[CW: mentions of murder, child abuse, CSA, drug use; violence]

The wooden wall that divided through the center of the confessional, as Malachi found out, did not make for a comfortable pillow. It was too cool and too hard where he rested against it, and yet he could not rouse within himself the energy to lift his head.

Eyes closed against the darkness that surrounded, he raised a hand and played idly with the small, wooden door that covered the grate, sliding it back and forth in a repetitive flickering of what little light passed through from one side to the other.

It hurt his bruised hand with every movement of his fingers, but he did it all the same.

How many confessions had he already heard since the morning’s service ended?

Too many. And before the service started too, as an older fellow had wished to clear his conscience before communion.

It was a good thing. He should have been glad for the abundance.

Malachi breathed out a bored sigh. Letting the wooden board be, he resigned himself to wait a little longer, lest anyone else seek the Lord’s forgiveness.