03-21-2022, 03:50 AM
Malachi was not the kind of man to push.
It did not matter that every part of him, every chemical reaction that sparked into waking life to form his very being, begged him to do just that. Clawed at him, more accurately, with hands of sharpened needles and pins that tore right through his every thought. It was all that he could do to keep them covered and hope that they did not tear through his words too. His was a quiet outward existence, because of it. Low, steady, calm, firm -- he could not silence his own internal dissent, but he could guide someone else through their own.
What was a priest, after all, if not a holy hypocrite?
He was glad to have already straightened up by the time Richards started to speak. Took him a while to get there, but once he did, his admissions tumbled from his mouth and into Malachi's awaiting arms.
There was no interruption from the listening priest. There was hardly a breath's sound from his side of the confessional.
If he needed any more reason to be grateful that Father Richards could not hear his confession, it was the evident shame in his voice as he detailed his sins. His doubt, his despair, his unworthiness; his disobedience and lust most of all. Like there was nothing more evil in the world than his own desires, sated despairingly by his own hand. Eleven times, he said, eleven times he'd touched himself to the thought of that good man he knew was Crane.
God, how many times had Malachi's thoughts wandered away during Mass just this week, and found homes in the inappropriate thoughts about a certain disguise-wearing young man because someone in the pews happened to look like him? How many times had he done far worse than that? Oh it was awful, the way it didn't feel like a sin at all.
Father Richards was worse than Elijah Crane. Crane at least had the desire to be free, if only the world around him would permit it. Richards imprisoned himself willingly and threw away the key. What a devouring monster such fear and hatred formed, that sustained itself with its own blood. He was not even the worst of it -- there were others still that set their teeth upon those just like them, and chewed them down to nothing just to save themselves.
"Your spirit revolts not because you have not worked hard enough to correct it," Malachi started, somber, "but because you try so hard to neglect it."
Something told him that a soft-hearted approach would not be as effective on Richards as it had been on Crane. No, Richards seemed so firmly to believe that these were sins, and Malachi could not hope to change his mind completely with a few caring words.
"The worst sin you have committed is in doubting the love and mercy of God. He does not make mistakes. He fashioned you as he wanted you to be," he insisted, "and in struggling so hard against his design, it is only natural that you would fall. You doubt your service -- tell me, if you were to leave the church, would your issues be resolved?"
His tone made it clear that he was not expecting a 'yes.'
It did not matter that every part of him, every chemical reaction that sparked into waking life to form his very being, begged him to do just that. Clawed at him, more accurately, with hands of sharpened needles and pins that tore right through his every thought. It was all that he could do to keep them covered and hope that they did not tear through his words too. His was a quiet outward existence, because of it. Low, steady, calm, firm -- he could not silence his own internal dissent, but he could guide someone else through their own.
What was a priest, after all, if not a holy hypocrite?
He was glad to have already straightened up by the time Richards started to speak. Took him a while to get there, but once he did, his admissions tumbled from his mouth and into Malachi's awaiting arms.
There was no interruption from the listening priest. There was hardly a breath's sound from his side of the confessional.
If he needed any more reason to be grateful that Father Richards could not hear his confession, it was the evident shame in his voice as he detailed his sins. His doubt, his despair, his unworthiness; his disobedience and lust most of all. Like there was nothing more evil in the world than his own desires, sated despairingly by his own hand. Eleven times, he said, eleven times he'd touched himself to the thought of that good man he knew was Crane.
God, how many times had Malachi's thoughts wandered away during Mass just this week, and found homes in the inappropriate thoughts about a certain disguise-wearing young man because someone in the pews happened to look like him? How many times had he done far worse than that? Oh it was awful, the way it didn't feel like a sin at all.
Father Richards was worse than Elijah Crane. Crane at least had the desire to be free, if only the world around him would permit it. Richards imprisoned himself willingly and threw away the key. What a devouring monster such fear and hatred formed, that sustained itself with its own blood. He was not even the worst of it -- there were others still that set their teeth upon those just like them, and chewed them down to nothing just to save themselves.
"Your spirit revolts not because you have not worked hard enough to correct it," Malachi started, somber, "but because you try so hard to neglect it."
Something told him that a soft-hearted approach would not be as effective on Richards as it had been on Crane. No, Richards seemed so firmly to believe that these were sins, and Malachi could not hope to change his mind completely with a few caring words.
"The worst sin you have committed is in doubting the love and mercy of God. He does not make mistakes. He fashioned you as he wanted you to be," he insisted, "and in struggling so hard against his design, it is only natural that you would fall. You doubt your service -- tell me, if you were to leave the church, would your issues be resolved?"
His tone made it clear that he was not expecting a 'yes.'
