Cyrus called after me.
“You too, Father,” I replied, offering a small, genuine smile before stepping out into the storm.