by Ali Seay
(890 words)
The bang of the heavy church door made him jump.
Ed took a breath, picturing the suitcase, packed and ready in his trunk. A silent partner in his cowardice. He had no idea if he’d need it, but it was there if he had to go.
He was sure he’d have to go.
Glancing around to get his bearings he saw the accusatory glare of the old woman in the very back pew. She rose creakily from her knees, made the sign of the cross, kissed her rosary and began to make her way to the end of the pew.
Ed just stood there. Not knowing what to do. His face itched. Was there blood on it or was that just from the freezing rain outside?
Either way, the old hag gave him the evil eye as she made her way past. She tied a clear plastic rain bonnet over her sparse hair.
Ed hadn’t seen one of those in forever.
Her eyes gave him a final once over, lingering on his hand. His heart kicked as she passed by.
Off to find a cop? Report him? Call 911?
He finally found the nerve to glance down at his hand and see that it was not, in fact, the gore and blood he’d feared, but Adam’s stuffed Woolly Mammoth clutched in his hand. Soggy from the rain. Distorted by the force of his grip.
A sob died in his throat.
Just then an almost silent thud of a door closing and his eyes found the confessionals.
He unclenched his jaw and wondered, could he? Had he gone too far? Could God forgive such a crime against nature even if there had been a good reason? A reason in his name, no less?
He didn’t think so, but it might help him to think. The unburdening of confession. The evisceration of secrets.
His shoes left wet footprints on the polished marble floor.
The door creaked and then he was in, sitting. Releasing the stuffed mammoth into his lap, he stroked it. It made his heart ache.
The priest mumbled his obligatory greeting and Ed tried to remember his side of the non-conversation.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it’s been a lifetime since my last confession…”
He fumbled over the rest and finally they’d hit the part where he could tell the intricate barrier between himself and a man of God his crime against nature.
“I killed my son.”
There. He’s said it.
He plucked a wisp of black acrylic hair from the stuffed animal and fingered it. His chest ached like he was dying.
Maybe he would. God’s final blow. A massive heart attack in a dim confessional with blood on his hands and probably in his hair.
There was no hiding the surprise on the opposite side of the screen.
At some point, in the jumble of words, had come the command, “Explain yourself, my son.”
“He was…the devil was in him.”
He shut his eyes. Saw the shit smeared walls, the smiles from Adam. He heard the screaming and the ranting. Saw the mutilated family rabbit and finally, this morning, Adam standing over his mother. Dani had been slit from throat to crotch. Her insides a jumble of colors and smells as Adam rummaged through looking. Looking for something. Or just playing. He was a child after all.
Ed vomited it all up, knowing no one would believe him. Knowing that everyone would think it had been him to kill his wife and then his son.
Hence the suitcase in the car. Sitting there stowed away in the trunk as sleet ticked against the metal that shielded it.
Would he need it? Did you need a suitcase when you ran your car into a bridge abutment at 90 miles an hour? Or over the side of a bridge? Or just head-on into a tree?
Fantasies of death and relief and being with his family again flooded him.
He snapped back as the priest said, “There are ways. We could have helped.”
Ed smiled.
“I tried. We tried. Dani and I have been sure for a while now. We just wanted to save our son. Turns out for the Catholic church, as an entity at least, possession is out of fashion.”
Silence.
“I just wanted someone to know,” he said. “I needed to say it.”
“Son, I have to—”
He stood, placing the mammoth on the padded seat of the confessional.
“You do whatever it is you have to,” he said. “I have to go.”
He could feel the priest warring with his instincts. Just as he had warred with his. He’d tried holy water and praying. Ceremonies and pleas to God in the middle of the night on his aching knees. He’d tried everything. Finally, exhaustion and grief had pushed him and he’d taken the knife used on his beautiful wife and put an end to the thing inside his son.
All the while mourning the shell of his boy. The host for whatever lurked inside him.
He opened the confessional door.
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
Stalling.
He held the door for a moment. Addressed the screen. “I’ll end up wherever I end up. I’m very tired, Father. And very very sad.”
He let the door bang on his way out.
END
For the last 15+ years, Ali Seay has written professionally under a pen name. Now she’s shaken off her disguise to write as herself in the genre she loves the most. Ali lives in Baltimore with her family. Her greatest desire is to own a vintage Airstream and hit the road. Ali is the author of Go Down Hard (Grindhouse Press) and To Offer Her Pleasure (Weirdpunk Books). For more information visit aliseay.com or find her on Twitter @AliSeay11 or Instagram @introvert_fitness