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cowboyemeritus · 9 days ago

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this is a weird one chat I won’t lie

cw: mild gore, sexual content, discussion of self harm and suicide

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” How long has it been? The fact that you even have to ask yourself that only makes the well of shame burn in your belly that much hotter.

You’re already choking. So much for thinking this would be easy.

“It was,” a gentle, tenor voice prompts from the other side of the screen. You raise an eyebrow, expecting the gruff baritone of Father Myles. From your knees, you can just barely make out a silhouette through the lattice, but it’s nothing more than an indistinct blob of shadows. You swallow down a nervous lump, knowing the man’s identity doesn’t really matter; he’s a stand-in for something much, much greater.

“A month ago?” Already, your cheeks are burning. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” The Father is silent; it takes you a moment to remember you’re supposed to be talking. “These are my sins…” You let out a long sigh, knowing you need to spit it out already. Repeating the sign of the Cross and clutching your rosary a little tighter helps settle your nerves. “I’m- I just feel uncertain, is all.”

“You are having doubts?” Something about his words, though spoken so softly, cuts through to your very center. Who is this man? A visitor to the monastery? A friend of Father Myles?

“I-” No use obfuscating. He has already read your heart. “Yes, Father.”

“I see.” You hear a page turning, then the clicking of a pen. “And why do you feel this way?” The question has the anxiety bubbling up in your stomach again. Your palms clam up, muscles locking. You shake your head, a quiet voice screaming at you to abort! abort! abort!

“I’m like Thomas,” you mutter. “I have to see the nail marks. I have to put my hand into His side and feel the wound myself.” What would His flesh be like beneath your curious fingertips? Would it be cold to the touch, dusty from the Sepulcher, or would it be as warm and supple as it was on the Cross? “I want to believe.”

“Of course you do.” More pages turning. “But ‘blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’” You want to roll your eyes. Even Father Myles could do better than that.

“I know.”

“Belief seldom comes easily, but it is always a worthy pursuit. Remember Peter, who despite his unbelief was able to walk across water.”

But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”

“I remember, Father.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.” You suspect he knows this is a lie, but he says nothing. “For these and all of my sins, I am truly sorry.”

You’re not going to back out this time. You told yourself you wouldn’t, and trying to ignore the problem had only made it worse.

“What troubles you today?” The stranger again. He asks not in the what could you possibly want this time way that Father Myles does, but in a manner that tells you he truly wants to listen, that he really cares.

It’s refreshing.

“I lied to you, Father.” You sigh, twisting your rosary around one finger. The tip begins to turn a purplish-red. “The last time I was here, I had more to confess, but…” Your throat feels tight, squeezed shut by an invisible hand. Already, your eyes sting with forthcoming tears. You feel weak, filthy, like a little bug. “It’s too shameful.”

“There is no shame here,” the man states. “Only truth.”

What an odd thing to say.

“Speak, my child.”

“I can’t.” You’re hair’s breadth away from turning tail again. “I-”

“‘If we confess our sins,’” he interjects, “‘he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’” Though he doesn’t raise his voice at you, his words carry commanding power like that of an emperor. Before you can stop yourself, your lips are moving, his melodic timbre bidding you speak, cementing you in place so that you can’t possibly run away.

“I’m been having thoughts, Father.” You swallow, feeling heat creep into your flesh at the mere mention of your problem. “Impure ones.”

The mysterious priest hums in acknowledgement. It’s a rich, sweet sound, like honey. “What are the nature of these thoughts?” You bite your lip, parsing out your next words carefully.

“Lustful,” you admit. “Mostly.”

“Lustful…” There’s something a little less tender in the way he says it. “Are these thoughts about someone in particular?”

“Not really.” Now that you’ve gotten the ball rolling, the rest comes easier. “Just about what it would be like to be with another person. Touching, being touched; what it would feel like to…” You suck in a harsh breath, trying to fight the warmth building deep in your abdomen, the tingling sensation blooming between your legs. “To-”

To be taken?

“Excuse me?”

“I said nothing.” You can hear pen on paper. Dear Lord, he’s taking notes. “Please, continue.”

There’s a fogginess in your head, like the booth is filled with smoke. You clap your hands against your cheeks, trying to wake yourself up. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“These are not the only thoughts you’re having?” Your head comes to rest against the wall, producing a small thump. You just had to go and open your mouth…

“No.”

“Then, what else?”

“I’m wrathful, Father.”

“Why?”

This gives you pause. You hadn’t really considered it until now, just felt the rage and then the shame that came with it. “I don’t know.” Your gaze wanders to the curtain, covetously eyeing the sliver of afternoon light peeking out from under it. “Probably because I’m stuck in here, when I could be out there, doing anything else.” Realizing what you’ve just said, you clap your hands over your mouth. Your rosary falls to the floor, beads drumming against the carpet. “I’m sorry,” you sputter, “I didn’t mean-”

“This is a life that demands personal sacrifice,” the Father says, silencing you. “You’re not the first person to feel this way, and you won’t be the last.”

“But I love Him,” you mutter, pulling a loose thread from your habit. “I thought it would be easy.”

“My child, nothing in life is easy.”

In your dream, the halls of the monastery are labyrinthine — twisting, winding, and seemingly endless. The shadows bend and warp, morphing into terrible, monstrous shapes. As you run by their clawed hands reach for you, grabbing and scratching at your ankles. One manages to get a grip and pulls you down to meet the cold marble floor, knocking the wind out of you. As you lay there, coughing and gasping for air, your eyes fall upon your assailant. In an instant, the shadow changes, shifting and bubbling until it coalesces into the familiar figure of Sister Felicity, who always has a kind word. Relief washes over you, and you extend a hand, begging for her to help you up. She just scowls.

“Sinner!” Her words are like a knife, gouging a hole in your chest. Confused and scared, you scoot backwards on the cold floor, trying to get away. When you make contact with a hard body, you look up and find the imposing figure of Brother Jeremiah looming over you.

“Blasphemer!” All around you, the dark figures transform into your Brothers and Sisters. They gnash their teeth at you, hurling insults. With a cry, you scramble to your feet, but only make it a few paces before you slam into another one of the creatures. To your utter horror, his one has the face of Father Myles, his normally indifferent deadpan plastered over with a fury that makes your blood run cold. He holds up a notebook, and despite your fear a deep sense of humiliation creeps in.

Scrawled on the pages in red ink are the words “DOUBTS” and “LUSTFUL.”

“Whore!”

The creatures begin to laugh. Their mocking chorus is amplified as it bounces off the vaulted ceiling, quickly becoming so loud that it shakes the whole building. Your ears scream, the pain splitting your skull as you run, not caring where you go as long as it’s away from this dreadful place. The creatures tear at you, their claws shredding your habit so that it falls away, leaving you naked and covered in stinging, bleeding cuts.

You blink, and find yourself in the chapel. It’s quiet and deathly still. Despite the late hour, a censer burns in the corner, the aroma of frankincense heavy in the musty air. The candles are still lit, casting the ancient space in a pale, orange glow.

“Lord, help me.” Your legs finally give out as you collapse in a sobbing heap before the altar. The air feels thin, like you’re on top of a mountain, and though you gulp it down like water, your head won’t stop spinning. “Why is this happening?”

A cold, forceful gust of wind blows through the room. You look up, expecting more of the awful creatures, but find that you are still alone. Candles extinguished, the room is cast in darkness, the shadows still and monolithic. Heaving a sigh of relief, you wipe away the tears streaming down your face. Maybe He can hear you after all.

Outside, the clouds part. The full moon shines in through the stained glass, bathing the chamber in a kaleidoscope of color. Mesmerized, you follow a beam of silver light across the room to where it lands on the confessional. The curtain is pulled back, though the inside is nothing but a black void.

You feel compelled to throw yourself into it.

Slowly, you rise to your feet. Your gait is jerky, oddly stiff as you stalk over to the booth, like your movements aren’t your own. As you approach a sense of dread overtakes you, a voice in your head screaming at you to run, to resist. Something terrible lurks in the inky blackness, waiting to swallow you whole.

Confess, the darkness calls. It has a soft, gentle voice, like that of an angel. Try as you might, you can’t possibly break the spell it has cast.

Suddenly, you’re on your knees, enveloped in the pitch black of the booth. The walls are closing in. You reach for the curtain but find only a hard wood panel. Screaming until you can’t, you’re stuck, kneeling as the breath is squeezed out of your lungs, your bones cracking and breaking. It’s agony, and even as the darkness consumes you, every nerve is on fire. In your last moments, you’re able to muster the strength to look up at the screen, desperately searching for proof that you’re not alone in death.

“Forgive me, Father,” you choke, vision fading.

A shadowy figure watches your suffering from the other side of the lattice. In one hollow socket, an eye glows ghastly white.

I cannot, my dear.

“They won’t stop,” you groan. “The thoughts, the dreams; they won’t leave me alone.”

“I imagine that is quite… distressing.” A severe understatement.

“I don’t know what to do.” The tears are coming back. “I’ve been praying, asking God for help, but it only gets worse.” A single droplet slides down your cheek, dripping onto your leg. You draw in a breath, readying yourself for the next admission. “I want to hurt people.”

The Father is silent, and for a moment, you fear he’s fled. “Who?”

“My Brothers and Sisters, Father Myles... Myself.” Your rosary hangs around your neck and you pull on it hard, feeling the beads dig into your skin. “Every day, I have to sit there and watch them judge me. They can see I’m a sinner, but no one will help me. I know I shouldn’t, but I hate them. I hate all of them.”

Not him, though.

“What do you want to do to them?” Your eyes screw shut, feeling the shame gnaw at the inside of your stomach.

“I just wanted to hit them at first. Punch them, kick them. But now…” The sobbing begins again.

“Now, what? Tell me.”

You let out a wail. “I crave blood, Father! I want to feel it, taste it, paint this whole place with it.” Collapsing forward, your fingers twist into your hair, nails digging into your scalp. “I’m so afraid. Why is God doing this to me?”

“His will is beyond human comprehension,” he says. “Job was an upright man, and yet his sufferings were endless.”

A node of something — anger? — forms in your chest. “You think He’s testing me?”

“It is not my place to-”

“What did I do to deserve this? What reason did I give Him to doubt my faith?”

“Be strong, and-”

“He wants me to fail!” You let out a few sobs, wishing you could take back your words. Your skin crawls, knowing He’s watching. “I didn’t mean that.”

The Father sighs. “It’s clear you are under a lot of stress. Humble yourself before Him, and He will give you the strength to overcome this.” You can hear him scrawling something in his notebook. “One hundred Hail Marys, and reflect on the blessings the Heavenly Father has bestowed upon you. What the Lord gives, he can also take away.”

Why you thought he was different, you don’t know.

You gasp, jolting upright. Your skin is dewy with cold sweat, your mouth dry.

Another night, another horrible dream.

With a groan, you pull yourself out of bed. It’s a short walk to the washroom, but your muscles, your very bones, ache with fatigue. Returning to sleep, though, will be nigh impossible. The next best thing, you’ve come to learn, is to rise off the stickiness so you can at least lay comfortably in your bed until it’s time to get up for Prime.

You shower quickly, still making an effort to not be wasteful. The feeling of eyes on you, lingering from the dream, helps. It’s as you’re toweling off, trying not to think about your chores for the day, that you catch a red stain on the off-white linen. Confused, you unfurl the towel, finding it covered in splotches of crimson.

Then — only then — do you notice the wounds on your hands. Through the deep gouges, you can see that your feet bear similar marks. Blood is smeared across the tile floor, leading from the door, to the shower, to the sink.

You cry out, whipping around to look in the mirror. Staring back is a vision of yourself in death, pale and emaciated. Your eyes are lifeless, the skin under them swollen and purple. Through cracked lips, your teeth are stained red, the taste of metal overpowering. There’s a twinge of pain in your side, and your heart stops when you see the deep, oozing gash between your ribs. You double over, retching into the sink. More blood issues forth, the droplets like rose petals against the porcelain.

“What’s happening to me?”

Overhead, the florescent lights flicker, and then shut off. The air grows frigid, your sallow skin breaking out in gooseflesh. Hacking up a clot of blood and tissue, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you become aware of a presence behind you. Your muscles lock up, fear penetrating to the very core of your being. You don’t want to look, but your body moves on its own, back straightening with a series of sickening pops and cracks.

By the light of that sinister white eye, you can just barely make out the vague, dark figure behind you. It towers above you, inhumanly so. You want to scream, to run, but you’re frozen in place, barely able to breathe. A chromatic, skeletal hand, gleaming in the low light, appears in the mirror, snaking over your shoulder to grasp you by the chin. The metal is so cold it burns, but the touch is delicate, as if afraid to break you. A tear spills over, cutting a trail down your cheek. The figure swipes it away with its thumb.

Do not be afraid.

The voice is at once comforting and hauntingly familiar, like an old lullaby. Though it chills you to the bone, you can’t help but hang on to every word, as if it were the key to your salvation. A second, cold hand finds your hip, though this time it sends a blissful sensation up your spine. You let out a pathetic noise, unable to control yourself, and the creature laughs.

“Save me,” you murmur, finding your voice.

It doesn’t answer, instead dragging its hand up your side, bony fingertips tracing the contours of your ribs. Your heart noticeably quickens as it approaches the wound, but with anticipation rather than fear. Slowly, it draws its index finger around the slit, relishing in the softness of the skin there. The pleasure is so intense your knees buckle, though the figure holds you upright. It’s otherworldly, like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and for a fleeting moment you have to wonder what good all these years of depriving yourself has really done.

That moment is over quickly. In a long, smooth motion, the metal appendage finds its home in your side. Your stomach flips, a moan wrenching itself out of you as blood pours from of the wound afresh, cascading down your body to pool at your feet.

“Save me,” you mewl, back arching as the shadow begins to pump its finger in and out. “Oh, save me, save me, save me…” You’re not sure what’s happening, but it feels like something is on the horizon; a tidal wave, coming to crash on your shore and wash everything away. This only encourages the mysterious specter, its pace increasing as it adds another digit.

Give in, is all the familiar voice says.

You snap awake. It’s like you’re falling, body convulsing with a frantic, wild energy. Rapturous. If you weren’t so certain of your damnation, you would think you had died and gone to Heaven.

The euphoria is quickly replaced by soul-crushing shame.

Tearing the sweat-soaked covers away, you take flight. Without thinking, your shaking legs carry you to the back corner of the chapel, and before you know it, you’re kneeling in the confessional, hands clasped tight. You try to speak, but only sobs come out.

“What’s wrong?” Of course it’s him, but at this hour? Your cheeks flush, finally realizing it had been that sweet, gentle voice that had brought you to the height of ecstasy mere moments before.

“I am damned, Father!” Then, more tears. The priest lets you cry until your throat is painfully tight and you think you might vomit. Once your sobs turn to whimpers, he speaks again.

“Tell me.”

You sniffle, gut twisting. Nevertheless, the words spill out like water. “My urges; I gave in.”

“And?” You know what he’s looking for. There’s no point in hiding it from him.

“I liked it.” Even now, you want more. “I’ll never be free of this, will I?”

“It is the nature of humankind,” the Father says. “You are only a prisoner if you allow yourself to be one.”

“No,” you whine, knocking your head against the wooden paneling a few times. “No, no, no!”

“You are at a crossroads. Will you live by your nature, or reject it?”

“I don’t know,” you whimper, snot dribbling down your chin. “Tell me what I should do.”

He hesitates. You can hear him let out a tense breath. “You have to decide for yourself.”

“Don’t make me.”

“You must!” A long, pregnant silence hangs over the booth, the same primordial terror you had felt in the dream gripping your very soul.

This man… No…

“Father,” you ask, “how do you know when God is speaking to you?” Grimacing, you pull on a thread of skin around one of your fingernails. “I’ve spent my whole life praying, worshipping, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt His presence.” A droplet of blood, like a ruby, begins to well up. “It is possible to be deaf to the voice of God? That’s what it feels like.” Without thinking, you stick the digit in your mouth, shuddering as the taste of iron coats your tongue. Realizing what you’ve done, you gasp, stomach churning with repulsion. Your breath starts to go ragged, fresh tears pricking in your eyes. “Father?”

“I cannot answer you, my dear, for I do not know.”

Something inside of you dies.

“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’”

Leaves crunch under your bare feet. Twigs snap and splinter, digging into your soles, but you hardly notice.

“‘He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul.’”

Between the trees, you can see the lake. The moon shimmers on the surface, the ripples like little silver fish. It calls to you.

“‘He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.’”

You’re in no rush as you walk out onto the dock, though it’s so cold your fingers and toes are numb. Breathing deeply, you can still smell smoke on the night air. They’ll be coming for you soon. It steels your nerves, the last traces of doubt ebbing away.

“‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’”

You look at your hands, covered in soot and dirt. Your fingernails are bitten to bloody stubs, cuticles picked away as if by carrion birds. They are sinful hands, once devoted to prayer but now are good for nothing but indulging in vice and doing the Devil’s work. With these hands, you have dragged yourself into the very depths of Hell.

“‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.’”

You take a step closer to the edge, and then another. A cloud passes over, plunging you into darkness. The surface of the lake resembles a black hole, eager to gobble you up. Like the vacuum of space, the water is deathly cold this time of year. It won’t take very long at all for you to succumb.

“Amen.”

Arms open, you’re about to let yourself fall off the dock when a familiar awareness overtakes you. The moon reappears from behind the clouds, and the terrain is once more cast in an ethereal, silver-blue glow.

He’s standing on the water, watching you from the deepest part of the lake. That horrid white eye twinkles like a star, a cheap imitation of the Heaven you’ll never reach.

Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.

Your muscles slacken, and you fall to your knees, screaming and sobbing and pulling at your hair. The figure stands there, motionless, as you crumble to pieces. He is at once alluring and repulsive, and for as much as you still want to drown, you are drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Lord,” you croak, tears streaming down your face. You sniffle, then take a steadying breath. “If it is you, command me to come to you.”

Come to me, dearest.

Shakily, you rise to your feet, eyes darting between the shadow and the edge of the dock. He raises his hand, bones shining like diamonds in the moonlight, and beckons you forth. Your chest is tight with apprehension as you take a step down, fully expecting your foot to sink into the icy water.

It’s as firm as the wood beneath the rest of you.

The rush of adrenaline is instantaneous. It’s like you’re flying; it’s better. You plant your other foot down on the surface of the lake, take a few shaky steps, and before you know it you’re running to him, gliding across the water like it’s ice. It ripples with every stride, splashing your legs, but you never once sink or slip.

As you approach the figure, the shadows seem to pull away, revealing him to you in full for the first time. Most of him is still obscured, body draped in long, purple robes, his face hidden behind a mask. There is clearly flesh on him, though, as beneath the metallic, skull-like facade, his painted lips are full and temptingly soft. Curls of light hair, maybe a dark blond, frame his face in a manner reminiscent of classical sculpture. His other eye is light in color, blue or green, though it’s difficult to tell in the darkness.

Your angel of death. He is dreadful. He is beautiful. You fall on your knees before him, arms open in supplication, eyes full of joyful tears.

“Lord, save me.”

You of little faith. You must save yourself.

He extends his hand. Without hesitation, you take it, and know you are finally free.

#my writing #the band ghost x reader #papa v perpetua x reader #before you ask im… okay #I’m so afraid to post this but I’ve worked on it too much to back out now lol #I have so many Perpetua thoughts and it’s like a 50/50 split between normal and completely deranged #yall get the deranged today #UGH TAKE IT

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