A confessional box in a Catholic church, Newcastle, England.
DAVID, a well-dressed man, 45 years old
Right. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…a very long time since my last Confession.
Specifically? Shit—sorry, Father. Right, it’s over thirty years since my last confession. Thirty-two probably. I accuse myself of…
Do you still do it like this? These words?
I’m out of touch. Obviously. Not even called confession any more is it? An act of reconciliation.
Perhaps I’m Old School but it sounds strange. Hard to believe God’s so upset that we need to be reconciled.
I used to exaggerate it when I was little. Accuse myself of extra sins to make it more interesting than just arguing, fighting, being disobedient, and telling lies—which I didn’t apart from saying I did. I stopped going about the time it became…embarrassing.
Don’t suppose I was unusual in that. Not wanting to chat about my sexual fantasies with a priest in a wardrobe.
I’m glad you’re Irish. My Mam was. Last Catholic in the family. Look, seriously, father, I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake. If I accused myself of everything I’ve done since my last confession, we’d be here all night. Traffic offenses and financial misdemeanors alone, never mind sins of the flesh.
I don’t want to waste your time. Might be people waiting. Proper Catholics. Continue reading