There were footsteps in the hallway now, just behind my door. I lifted my eyes as I saw the knob turn, and then he stepped inside. He was wearing a long black robe that just barely fell over his dark shoes. He was just as I had imagined him to be; an elderly man with tufts of silvery white hair covering his head. My vision blurred a moment, and my eyes stung with weariness. I closed them for a moment and released a soft breath, nearly dozing as I listened to the sound of a chair’s legs scraping across the floor. The room quieted only for a moment before the seat creaked slightly beneath the good Father’s weight and I heard him place something on the table by my bed.
“Son?” His voice was soft and seemed too young of a voice to be spilling from between those thin lips surrounded by wrinkles and chalky skin. I felt his warm, smooth hand touch the back of mine, and I forced my heavy eyelids open. His eyes were bright and intelligent and colored a lovely shade of green; his pale lashes partially curtained the emerald orbs like snow on evergreen leaves. “Are you ready, son?”
At one time I would have said something facetious in response to this; I was too weak for sarcasm now. I simply nodded and stretched my thin legs, turning to lay flat on my back so that I would no longer be facing away from him. My eyes rose to the ceiling, and I opened my mouth, tried to force words from my dry throat, and I choked, breaking into soft, weary coughs that jarred my slender frame. Spots danced in front of my eyes as I felt his grip on my hand tighten. His other hand slid behind my neck, and he leaned me against his chest as he reached to the table, picking up my small paper cup and pressing it to my lips. Cool water rushed down my throat, and I sank against him as I calmed. Carefully, he laid me down, and I watched as he made the sign of the cross then he whispered a prayer before he looked to me.
“If there is anything you need to confess before me and the Lord, now would be the opportune time to do so,” He informed me gently as a kind smile softened his features.
This was what I had been waiting for; I felt tears gather in my eyes as I nodded and hoarsely murmured.
“Father,” I began, so softly that he had to lean forward to hear me. “B-bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Go on, son, tell me everything.”
“It started when I was seven and I broke my mother’s vase…”
2. First Confession
Childhood: The period of human life intermediate between the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth -- two removes from the sin of manhood and three from the remorse of age. ~Ambrose Bierce
There was blood on the floor beneath the shards of glass.
Pink carnations lay scattered about the blood tinged water and the pieces of the vase. Light from the noonday sun struck the floor, creating tiny spectrums across the pale, marble flooring. My bare feet were dampened by the water and blood; I had cut the tender flesh of my feet on small pieces of the glass when I had walked back to stare down at the disaster I had created. Since my foot was already injured, I did not hesitate to nudge a larger piece of glass with my toe, and I blankly watched as blood bubbled from a small, jagged cut.
Soft footsteps broke the silence about me, and a slender, pale hand came to rest quietly against my shoulder. Long, straight blonde hair tumbled against my cheek, and I closed my eyes as I took in the calming presence of my brother.
“Its as if the flowers are bleeding.” The voice was quiet; it reminded me of how God’s voice was described: a still, small voice.
My twin’s name was Shepherd.
The both of us had long, beautiful blonde hair that reached to our shoulders and eyes as blue and clear as the ocean. Shepherd’s eyes were slightly wider than mine, however, and looked far more innocent than my narrower, hard ones. I remember that that day he was wearing white; it was a long white, button down shirt and loose white pants. He had been ill for a few days, and had taken to wearing his pajamas all day. I had a similar pair, but mine were red like blood.
I didn’t see him look, but just after he spoke of the bleeding flowers, he began to run his little fingers through my hair tenderly with one hand while his other laid against my neck, and he drew me against him. “You’ve hurt yourself now, haven’t you?” He whispered against my temple. I can still feel his slightly chilled touch, the warmth of his breath that smelled faintly of cherries from the medicine he had obediently been downing.
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