"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
Father Michaels did not recognize the voice as he listened through the partition of the dark confessional, but the smell of wet leather told him it was raining outside.
"How long has it been since you've been to confession, my son?"
"It's been a few years. I haven't been to mass since my wife threw me out of the house."
"Oh?" the priest said, feigning attention as he tried to recall where he had put his umbrella. He would surely need it on his way to the rectory.
It had been a while since Father Michaels had been interested in his parishioner's lives. The women were the worst with their mundane impure thoughts. Boys were still interesting, though -- at least those of a certain age, when they were still wide-eyed with wonder at the world, so open to new experiences, so non-judgmental -- and pliable.
"I got mixed up with a rough crowd - drinking and such." There was no contrition in the man's voice, just a matter-of-fact recital of the details. "She thought I was a bad influence on our children. Funny thing is, the judge gave me visitation and I talk with my kids more now than I did when I was living at home."
"Why is it you've come today after all this time?" Father Michaels asked, anxious to get on with the story so this man would leave.
"Because I have been having thoughts of murder - planned it all out in my head."
"Murder?" The priest moved his ear closer to the louvered opening in the partition. It wasn't everyday that someone confessed a plan for murder. "Why are you contemplating such a grievous sin?"
"I just learned that my son is in therapy because a priest at Saint Benedict's has been messing with him."
Father Michaels heard a gun cock. It was the last thing he heard.
THE END