#this blog is turning into a confessional booth for my sins

[ybcpatrick]

are you there god? it's me kell.......................... yeah, it's that wrestler again.

[flyingsaucerrocknroll]

Song of Solomon 6:3

Fuck it I’m posting fanfic to my main blog now

A woman goes to Father Paul searching for help in her sinful ways. 

Reader insert with no real description of the reader

includes: bible verses used in inappropriate ways, church sex, confessionals, religious guilt

can also be read on ao3

The dull yellow light glows from the windows of the old church, usually it was a welcomed sight against the slowly darkening sky but today it just made the knot in the pit of my stomach feel even worse. “This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had” I think to myself as I push open the doors to the church.

It’s warmer inside the church than I had expected, the wood floor creaks as I enter and scan the empty pews hoping that I’m not disturbing anyone’s prayers. With the arrival of the new priest I was curious, just as most were, when he showed up. Despite going to my own church on the mainland, sometimes when I missed the ferry I would sit through Mass here, figuring that even if it was the wrong denomination God would not mind as I was still worshiping Him. What started as an admiration for the young priest quickly developed into more... sinful feelings. As I make my way back to the confession booth I feel as though I’m walking to the gallows.

“I should just go, I'm not even Catholic” I think to myself as I sit in the confessional booth waiting for Father Paul to enter, but with St Patrick’s being the only religious house on the island I would just have to deal with it. Even with the barrier between us I know this will be an uncomfortable situation when Father Paul is the direct cause of the issue I’m dealing with. After what feels like an eternity I finally hear movement from his side of the partition. Unsure if I should wait for him to give me some sort of signal to start or if I’m just meant to start confessing I figure it best to just ask him.

“Should I start or do I have to do something first? I’ve never been to a confession before.” I hear him laugh and imagine the small smile he would have on his face. I should have looked up how a confession works before coming down here to save me from this embarrassment.

“You can start whenever you feel comfortable but formally you would start by saying, ‘Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been this long since my last confession. These are my sins.’ then you just go from there. Again just do what makes you comfortable though.” I can hear the still-there smile in his voice and my heart starts to rush as I think about how to form my thoughts into words.

“Ok then, bless me father, for I have sinned. Well, again, I’ve never been to confession, it was not a part of my religion growing up. So this is my first time, uh, here’s my sins,” I freeze, nervous, ashamed, and unsure how to tell anyone, especially Father Paul, about my sinful feelings. “Honestly, this is embarrassing and I’m not sure how to phrase this.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, I can guarantee that I’ve heard worse sins than yours. You’re safe here and nothing you say will make our Heavenly Father turn away from you.” Of course he’s trying to reassure me but he doesn’t even know the depths of my depravity... of how I’ve thought about him while alone at night, the way I fantasize about his body over him, the feeling of his breath on my neck, his hands caressing me. I came here for a reason though and if I ever want to feel better about myself I need to at least try to seek help.

“I’m not sure how to say this but I’ll do the best I can. I find myself struggling with... feelings lately. Strong feelings which I know are wrong. And while I've tried to bury these feelings, they only seem to get stronger the more I encounter... a certain individual..."

"Ah, well, feelings are only natural and we can't be too harsh with ourselves for having them. Do you know the root of these feelings? If they come from something lacking in our own lives then discovering that root can help us to find a solution, be it envy, rage, or anything of that nature."

"No, no my feelings aren't... from anger. They're more from, well, I guess affection?" my voice pitches up into a question on the last word. Stars, this was embarrassing.

I hear him hum in question at my reply. I wait in silence for a moment while he readjusts his advice to the new information. There is a new gentleness to his voice when he starts again, almost like he thinks it’s sad for me to come to him over feeling guilt for affection. “There is nothing wrong with feeling love for others. Matthew 22:39 tells us as much."

Oh great, now he thinks I’m some kind of emotionally constipated saint. I can't sit here and let him praise me when I know for a fact what I’m feeling is the complete opposite of holy  "I'm sorry Father, but I think you misunderstand me... What I feel isn't the love one feels for their neighbors and community... it’s" I inhale through my nose and let out a heavy sigh. It’s best to just get this out before there is any more miscommunication.

“It's, well, lustful. The way I feel towards this person, it's a feeling I don't know if I can fight back any longer. I can hardly look at him without feeling... this desire." I sit in my admission waiting for him to say anything back to me.

I can hear him breathe in through his nose like I had a moment ago before trying to clear his throat silently. Ever the saint, he carries on as if I didn't just say the most embarrassing thing in my life, to a priest, in a church.

“We all deal with lust, we are only human after all and it is a natural feeling.” I hear him let out a soft sigh and a slight shuffling as if he’s readjusting in his seat. The next words I hear from him don’t sound as confident as his earlier advice. Maybe my sin is the worst he’s heard. “Maybe praying on it will help?”

“I’ve tried that Father, honestly coming to talk to you was my last resort, no offense.” He offers a quick “None taken” before I continue, “I thought maybe talking to a religious official might help me get a new perspective to better help deal with my uh, issue. My Bible hasn’t been too helpful on the issue either. I constantly remember Matthew 5:28 and it honestly just makes things worse.”

“God forgives all sins equally, there is not one sin worse than any other and He will forgive your sins too. I know it can be hard in the moment but I’m glad you came here. If I can make you feel better in any way just let me know.” I could think of many ways that he could make me feel better but I know I could never vocalize it to him, he’s a man of the cloth and I’m acting as if I’m the whore of Babylon. “Why don’t you try talking to this person? Maybe ask him on a date? He might feel the same way which could lead to your, how did you put it? Issue? Being dealt with in marriage.” I could feel myself turning even redder as he spoke.

“That’s the problem Father, I can't just tell him about my feelings. He isn't someone that is able to reciprocate how I feel for him.” I fiddle with the bottom of my sweater, he has to know I’m talking about him by now who else on Crockett could it be?

“Oh,”  He says softly before pausing, “I’m sorry, that does complicate things though.” All that’s running through my head is a steady stream of he knows over and over.

“It’s not your fault, Father. You don’t have to apologize for my sins.” He shouldn’t have to feel the need to apologize, I’m the one with the problem, he should just cast me out of this church. However, he’s too kindhearted for something like that, so I’ll do it for him. “Thank you for your help Father, I’ll just go now.” I stand to leave and as I exit the booth I see him doing the same. Out of embarrassment I drop my sight to the ground and turn to flee. As much as I want to be near him, this whole situation is just too humiliating. I just want to run home to hide and wallow in my shame.

As I mentally resign myself to my new fate as a hermit, a hand comes over my shoulder and cements me to my spot. His hand. My breath catches in my throat as I turn back to look up at the priest. His grasp is gentle yet sturdy, I hadn’t noticed how large his hands were until I felt how easily just one hand enveloped my shoulder. He unconsciously rubs my collarbone as if he is trying to soothe me. My throat suddenly feels dry as I think of the places where I would much prefer such a touch.

“Really, you have nothing to be ashamed of, just how good can one man be?” His voice is kind yet carries with the conviction of his occupation. It feels as though he’s giving a hushed sermon to me alone.  “We are all human and everyone experiences sin, that’s why God had to send down His own Son to save us.” I slowly look up at him and notice the sincerity in his kind brown eyes. “And anyways you’re a strong woman I’m sure you’ll be able to overcome this and if you’re ever struggling with anything I am always here to listen.” He smiles at me.

I feel my mouth open and close, trying to form words but nothing comes out. I have to get out of here, because the way he's looking at me and the way his voice is sounding is about to make me do something stupid and regrettable.

My eyes dart out over the church and I'm finally struck with just how alone we are here. Nobody has entered since I first arrived and with how dark it is outside now it would be uncharacteristic of the townsfolk to be out and about.

The light press of his thumb against my collarbone snaps my attention back to him. I have to lean my head upwards to look at his face. He's a natural up on the pulpit, a comforting presence there to share the religious doctrine he believes in, but here, a foot or so away from me, he's a giant towering over me.

Was he always this tall? I stare in awe for probably a second too long before I shake myself out of it and give him a reply.

“Thank you Father, really it means a lot that you’re just willing to listen and not shame me for my problem.” I notice his easy smile is still there, but his eyebrows are lightly pinching inward as if with concern or sympathy for my plight. Why did he have to be Catholic? Priests weren’t afforded the luxury of marriage.

“I would never shame you for being human, I am simply here to help guide you down the righteous path. I’m proud of you for even asking for help, it takes a lot of courage to admit that you need it.”

I break the eye contact we were holding, this was quickly devolving into something from my fantasies. His warm hand on my shoulder was enough to make me want to give in to my base desires. If such an innocent touch is affecting me this much I’ll be a goner if I stay any longer. I just have to make it out the door then at least I won’t be fully alone with him and hopefully the idea of ruining both our reputations will be enough for me to calm down.

“Thank you again, I really should get going though, I have some other, uh, tasks I need to get to.” He smiles at me again and I try to smile back but I can tell it must look strained. Maybe that's why, when I try to leave, his hand stays on me. As I step away, his hand slides off my shoulder, down to my arm where gentle fingers curl feather light around my bicep. He didn't pull me back to him, he wasn't holding tightly enough that I couldn't easily shrug him away and escape, but he might as well have with how effectively the gesture stops me in my tracks. Slowly the rest of my body turns to look at where his hand lingers on my arm. My eyes trace up to his face and what I see nearly breaks my heart. He's staring now too, his brow is furrowed and his mouth is pinched in as he looks at his offending hand still on me. He looks ashamed or defeated, or at least apologetic.

"I'm sorry." His voice is so small, if I was any further away I wouldn't have heard him.

"W-what?" It was all I could think to say. Something about how he looked was just crushing. Like he somehow felt he had personally wronged me after I was the one to come in here talking about my unrequited lustful feelings, lustful feelings towards him no less.

But he continued on, "I'm sorry I was unable to help you find any peace today." His eyes search for mine, he pulls his touch away for a moment just so he can take my hand in his. "I pray that, in the future, you will still have faith in the church and myself to help you should you ever need it... despite how I failed you tonight." The smile he gives me feels like a replica of the forced smile I gave him moments ago. I wonder if my eyes had looked so sad in that moment. It hurts to see, and I feel guilt flooding me at the sight of it.

I couldn't go now, I couldn't leave him here with a guilt he didn't deserve. If anyone should feel awful tonight it was me, so in theme with the whole self-sacrifice message the church preached, I decide to socially crucify myself for this man. “Actually, Father, if I may, can I tell you one last confession before I leave? I feel like it is weighing heavily on my heart.”

He seems to perk up at my request, eager to atone for whatever it is he believes that he failed me with. "Of course you can. I am here to help whenever you need me and I am happy to know that you still feel you can turn to me"  I have to take a calming breath to collect myself. There is relief in his smile as he waits for me and it makes what I have to say next that much harder to say. I can't meet his gaze, so instead I look at our conjoined hands and brush my thumb over his knuckles, fidgeting.

“Well, the man I am feeling this lust for,” I stopped, my heart pounding, I can’t do this but I must, “the man who is unable to reciprocate my feelings is you, Father Paul.” My face heats up again and I can feel my grip on his hand tightening, like he was my only lifeline as I plunged into uncertainty. I keep my eyes down, too afraid to meet his eye and find disgust. I know he’ll turn me down anyways as a relationship is forbidden for him. He doesn’t speak right away and finally I look up to accept whatever my judgment may be, but there is no judgment to be found in his eyes. I thought he would be disappointed, maybe even disgusted with me, but there was nothing to indicate any of that in his expression. Instead, he looked surprised, like there was really anyone else in Crockett that I could have such feelings for. While he wasn't giving a negative reaction, I still felt myself needing to placate him. “I know it will never happen, that as a priest you're not even allowed such relations. I just, I couldn't let you look so guilty when it's me who's in the wrong. And, maybe, now that I've said it aloud, this whole ordeal will help me move past this.” So far it was not helping. “I get it if you don’t ever want to see me again, I can make myself scarce if it’s more comfortable for you.” I was starting to ramble out apologies before he finally shook his head and pulled my hand up to his chest. I could feel his fluttering pulse under the knuckles of my fingers. I look up at him once again rendered wordless.

“You don’t need to avoid me or try to make yourself invisible or whatever other ridiculous ideas you were thinking about.” I barely listen, I’m more focused on the feeling of his pulse, this will probably be the closest I’ll ever get to him and I want to commit this feeling to memory. "While we're on the subject of confessions... Would you allow me to make one of my own?"

Him? Confess? What could he possibly have to confess... unless he actually is furious with me and was just trying to hold back until now. Maybe he would tell me this was common and many women had come to him with the same problem and I was just another girl swept up in his unusual charms. Either way, I wasn't about to deny him the chance to speak freely after he showed so much patience with me. I nod at him, not trusting my voice at the moment.

He smiles at my acceptance and continues "I am perfectly clear on the restrictions of my position in the church. However, I feel you should know that you're not alone in your feelings."

My eyes go wide "What? What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is that I'm human too. On the days that you've missed the ferry and decide to grace Saint Patrick’s with your presence, I can't help but feel excited. There's just something about you that I can't ignore, even if I wanted to. I know I shouldn't pursue such feelings, but at the end of the day, I'm just a man."

Now it was my turn to feel shocked, unable to form any words, I decide to just test my limits. I lean into him and to my surprise he leans down and our lips meet, it’s an awkward kiss yet is still somehow the most meaningful kiss I’ve ever had. Father Paul pulls away first, I don’t stop him, I’m in amazement I even got this far.

“Can I kiss you again?” I finally feel able to express even part of my desire for him. He doesn’t respond and instead just smiles and kisses me again. This time it’s easier, less awkward, and more passionate. I place my hands on his shoulders to pull him closer to me. His body is warm against mine, I can’t help but feel comfortable in his embrace.

I pull away first this time and muster all the courage I have in my body to ask Father Paul for something I’ve been wanting from him. “Father Paul, earlier you said you’d help me with anything you could. Well, I think I have an idea on how you can help me with my... problem.” He raises an eyebrow at me, hopefully he picks up what I mean because I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to straight out ask him to make love to me. He doesn’t reply directly but gives me another quick kiss before fully separating himself from me. I panic, worried that I went too far by asking for something so sinful in the Lord’s house.

“Well, I did say I would help with anything I could and if you think this would help I don’t see a reason to deny you.” He pulls keys to what I assume is the church out of his pocket. “We should be careful though, please excuse me for a second while I lock up.” I nod and watch him walk away, deciding to try to be seductive, I rearrange my sweater, trying to get any form of cleavage from the modest neckline; it doesn’t work very well. I smile at Father Paul as I see him return and this time I can feel it is a genuine smile.

I reach out to him as he gets within arms distance of me, pulling him towards me for another kiss that he obliges.

When we part he leans down to whisper in my ear, "so, where would you like to take this? My place isn't too far away, but if you'd be more comfortable elsewhere, just name the place."

Oh~ his voice is like honey and I've decided thinking and waiting are overrated at this point. He's waiting for my reply and I figure it'll be easier to just show him where to go then discuss the matter.

I loop a finger under his belt and grab hold of the lapel of his cardigan in my other hand.

The door to the confessional booth was still open. I take a step backwards towards it. I see his eyes move to see where I’m leading him and his eyebrows shoot up.

"Where- where are you taking me, angel?"

"Well, Father, I have many things I feel I still must confess. Won't you take me back in and hear every sin that has crossed my mind while thinking of you?"

His feet follow me into the room, once we pass the threshold he’s practically pushing me back. His mouth searches for mine in the darkness of the confessional.

I reach for the hem of my sweater and begin pulling it up over my head, in the second it takes me to free myself from the garment he whips around and closes the door behind us. Now confined in the dark, close quarters I feel for his top and begin undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Undoing buttons in the dark turns out to be a little harder than I imagined and when he feels me fumble for the second time he quickly moves to aid me. His hands make quick work of the remaining buttons as I decide to be helpful in my own way by shoving the cardigan he always wears down and off his shoulders. Maybe it wasn’t that helpful, but hey it's the thought that counts.

The sound of our breathing is getting harder in the room and as I reach for his belt his hands grab mine and pull them up to be trapped between us.

“I have to ask, are you sure about this? Do you want this?”

The question felt so sudden, that I had to pause to look at him. I pull my hand from his grasp to cup his cheek. He really was a sweet man. I pull him down for a slower kiss, leaving a trail of short pecks down his jaw and neck as he allows me time.

Finally, I grab the lapels of his shirt and breathe out my reply “Yes, Father.” pushing the shirt off him.

He hums in approval and begins removing my clothes, trying to make up the difference between us.  

This time when I reach for his belt, he allows it. Soon enough we end up bare for each other. My head is swimming as I try to take in every detail of him. My hands touch any part of him they can and when he finally places his hands on me it feels like total bliss, he pushes me down to sit where just a few moments ago I was confessing to him about my lustful feelings.

Once I am properly seated he sinks to his knees in front of me and slowly spreads my legs open, looking up at me as if to ask for permission to continue. I watch him, absolutely enamored and nod, letting him know that I want him to keep going. I feel his lips against my inner thigh, “The curves of your thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a skillful workman.”

He continues to murmur verses as he moves closer to where I most desire his touch, “Your waist is a heap of wheat set about with lilies.” Finally I feel his tongue enter my folds and quickly find my clit, the feeling is nothing like how it felt to touch myself to the thought of him, my head leans back in ecstasy and I moan his name like a desperate prayer.

As he laps at my wetness, my back begins to arch and my hands tangle in his hair, pushing his face closer to my center. His name continues to fall from my lips, every repetition of it must be a sin. To be doing something of this caliber in a house of God must have surely damned my soul if my earlier lust had not yet damned me.

The feeling of his tongue on my clit is my own personal heaven, but sadly it ended too soon. A whine escapes my lips as he pulls away leaving a quick kiss against my hip. “Now patience is a virtue, my angel.” ‘My angel’ that was the second time he’s called me that tonight, it makes me feel even more guil; to be compared to something so heavenly when I came in here to deal with my own sins. This train of thought quickly leaves my mind though as Father Paul continues his trail of kisses up my body until his lips are back on mine, I can taste myself on his lips and I feel that same tinge of guilt.

His lips are back on neck as he recites another verse, “Your neck is like an ivory tower, your eyes like the pools in Heshbon,” I feel the light peck of his lips on my nose “Your noise is like the tower of Lebanon which looks toward Damascus.” Another kiss lands on my forehead, “Your head crowns you like Mount Carmel.” Father Paul takes a lock of my hair in his hand and lays a kiss upon it, continuing the passage, “And the hair of your head is like purple; a king is held captive by your tresses.” As he recites more of the verse I notice how wide his pupils have blown out and the pure look of lust in his eyes must match my own.

His lips once again reach mine as he mutters out, “And the rough of your mouth is like the best wine.” I kiss him back roughly and desperate to feel his body against mine I pull him against me. He barely pulls away again to ask if I’m alright with everything that is happening. Why wouldn’t I be okay with it? This for me was my wildest fantasy come true, just yesterday it was a fantasy I never thought could be fulfilled. And with that final confirmation from me that I am comfortable with what is about to happen I feel him enter me.

The feeling of him fully inside of me was even more heavenly than the feeling of his tongue on my clit. He halts his movement once he’s fully inside and waits a bit, panting into my ear, before beginning to thrust. I grip onto him further, wanting to commit the feeling of him inside of me to memory. We shouldn’t let this happen more than once and I don’t want to forget this moment. With each thrust I feel closer and closer to an orgasm and once I hear him moan my name against my neck I’m a goner, my orgasm crashes against me and mine seems to set his off as seconds later I feel him finish inside of me.

As I come down from utter bliss I again feel guilty, as Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit I have tempted Father Paul down to hell with me. My soul would truly be damned by now from committing sins of the flesh with a priest of all people. A man who was supposed to be an inspiration on earth for all us sinners. I feel Father Paul kiss my lips one last time, saying something about how he hoped I enjoyed it or that he did but I can’t even process his words as the guilt racks my whole form. I need to leave, I mumble out a quick, “Sorry,” before quickly redressing and leaving him alone in the confessional. The thought of him alone with his now probably sad eyes wondering if he’s done something wrong makes me feel even worse but I can’t let this happen again, it’s not right. Tears start to prick at my eyes as I try to get back to my house as quickly as possible, hoping not to draw attention to my disheveled appearance or where I had left.

[anotherghoul666]

If the confessional is still open, may I please take my turn?

I’ve seen so many delicious scenes that make me bright and flustered in the most amazing and worst of ways, but the thing that made me flush the most was when you mentioned your penchant for knives. So I kindly ask, would you carve me up? Tease me with the gentlest touches of the cold cold blade. Use my body as your canvas and my blood as your paint. Please.

-Knife anon 🗡

My confessional is still open. I'll be here to hear your confessions and give penitence until I crash and go sleep, but I will send out a message when I'll log off so nobody waits in vain for me while I'm asleep. I think I'll leave the confessional booth open, as in, the asks can keep coming in, but I'll answer them when I have time to write on here, which might be insonsistent. Still pondering it all. This one confession ask joke turned into a beautiful temple of sin and kink and some wonderful connections made over this silly thirsty blog of mine, it warms my heart too much and I cherish it dearly now, so I want to keep it going.

That being said. Let's focus on you, knife anon. An anon after my own heart. You speak poetry when you speak of knives and the art of it, and immediatly I now you legitimately love them the way I do. I literally just answered another ask where I described how knife play is painting on a human *consensual* canvas for me, and I promise I didn't read your own request before I answered that one. We think the same way.

I would love to give you a taste of my knife dear anon, especially when you so politely ask. You make such a good show of character, it's only fair I show you how kind I can be with the most cruel tool in my hand. I would let you see the knife I'll use first, present it, so the image of it's bright silver color, of the details of its handle, of the shape of its blade burns itself into your brain. I'd even let you hold it, if you want to, to feel it's weight. Understand the gravity of what will soon touch your skin.

I'd have you close your eyes next. For some people I would go for a blindfold right away, but given how polite you've been in your ask, given your tone, I trust you to respect my instructions. You'll at least get a chance, before the blindfold goes on if I catch you peeking. I would start to run the knife on your skin. We would have discussed areas of the body that are fine within your risk profile of course, in case a cut does happen. You wouldn't be able to tell, I believe, wether I'd use the spine or the cutting edge, the blade being so cold, and you deprived of sight, reliant solely on your sense of touch, you would know something's touching you, but you wouldn't know wether the risk is real and imminent or not. Would your breath hitch for me, anon? Would your pulse quicken in pace with fear? Or would you be so serene when faced with the possibility of blood being drawn you would keep calm?

And then there's the question of actually drawing blood, dear knife anon. You speak of blood, but are you really ready for that? For me to mark you, potentially permamently? Even the smallest scar can stay for years, depending on how your skin heals and reacts. We barely know each other, are you ready for such a deep commitment?

[traumacatholic]

could you give me some advice? I feel like I don't belong to God and I can't forgive myself and sometimes I feel like God shouldn't forgive me. I am very afraid of having sinned against the Holy Spirit. I can no longer connect with God and I am ashamed to go to Holy Mass and even talk to a priest. Thank you very much. I like his blog so much. May you receive many blessings!

Thank you so much for the kind words! God bless you!

When it comes to the 'unforgivable sin' against the Holy Spirit, what this is referring to is more a very deliberate rejection of God's mercy. This article is immensely helpful in understanding the context and meaning of the term [https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-is-the-unforgivable-sin] . But just to pull out a quote:

"For Christians today, we need not fear a specific moment of sin, but a kind of hardness of heart that would see Jesus as true and yet walk away — with a kind of hardness of heart incapable of repenting. Again, it’s not that forgiveness isn’t granted, but that it’s not sought."

While you are alive, there is no sin, no matter how grievous it may be (or feel) that can't be forgiven. Please don't feel as though you can't enter a Confessional Booth and be healed through Confession. You are not living outside of God's mercy at any point in your life, no matter your background, no matter your daily actions, or your struggles, or anything like that.

--

As for connecting with God, you might find it helpful to take a step back and reflect on where you think this disconnection might be coming from. Generally in the people that I talk to (and in my own experiences), when we feel this disconnect with God we tend to also withdraw in our pursuit of God. We stop reading the Bible, we stop praying, we stop attending Mass etc. All of these changes turn our living faith into an almost background noise. We can't feel closely connected to God or to our faith if we're not actively engaging in it.

You don't have to jump back into everything at once, but taking some time each day to spend with God and talk about your feelings of shame and disconnect could be immensely helpful. Likewise, if you're struggling with attending the Sunday Mass, try and go to one throughout the week. Even if you don't quite feel ready to enter the Confessional Booth, pray about it, and you can always still receive a blessing at Mass.

Please don't ever be ashamed to reach out to your Priest. Without downplaying your struggles, these are struggles that lots of people have. And so your Priest is likely very used to giving advice in this area. Likewise, if your Church has any groups, you might find it helpful to engage with them. Having a community is so important to feeling engaged, and it's so much easier to think about our faith if we also have friends to talk about it with.

There are so many Youtube videos that break down really intricate topics like God's Mercy. Although I don't recommend just constantly consuming this kind of content, sometimes it can be nice and helpful to hear people articulate things like this. Especially if we're struggling with our own worthiness. I would also recommend that you spend some time reading the Parable of the Prodigal Son, and see what kind of Bible studies around it you can find.

Remember also that faith is very much an action as well as a feeling. In life, it is very normal to go through periods of dryness and disconnect from God. And it can be very easy to try and withdraw. When what we really need to be doing is to cling harder to our faith. To keep up the prayers even if we feel they're not benefitting us. To keep up the Bible study even though we feel like we've just read it 100 times before and there's nothing new to be said.

[inquisitionworkersunion-blog]

Hussite

The following is a short story I originally wrote on my writing blog in December of 2019. 

I opened the doors of the chapel, and I saw Sebastian kneeling down in front of the altar, staring intently into the eyes of the crucified Lord. He wore his oversized black cassock, practically draped over his feet due to its length. His pure white surplice was worn just above his cassock, neatly resting above his shoulders and running down to his waist. I ran down the aisle to go see him and called out his name. His tiny, blonde head jerked back to see me, and he raised himself to face me. I bent down and embraced him, holding him close to myself and repeating “Oh Sebastian, oh Sebastian, oh Sebastian, you frightened me so much” I may have held on to him forever had he not turned ice cold in my grasp.

I backed up slightly and looked into his face. His dirty, golden locks rested in just above his steel-blue eyes, and his white pupils peered right through my soul.  He was smiling, yet shaking all over his body. I looked at his hands and watched him repeatedly tap his pinkie and ring finger with his thumb, pointing downwards with his index and middle finger to reveal a deep, bloodied wound on the palms of his hands. I looked at his face with horror, unable to speak, yet his gaze was still peering past my eyes. I followed his fingers down to the marble floor, where his cassock met the ground. The crimson wine has begun to dribble from underneath his vestments, forming a small pool around him. When I looked up, he no tiled his angelic face to his side, and his smile slightly thinned.

“Father ?” he cheered, “Is Jesus smiling?”

I couldn’t answer him, every time I tried to find words to speak they simply came out as nothingness. The longer I stared into the clouds of his eyes and started falling down towards the Earth. Finally, a few words navigated their way out of my body, “My son, I- I, well Sebastian, there’s some”

“Father?” he called to me, his grin slightly disappearing as his foggy eyes widened, full with curiosity and concern. He almost looked like a confused puppy when he repeated to me, “Is Jesus smiling?” He picked up his bloodied hand and pointed with his index finger in the direction of the altar. I followed it to the crucifix.

Sebastian lost his sight to cataracts early in life, so early he never remembered what the chapel looked like. He would ask me to describe the stained glass windows around the church, and often times he would ask questions about the Faith or God while being with me. Once he became an altar boy, his parents often would ask if I could watch him after the mass, and sometimes for hours on Sundays, I would walk around the entire church with him or lay down beside the altar and tell him stories as he tried to imagine it all as only a child could believe.

I looked to the cross, and Christ was in agony. The woodcarver put the utmost detail into every single muscle in Jesus’s body showing pure agony, even to the point of placing small painted drops of blood coming from his thorny crown. His physique was reduced to point starvation, and even a pagan could tell he was in pain. “Sebastian, Christ is dying on the cross and is in pain,” I told him, “He is giving up his life for us on that cross, bleeding from -“

“But Father, is Jesus smiling now?” He seemed slightly timid this time, and any traces of his smile have all but disappeared. “Is He smiling in Heaven?”

“Of course Sebastian, Christ always loves his children, and I’m sure -“

“Father, does God love me?”

His remark stunned me, and I was speechless for a moment. Sebastian had always been so happy in mass and seemed excited whenever we spoke about our faith and church traditions, which is why it surprised me so much to hear him doubt himself like this. He was only 12 years old, much too young to be disenfranchised with his faith. I gently touched his wet, bloodied left palm and slowly went to hold it in both of mine, and he began again to shake. I was frightened.

“Sebastian, of course, God loves you. Everything around you has been made simply for you to enjoy! You remember the forest you used to tell me about before mass? The one where you used to sit around and just look at the beauty of the entire forest? Where you could pet deer and climb trees and simply exist in peace when things were rough? That was just a thousandth of a percent of the love God has for you! Jesus, even when he was persecuted and constantly surrounded by millions of followers, always took the time to express how much love he had for the children like you. The Lord -“

“But Father, how can God love me if I sin?” His cloudy eyes began to show signs of breaking down, and a single tear started to form. “You said in mass that God punished Sodom and Gomorrah by sending the cities straight to Hell. What makes me different from them? Why should God not send me to sit with Pilate?”

“Sebastian…” I paused. I had never in my life thought he could experience such feelings, especially at such a young age. “Who taught you these things?” I let go of his hand and broke eye contact to look at him. The pool of blood under his cassock has begun ceased to flow, and his hands had turned white, while his stigmata had turned black. His breath became shallow and spread apart, and almost like a machine.

“Father…” He paused. He looked as if he were out of breath. I felt as if I needed to comfort him.

“Sebastian, don’t you remember your first confession? When you entered the confessional you were crying, telling me that you didn’t know if you ever had done anything wrong. You told me you thought God was mad at you for not messing up and that you were wasting mine and his time! Do you remember how I pulled the screen divider away and sat you next to me? Do you remember how you clutched onto my cassock the whole time we were in the confessional, you kept holding on even as we left the booth? And do you remember your parents trying to rip you off because your mother had a meeting to go to? Oh, you sure had quite a grip!” I smiled, looking away from him to the altar.

“But Father, I do remember all this, but-” He paused, and looking as if struggling to say his peace, he started up again apprehensively. “You said Hus left God’s grace, that he abandoned God. And the church ki – he died because of that. Father? Why should God not kill me?” He pointed towards the wall, his fingers landing on a blank piece of a brick wall between two stain glass windows. “You told everyone nulla salus, so why do I deserve love?”

I turned back from the altar to see the boy, his surplice now covered in soot and smelling of incense soot, staining the last untouched piece of his clothing. His cassock by this point was drenched in blood, and his face has started to look ashen as compared to before. “Sebastian, my son, please. Why do you doubt your own worth to Christ when everything in your life has led you to him? How, even when your sisters passed from you and your parents became busier, God was the only one to welcome you in unconditionally?”

“Father, I” He started to choke, and dust came out of his mouth. I went to hold him, but he grabbed my hand until I pulled back. “Father, you don’t understand the -“

“Do you remember how I asked your father if you could stay with me so I could talk with you, and when he asked you if you wanted to say all you did was nod your teary head into my side without taking your face out of my thigh? Your father didn’t know what to say! And how since then, we’ve spent how many Sundays together?”

“Yes, Father,” he whispered, “but…”

“Sebastian? Do you remember what I gave you that day?”

“A medal, our Lady of Fatima”

“And do you remember the story?”

He took a gasp for air. “Father, please… please ju-“

“Do you remember what she told the children?”

“Father…” He squeezed my hand and looked right into my eyes for the first time. His gaze pierced my soul, and the fog drifted away in his eyes to reveal a hurt child calling out for help. He was scared and precisely by what he was looking at. “But father, in mass… in mass…”He reached out towards the cross, fighting for his life. The stigmata on his palm disappeared, and his eyes were now staring straight into the sad, tired face of Christ upon the cross. With one last breath, he poured out his soul into his last words.

“You said people like me deserve- deserve to…”

Sebastian fell into my arms, his face into my lap. His body was now covered in the blood of his covenant, and his face was left covered in ash. He was frozen, unmoving, and limp in my arms. And as I held his body to my heart, screaming for the Lord to bring him back, Jesus wept.

[atlaswriting]

“Not to ruin this Hallmark moment, but there are videos on Abram’s phone that I need to see.” Ellie sneaks her hand between the driver and passenger seat and grabs Abram’s phone, “Unlike Elise, I’m not mad at you for leaving last night—during what could have been me hitting rock bottom—,”

Ellie rolls her eyes and continues, “—what I am mad at you for is not taking me with you,” she says swiping through all the videos he didn’t post on Instagram, “Look at this!” She holds the phone out toward me then turns it back to face her, “Can you believe Abram went here without us? And with a guy he hates.”

“I don’t hate Brantley.”

“His blood on the ice sure says differently.” I snap, unable to shake the clutching fingers of him leaving from my throat. They’re sharp and smooth as they dig into my skin. I roll my shoulders and slide the key out of the ignition, “I’m going upstairs. I need to shower and get ready for class. I’ve already missed two and if I make it a third Simon will start making me pay that on my own, too.”

I get out of the car and slam the door, forcing Abram to get out on Ellie’s side. He rounds the car while she heads toward the front door, eyes still glued to his phone. “I’m sorry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. He pulls me back toward the car, turns around and pins me against the metal. “Can I show you how sorry I am?” Leaning down he presses his lips under my jaw, teeth dragging down skin and landing on my collarbone. His hands find the hem of my skirt and start inching further up.

“We’re in public.” I say, pushing him and his limbs away.

“And?”

He moves closer once more but for the first time I’m quicker and I slide across the car, away from him. “And you’re covered in glitter and smell like cheap perfume. I’d rather kiss Natasha.”

Abram stops walking, hand falling to the stop of his stomach, “I’ve thrown up three times already, Elise and if you don’t want to make it a fourth all over your Jimmy Choo’s I wouldn’t put such disgusting images in my head.”

Reaching out I grab his hand, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “These are Valentino. But nice try.”

♡ ♡ ♡

“Now, I’m not saying that Jane Austen is the most boring and trite of female author’s—but I am saying if I have to sit through another retelling of Pride and Prejudice I might actually tear out all my hair.” Professor Keating laughs.

I snort loudly, only realizing how disruptive it was when Ellie tears her eyes away from her phone to stare at me.

“Is something funny, Miss Allaire?” Keating quirks his brown, leaning on his lectern and staring straight at me.

“I just think its funny how—,” beside me Abram inhales sharply, “coming from a professor who praises Fitzgerald and Salinger non-stop a writer like Jane intimidates you. The stories are good, that’s why they keep getting retold. Pride and Prejudice is a quintessential love story—,”

“They hated each other. Was Mr. Darcy not—by today’s standards—a misogynistic pig? And wouldn’t Elizabeth be considered—,”

“A feminist bitch?”

The slightest bit of smile turns the corner of Professor Keating’s lips upwards.

“All I’m saying is—it was already done. Why do we need to tell the same story over and over again?”

I lean back in my chair, face turning red hot under his strong gaze, “What about Shakespeare, Professor? I suppose you don’t think those stories need to stop being done?”

“Actually,” he says, “Shakespeare is the foundation of all modern storytelling. His—,”

“His?”

“Did I misuse his pronouns, Miss Allaire?”

Shrugging, I tap the tip of my pen against the keys of my laptop, “You’re assuming Shakespeare was a man.”

He laughs now moving away from the podium to stand at the board, “Why should I believe anything different?”

“Do you really think a man could write all those iconic stories, Professor? Romeo and Juliet was clearly written by a woman who was done with all of men’s shit.”

He’s in full blown laughter now. Pulling his glasses from his face he wipes at his eyes as he concedes and dismisses the class. “Miss Allaire—a moment, please?”

“I hope I didn’t come off too strongly, Mr. Keating—I just—,”

“It’s Oscar, remember? And, I like that you came off strongly. You’re passionate. Sometimes I say things to see who’s really listening—don’t get me wrong, I do think they’ve made one too many Pride and Prejudice variations, but Austen is one of the founding mothers of literature—I don’t want you to think I’m undermining all her hard work,” he shrugs, “I just like to push boundaries.” Sensing my confusion he moves toward his briefcase and pulls out a pamphlet, “I sponsor one student a year. I haven’t in a few years because most people see this class as an easy grade—but I think you match all the qualities I’m looking for.”

“Profes—Oscar, I—,”

“It isn’t much. I’ll write a few good letters, help you get into graduate school—whatever school that may be, but consider it. There are a few conventions we go to—England, Boston and New York and it’s filled with like-minded individuals all of whom are willing and able to connect you with any path you choose.”

“So it’s like a fraternity.”

He shrugs, “Even more exclusive.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Abram sits on the couch, face weighted down in a pout and cradling a bottle of beer to his chest which he’s refused to drink from since I told him about Professor Keating’s offer. Ellie is on the floor, expletives slipping smooth past her lips into the microphone of the headset she wears around her neck as she kills her fourth nine year old on Call of Duty.

“Will you say something?”

He doesn’t. Not until after her sixth or seventh kill and then he lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks until beer starts to dribble out of the corners. “Are you banging him too?”

“Abram!” Ellie shouts, unwilling to tear her eyes away from the game, instead choose to release the control for the second it takes to chuck one of the pillows holding up her back toward him. “Oh great, your dramatic ass just got me killed. I hope you’re happy.” She gets up and returns the controller to the entertainment center and turns around, “Why are you acting like a child about this? It’s Elise. She couldn’t bang anyone other than you if she tried.”

“Excuse me,” I say, “I am right here.”

“You’re beautiful and I love you—but that vagina only works for Abram.”

“If I wanted to have sex with someone else, I very well could!” I stand as I shout, mouth falling open.

Abram rolls his eyes, cuts through his and tosses his empty bottle in the bin. He opens the fridge to retrieve another and turns back, “Then have sex with him, Elise!” Abram shouts—eyes darkening as they stare at me from across the room. His cheeks are past red as he gulps down more beer. “Why don’t all of you have a threesome? See if I care.”

“You’re absolutely infuriating, Abram.” I say, “I don’t want to have sex with anyone else—much less with Oscar.”

Oscar Abram childishly mouths when he gives the bottle a moment’s break.

“He’s helping me with a possible future. Networking with him could lend a hand with my career.”

“And what career is that, Elise? Trophy wife? Or maybe you’ll right think pieces for a mommy blog.”

“Abram.” Ellie warns, but I raise a hand and cut her off.

“It’s better than your future of AA meetings and living in your grandmother’s basement.” I snap.

“Elise!”

I’m slipping on my shoes by the time she says my name, careless that the nightgown I’m wearing won’t keep out the early November chill that Los Angeles nights offer. I grab my bag and keys from the counter, trying to keep my attention straight as I slam the front door behind me.

♡ ♡ ♡

I.

Abram spends three hours apologizing to me the next day. While Ellie slips out to spend time with “Oscar”, Abram and I make use of the empty house. The shower. The kitchen counter. The table. The couch. Our bed. Ellie’s bed.

He tells me he loves me with his fingers trailing up my spine, presses his lips to my back and promises that it’s forever.

He tells me he loves me again with his hands separating my legs, his tongue spelling each letter against my thigh.

II.

Nothing is off limits.

We go to church with Ellie who wakes us up at eight thirty at night. I tell her it’s too late, we can go in the morning—but she begs us not to let her go alone. It’s too heavy, she says, she might break.

I’m half asleep and fully aware that the burning of my skin is due to sin. Excitement bites at my eyelids and I try to keep them open—focus on the pew beneath me while Ellie confesses her sins in the booth a few feet away.

Abram leans over and asks if I want to confess mine. I want to tell him no, but the heaviness of the word weighs down my tongue and his blue eyes tell me he’s worth burning over.

We watch Ellie exit the confessional, followed by the priest. Abram pulls me in to the small booth and on top of him. He promises that if we’re going to hell, we’ll be there together.

Like Eve, I bit the apple and it was sweet—but he was sweeter.

Abram leaves my panties on the bench of the confessional, our penance to God, he says.

III.

My legs are shaking, the fogged up windows of my car tell the story to everybody that walks by. The walk of shame is almost more shameful when I see my dad and Anais waiting by the front door.

IV.

“Why are you in the library? It’s a Saturday?” Ellie asks.

“Why are you?”

“Don’t deflect.”

I sigh, shuffling around the books—I’m somewhere in the back with all the encyclopedia’s. “I need a break Ellie. I think he might kill me.” My admission doesn’t faze her, when she rolls her eyes I continue, “I’m dehydrated. I keep drinking water—but it isn’t helping. Me and my vagina aren’t going to make it out of this alive.”

Ellie snorts, “Are you complaining about all the sex you’re having? I’m sorry but cry me a river!” Her voice gets increasingly louder, “I haven’t had sex in two weeks! I’m about as dry as the Sahara Desert. So I’m so sorry if I don’t want hear you complain about getting banged ten days to Tuesday!”

A quiet shhh comes through the bookshelves.

“I think I’m about to lose my mind.” Ellie says, “I might just go and hop on any dick that’s willing if B—,”

“I found you.” Abram drops his bags by his feet. “You left so early this morning we didn’t get to—,”

Ellie nods, “this is my cue to leave. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Abram looks at me, licks his lips and it’s all over.

♡ ♡ ♡

Returning home to the apartment a gold envelope deters Abram’s attempts to start anything before Ellie gets home. “No!” I say, before he can put it down I snatch it from him and start to open it, “it looks important.”

I’m grateful when I read the eloquently scripted letters to Gigi’s Thanksgiving. The thick cardstock with gold and browns is just the excuse I need to suppress Abram’s appetite. The excitement of being within feet of our family blooms in my chest.

“I can’t wait until we get to Gigi’s.” He says against my ear, “We can see how long you can be quiet for. Which—we both know isn’t very long.”

Ellie opens the door just then and I rush by her side, “Look!” I say, “We’re going to Gigi’s for Thankgiving.”

“Oh, no—I think I’m going back to Boston.”

“No.” I grab her arm, fingers tightening into her vice, “You’re going to Gigi’s. Maybe you can see if your dad and brother want to come. I don’t think Gigi will mind, right Abram?”