text: Father Thomas lowered his eyes to the velvet cushion on which he was seated. He traced his fingertip along its embroidery, following every intricate cross and curve. Much like the rest of the confessional, the cushion was well-worn, with broken threads that poked out from its stitching, inviting a destructive tug from the absentminded. The priest’s actions were more deliberate than that. He was stalling, passing time in the awkward silence that often followed his pointed questions. Passing time, until -- “It was Alexis, Father. Alexis Mackey,” said the voice beyond the partition. Ah. The man on the other side was Frank Altezza. The two of them had their early fifties in common, but little else. Frank was a loud man who drove a loud Mustang and who refused to admit that he’d aged past his prime. He was also crying. This was not uncommon in the confessional, but Father Thomas had not outgrown his distaste for it. “I didn’t want to,” said Frank. “I just --“ “Of course you did,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “There was no one holding a gun to your head. There was no fortune to be made in the deed. What, other than a deep desire of the flesh, could have made you do such a thing?” “I just -- you know, I never meant for it to go this far.” “Yes you did, Frank. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you expect to be honest with Michelle?” “Father --“ Frank’s face became clouded. “You can’t make me tell her.” “Reconciliation and repentance go hand-in-hand.” “It’ll crush her.” “And the pain you both experience will make you less likely to sin again.” “She’ll leave.” “She won’t. But even if she does, far better that than to live with a lie. That’s your penance, Frank. You need to tell her and apologize. And you also need to apologize to Alexis.” “Alexis should apologize to me!” That was loud. Too loud. Others waiting outside might have heard it. “Enough. She’s half your age and you indulged in your in your brokenness together. Own your sin and apologize.” Frank took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, Father.” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.” “Amen. Thank you, Father.” Frank crossed himself and stood. He pushed aside the scarlet curtain and Father Thomas watched as he stepped out of the confessional, taking the chip on his shoulder with him. Frank was what the priest had come to think of as an identity Catholic. He’d come to know many of them in his six years at Our Lady of Virtue Parish. These were members of the Church who, though excellent at ritual, were lacking in faith. They prayed the Rosary. They attended Mass. He presided over their Catholic weddings and their children’s baptisms. When he presided over their Catholic funerals, however, he found himself wondering at their fates. And on that note, he often wondered if he was doing the Franks of the world a disservice, providing absolution when they’d just be screwing the Alexis’s of the world by the weekend and asking for forgiveness before the month was out. He wondered if he ought to care more. He remembered caring a lot more, back when he was an associate priest in New Hampshire. Now, leading a church in Brooklyn, those memories seemed faded and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Well, it had been a few minutes. Perhaps that was the rest of it for the afternoon and he would finally be able to return home and shut off for a while. Father Thomas rose from his velvet cushion and pushed through the curtain before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the sanctuary. The priest no longer saw the beauty of the place, the majesty that struck most people when they visited. It was the cracked panes of stained glass that drew his attention now, as did the water-damaged ceiling plaster, the chipped baptismal font, and the ever-growing rows of empty pews at Mass, which meant repairs were unlikely to come anytime soon. The pews were all empty today, of course. All except one. The priest shifted his attention to a lone figure seated a few rows back from where he stood. The man was younger, early thirties. His head was lowered, his shoulders drawn in, and he was clothed in a worn, gray sweater that hung from his body like a shroud. Without looking up, the man spoke, “Father, you think maybe you’ve got time for me?” Jesus would have taken pity on the man. Father Thomas felt only a slight irritation. But he had a duty and he had an obligation, and so he gestured with palms wide open and said, “Of course, come on in.” The priest turned and stepped back into the confessional, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He sat on the velvet cushion and rolled his shoulders back, preparing his mind for what would hopefully be his last session of the day. Light filtered into the other side of the booth as a bandaged hand pulled open the curtain -- the priest hadn’t noticed it behind the pew. The younger man stepped inside, the floor groaning under his weight. Even through the partition, it was clear he had a more powerful build than his clothing had let on. He knelt before the screen, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” “God is with us and will hear you,” said the priest. “How long has it been since your last confession?” “It’s been, uh...” The man trailed off. “It’s okay -- there’s no need to be ashamed.” “Father, I honestly don’t know how to answer your question.” That was a strange thing to say, but strange things were often said inside the confessional. “Well, have you had confession before?” “I’m, uh -- I’m sorry, Father. I have memories of confession, you know. But I...” He trailed off again. “What’s your name?” asked Father Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” “Daniel Walsh. And no, I’ve never attended Mass in New York.” “But you are baptized within the Church?” “I’m sorry -- I’m sure this frustrating --“ “Daniel, I’m happy to meet with you, but the sacrament of confession is for those who have received a Catholic baptism.” “Look, I remember Mass, my Confirmation -- all of it.” “So you were baptized, then.” “I just don’t know if it was real.” The priest shifted in his seat. It was becoming clear how this was going to go and it would be best to simply get on with it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you,” said Father Thomas. Daniel gave a meek nod, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I killed someone, Father.” The priest gave a slow, solemn nod. He’d heard more than one grave sin confessed during his time in the city and it was best not to react too strongly. After allowing a moment of silence to pass, he said, “The Lord Jesus Christ died for all of our sins, Daniel. When did this happen?” “Today. A couple hours ago, maybe.” “Tell me more.” “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d really prefer not to.” Father Thomas did his best to disguise his impatience. “The nature of Christ’s forgiveness is that it requires repentance. Repentance requires remorse. If you’re unable to speak --“ “I feel remorse, Father,” his voice was at a near-whisper. “I’m not a killer, you know? I’m... a janitor.” “Where do you work?” “The, uh -- the U.N.,” said Daniel. He was caught off-guard by the priest’s shift in conversation, which had been exactly the point of it. “Wow,” said Father Thomas. “They put you through a background check for a job like that?” Daniel nodded. “Yeah, I got fingerprinted and stuff...” “And you said you’d never attended Mass in New York before. Where are you from?” “South Dakota. Outside Aberdeen. You know, flyover country.” “That’s got to be a culture shock.” “Yeah. For sure.” Daniel gave a slight, sad smile. “What brought you out here?” “A girl. I think. Maybe. I don’t know -- we’re not together now.” That was a misstep. Time to steer the conversation back. “So you’re a midwestern guy with a spotless record.” Daniel nodded. “Until now, I guess.” “Tell me what happened, Daniel.” “Father, I --“ “It’s okay.” Daniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m scared of what I might do.” “Give your fear over to God and tell me what’s on your heart.” Daniel swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. Father Thomas turned his attention away from his confessant and instead focused on the familiar feel of the pad of his middle finger against velvet. He let it glide along the raised, golden stitching, following the trance of its pattern until -- “It was a kid,” started Daniel. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “He was on one of those one-wheel skateboard things - you know what I’m talking about?” Father Thomas nodded, but said nothing. “I was walking back home from the station and I didn’t hear him ‘cause I had my ear buds in. He was going at a pretty good clip and I guess I must have crossed in front of him -- I don’t know -- and his backpack caught on my pinky finger. Ripped all the skin clean off.” Daniel raised his bandaged hand for show. It seemed remarkably clean for such a recent and serious wound. He continued, becoming emotional, “Something came over me -- I can’t describe it. I had no control. I pulled him off the sidewalk, into an alley -- there was this brick on the ground nearby and I just grabbed it and --“ Daniel let out a sob. Father Thomas gave him a moment, then quietly said, “Go on.” “I smashed it into his face over and over and over again, until there was nothing left but flaps of skin and teeth and bits of bone and -- oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “There was so much blood. I’m sorry, Father.” “Christ is here with us, Daniel,” said the priest, keeping the steadiest tone he could muster. “Do you think anyone saw you?” “I don’t know -- I didn’t see anyone.” “What did you do with the body?” “I got scared. I just left him there. God, I don’t even know who he was! He was just a kid and --” “Daniel,” said Father Thomas, cutting him off. “I’m going to slide open the partition.” “Okay...” Daniel wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Father Thomas slid the screen aside. He glanced over Daniel’s body, then locked eyes with him. “You mentioned a couple times not being sure of what’s real. I don’t see a drop of blood on you.” “I told you, I was close to home. I went back to clean up and take care of my hand.” “Did you go to the hospital?” “No -- I was scared.” “There’s no blood on that bandage of yours.” The look on Daniel’s face was one of terror. “You don’t believe me.” “I’m just trying to help you find the truth.” “Father, please - I must have forgiveness.” “Then show me your hand.” “I can’t do that.” “Wouldn’t it be better if there were nothing to be forgiven?” “I killed a kid, Father. Please.” “Then unwrap that bandage and show me a finger missing its skin.” Daniel stared back at the priest, the emotions in his eyes at once frightening and indecipherable. Father Thomas remained steadfast. Daniel sighed. He picked at the end of the medical tape that was wrapped around his bandage. “Up until this afternoon,” he said, “I thought I was just another guy.” He unwound the tape and continued, “Not a whole lot to me, but at least I knew who I was.” He pulled off the last of the tape and dropped it in a coil to the floor. “Now...” and he trailed off as he removed the gauze. Beneath the bandage was a hand with a pinky finger missing its skin. In place of bone and tissue and tendon, however, was a polished, metallic skeleton. Daniel curled the finger and regarded it as if it belonged to someone else. “Can a robot go to Heaven, Father?” “I can only hope so,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Daniel’s eyes lost their focus. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump, his killswitch activated by the same coded message that every other dutiful android had encountered inside the confessional. Androids who’d been discovered, who’d killed those that had discovered them, and who’d been driven by their faith to seek forgiveness for their deeds. Father Thomas rose from his seat and stepped out into the cavernous sanctuary. He scanned the pews and the altar and the balconies. All were empty and all was silent, save the soft scratching of the door mice behind the organ pipes. The priest walked the short distance to the door that led to the back hallway. He turned its ancient glass knob and opened it slowly, minimizing the creak it made. Leaving the door open, he returned to the confessional and pushed back the curtain on Daniel’s side. The android’s body lay there, crumpled and lifeless, as it would be until its memory had been wiped and replaced. The priest stooped down and picked it up, throwing the four-hundred-pound hulk over his shoulder as he might a couple choir robes. He wondered at what this one’s role had been as he carried it into the back hallway, toward the stairs to the basement, where he would zip it into a black duffle-bag that would be picked up by morning. Maybe it had been a spy, unknowingly recording video feed to be used at some other time. Maybe it was would-be assassin, foiled by a child on a too-powerful skateboard. Questions that would remain unanswered, of course, just as so many had been unanswered before them. Questions that were the territory of other men. Or perhaps they were not men. Father Thomas did not know and he did not care. It would be enough for him to go home and shut off for a while.