To say that Malachi was without any sympathy for the man on the other side of the wall... it would be a lie. At many points in his life had he felt doubt, the kind that Richards spoke of; the kind that clawed its way down one's throat and burrowed deep within the pit of one's stomach to wait, to build, to grow until it melded with the lining and flooded every vein and artery with putrid doubt.

But if he was depraved, if he was sinful, as he knew himself to be, it was not because of who he loved.

"I don't understand, father. Is that not what you want me to tell you?"

Why else would he degrade himself so, if he did not expect for everyone else to do the same? Why plead for God's mercy, if he was not expecting punishment? This was masochistic. Seven weeks he'd spent without confession, and now he came willingly to spill his evil deeds and reach for the punishment he apparently wanted and deserved.

"Sin is a part of us as much as anything else. If it were not, we would have no need for confessionals, for penance, for a messiah," Malachi leaned his head back against the wood, eyes fixed on the dark top above. "When you have confessed this sin before, you were forgiven."

At least, he should have been.

"You are destroying yourself by not having faith in that. Do you not see it?"