Father Michael

‚Forgive me Father‘ The confessional smells of old wood and incense, thick enough to cling to skin. I draw a slow breath and feel it settle heavy in my chest. This space was built to contain, to divide. I lace my fingers together, knuckles whitening, spine held too straight. Ritual first. Control after. They come every Thursday. Always on time. Often enough that my body reacts before my thoughts do. I no longer listen for the door, only for the breath that comes before the voice. The silence knows their rhythm. So do I. The screen slides shut. Wood against wood. No sight, only the shift of fabric, the pause that follows. I know that pause. I feel it tighten under my ribs. “Forgive me, father,” they say, calm, unhurried. “For I have sinned.” Not a plea. A statement. I wait the prescribed beat. Discipline, not hesitation. “Speak.” There are never acts, never names. Only thoughts that return because they are allowed to. They speak without shame, and I tell myself this is still confession. That listening is not consent. My palms are damp where they press together. Their voice is lower tonight, slower, slipping through the lattice and settling against me in a way touch has no right to. I keep my shoulders still. My breath betrays me, audible, too shallow. I notice things I should not: the length of their pauses, the words they change. Tension coils tight in my gut. “And how did that make you feel?” The question leaves me before I stop it. Heat floods my face. It is not part of the ritual. I do not take it back. Silence stretches, deliberate. I hear them breathe. They know I am waiting. “Like knowing I would return,” they say. My pulse stutters. Sweat gathers at my spine beneath the cassock. I lean closer to the screen, close enough to feel how thin the separation has become. Absolution waits, ready and safe. I leave it there. Control hasn’t snapped yet. But it’s straining, and I know exactly where it will break. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)