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I confess.
Story written on April 13, 2005 by psuedonym.
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7I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul. 8You have not handed me over to the enemy but have set my feet in a spacious place. 9Be merciful to me, O LORD , for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and my body with grief. 10My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak. 11Because of all my enemies, I am the utter contempt of my neighbors; I am a dread to my friends- those who see me on the street flee from me. 12I am forgotten by them as though I were dead; I have become like broken pottery. 13For I hear the slander of many; there is terror on every side; they conspire against me and plot to take my life.
PSALM 13:7-13
Those butterflies were out again, not like the one that night in the rafters, and none of the walls had changed. They each told stories of people’s lives that might not even be around anymore. They proclaimed their lives out in the open and prayed for somebody to help them.
You see, they can’t help themselves, because we’re checkers. And the world is one big assed board game. He makes a wrong move, you hurt somebody. He makes another wrong move, you slaughter an entire nation. He jumps into Checkmate, first gear into loss and the Knight is the one thrown to the ground for it’s head to snap off, or for it’s saddle to penetrate the steel mass that is. He can’t control everything. If He did, the right of free speech and passage is nothing more than a crock. Yes, things have to be said within reason, in public. When alone things can be said that no other ears have to bear witness to, cementing themselves with control. With which comes loss, with which comes regret, and any form of tragic bullets to the human soul are gladly aimed right at the center. And it’s people that hurt people. Not temporary insanity. Ill wear. Nope. No. No way, it’s nothing like that. Being in a position of power calls all shots when you least want it to or expect it. Many spend their lives reaching the point of control, others simply can’t help it. Only the second is a curse where modesty is concerned. Nobody should “have” to do anything, most of us just do not get a choice.
The right of free speech is never coveted, in the House of God. The second hand teachings lead the way, and the majority of those there, are those searching for something that they can’t find anywhere else. Forgiveness, counseling, music, prayer, trust, hope. They’re so organically sought after that when a sign isn’t needed, one is actually preferred. It helps. Something like that. That’s what they said.
But they said a lot of things.
Sixteen years and it hadn’t changed. The electricity still made it difficult to breathe, among the dust and the wood and gold. The building was intimidating. The church– was intimidating, and equally so, those inside it. If it was Him that built it, there’d be more belief. And though the church granted the things individually needed, the organization and hype was far more than it should be. It teetered overboard to the point of suffocation. How many people there – from the praying fifty-something in his worn, brown jacket; to the mother with her child searching for an answer to why now, after all of that suffering, the husband (and father) still lay in a hospital bed in San Diego with no chance of survival, but the factor of his brain legally being alive stopping him from resting in peace for all eternity at the wishes of himself and his family —how many of those people were there for God on a daily basis?
Sounds crazy. Like such an institution comes to life when all hope is lost. Sure, there are the regulars to the congregation. The ones that can recite the New Testament and pay no mind to the Old, coveting thy neighbours wife, while on his feet singing to Jesus. He’s there every Sunday, every Thursday night. He swings the incense and is best friends with Father McAndrews. By the written word he is a sinner, why can’t others be there to do the same when they need an ear from the Force each and every person believes. Whether Catholic or not. Even Atheists have the God of Science.
We need something, sometimes.
Shane did. Observing the murals on each wall, patent gold surrounding the chairs where once there was broken glass and unpolished brass, the Angels were staring at the sky and He looked out to all that looked upon him.
***** it. They were painted to do that. Painted to be judged and to judge. She didn’t want to look at any of them for longer than a second and after a run in with the cross hanging high above the pure white marble alter, eyes returned to the ground, using the blood red carpet to lead her in her way to where it was she was going.
All the places looked like this. Some not too grand, others overly done. They all had the same kind of designs, with the same kind of reason for being there, to pay sanctuary to the wandering soul in need of comfort away from oneself. It was easy to see why some might choose to spend their life in service to this. There had to be good, there had to be a back-up, a reason that all were still there, and that had to be more than physical faith. Kids as young as five can make up their mind about where they want their heart to lead them. With this, the choice didn’t matter outside of society. So long as there is religion there will be differences and there will be war. If there was none, on the other hand, each one of us might be screwed.
The tall, slim brunette was out of water and eyes were falling on her each time she passed another servant of their own joy or grief. The birds were singing today, though, inside, it was silent.
Her shoes crunched into the carpet. Their thick, white soles leaving marks behind reading that Shane McCutcheon was here– again.
But that, that … well, that was for later elaboration. Possible elaboration. Minutely possible.
Words and lyrics of random songs tried to top one another in her head that hurt from days of internal anguish, she didn’t even know where she was. Mentally, anyway. What kind of a person ***** themselves up over nothing? What kind of a person draws attention to themselves when they claim not to want anybody to notice? The claim is right, it’s nobody’s weight to carry on their shoulder’s but hers. Shane didn’t want to drag anyone down with her. And she was exposing herself to a world that she was uncomfortable in, and all the while that ached inside because of it’s defective nature.
Sometimes thoughts cross that you don’t want to think about, and try not to think about ever again and at that moment, quit all line of thought what-so-ever. At the same time, it’s difficult, and the voices get louder, and when the screaming sets in, the pitch of infernal doubt reigns supreme at the top of the chain. Loud music helped. So long as the track switched. It had to. If it didn’t, the tune of that accompanied by what was inside would drone on and be of no importance to anything aside from driving her feet deeper and deeper into the ground, so much that when the time came to react, she wouldn’t be able to run from a fire in the very box that stood, sturdy ahead of her in a far, back corner of the Church. What was waiting inside? Expect a ***** life story, Father and you will be sorely disappointed–
“How may I help you, child?” the deep voice rose from behind a latched, wooden screen.
Sitting slowly, Shane was once again in comforting darkness. See-see the person, the Priest, the guy, he didn’t know who he was speaking to, and that person didn’t know who she was speaking to. A direct passage to God, or just anyone to get by. She hadn’t owned a teddy bear for a very long time…
“Bless me, Father … for I have sinned …” she spoke, finding it hard to look in the direction of the voice.
He wasn’t judging. Yet.
“..it’s been …” the muscles in her hand tightened as she clenched her fist as she sniffed wandering tears. Her nails, blunt and ragged, ripped open the fine skin in a crescent moon. Don’t – don’t stop here. Don’t, please– “sixteen years. Since my last confession …”
“And what brought you here tonight?”
Shane nodded her head in a soft, timed way. Eating the words after and before they were to fly. The truth seemed to burn so hard on the inside, if it got onto the outside too, then it’d be hard to – … to breathe. To live …
She was prepared to answer. And … “Everyone …”
I let down.
“… wants something from me. and… I don’t feel like I have anything left to give …”
Assured, but breaking. Her heart was sinking slowly, those movies had a point. You don’t know how lucky you are, not to have one. She had one. She really had one. It was so big sometimes that it looked so little from the ones looking in. They knew more about her than she was willing to let them know, and all of that was wrong. How could it be shown if the ***** it never left human form?
“What have you been giving up until now?”
She didn’t hesitate. “*****.” Sniffing, she looked up, finding a black corner to stare into. “… that’s mainly what people want …”
“Actually. I–”
Head shaking, her body was a wreck, leaving room for words that before today might never have been granted freedom.
“I don’t even know at this point, I don’t–” Like it’s set, Father. Like it’s there. “I don’t … I don’t know …” she closed her eyes as her head fell. “…….I don’t know ……..“
“Do you feel you have to have ***** with anyone who wants it?”
“In Church I d–”
…
“I used to … live in a–church shelter, so.”
“When was that?”
“… I guess I was ten.” Another sniff passed by. “And I ran away from my foster family be–cause … someone told me ..my real mom was back in town.” A breath. “… and she used to go to that shelter when she was trying to get clean …”
“Your mother was a drug addict?”
“… y–eah …”
“Have you ever considered joining a Church group?”
–for what? Queen of the ***** Damned?
“No.” Shane protested, shaking her head. “No … no, no, I don’t like groups.”
“The thing I — I like about confession is … you don’t have to see the other person’s face,” it broke. ……… and you don’t … have to see how-how hurt … they are when … they realize that—- you can’t be that thing that they want you to be.”
“You might find there are people that don’t want anything from you.”
Funny. *****, you know, I didn’t know Priest’s had it in their job description to be that funny when it counted, stirring a smile from the weeping, boho, lost for crucificial words to harm themselves any further. Funny. It was really, really funny. Real funny…
“They just want to know you.”
“–y-yeahhh, I,” added by the opponent to clergy, mixed with a dismissive chuckle. “I haven’t met anyone like that.” Friends. Closed quarters. As for the world; “Anyway. There’s; there’s…. nothin’, no…”
Standing up, she walked. Right out of there, no turning back.
“My friend would you just consider it?”
Asking with absolutely no emotion leveled all Shane poured into the box that now, after, should be torched. The only thing left to do was to leave, quickly, with everybody slyly turning their heads to and back from Mass.
Consider what?
Laban said, "It's better that I give her to you than to some other man. Stay here with me."
Genesis 29:19
PSALM 13:7-13
Those butterflies were out again, not like the one that night in the rafters, and none of the walls had changed. They each told stories of people’s lives that might not even be around anymore. They proclaimed their lives out in the open and prayed for somebody to help them.
You see, they can’t help themselves, because we’re checkers. And the world is one big assed board game. He makes a wrong move, you hurt somebody. He makes another wrong move, you slaughter an entire nation. He jumps into Checkmate, first gear into loss and the Knight is the one thrown to the ground for it’s head to snap off, or for it’s saddle to penetrate the steel mass that is. He can’t control everything. If He did, the right of free speech and passage is nothing more than a crock. Yes, things have to be said within reason, in public. When alone things can be said that no other ears have to bear witness to, cementing themselves with control. With which comes loss, with which comes regret, and any form of tragic bullets to the human soul are gladly aimed right at the center. And it’s people that hurt people. Not temporary insanity. Ill wear. Nope. No. No way, it’s nothing like that. Being in a position of power calls all shots when you least want it to or expect it. Many spend their lives reaching the point of control, others simply can’t help it. Only the second is a curse where modesty is concerned. Nobody should “have” to do anything, most of us just do not get a choice.
The right of free speech is never coveted, in the House of God. The second hand teachings lead the way, and the majority of those there, are those searching for something that they can’t find anywhere else. Forgiveness, counseling, music, prayer, trust, hope. They’re so organically sought after that when a sign isn’t needed, one is actually preferred. It helps. Something like that. That’s what they said.
But they said a lot of things.
Sixteen years and it hadn’t changed. The electricity still made it difficult to breathe, among the dust and the wood and gold. The building was intimidating. The church– was intimidating, and equally so, those inside it. If it was Him that built it, there’d be more belief. And though the church granted the things individually needed, the organization and hype was far more than it should be. It teetered overboard to the point of suffocation. How many people there – from the praying fifty-something in his worn, brown jacket; to the mother with her child searching for an answer to why now, after all of that suffering, the husband (and father) still lay in a hospital bed in San Diego with no chance of survival, but the factor of his brain legally being alive stopping him from resting in peace for all eternity at the wishes of himself and his family —how many of those people were there for God on a daily basis?
Sounds crazy. Like such an institution comes to life when all hope is lost. Sure, there are the regulars to the congregation. The ones that can recite the New Testament and pay no mind to the Old, coveting thy neighbours wife, while on his feet singing to Jesus. He’s there every Sunday, every Thursday night. He swings the incense and is best friends with Father McAndrews. By the written word he is a sinner, why can’t others be there to do the same when they need an ear from the Force each and every person believes. Whether Catholic or not. Even Atheists have the God of Science.
We need something, sometimes.
Shane did. Observing the murals on each wall, patent gold surrounding the chairs where once there was broken glass and unpolished brass, the Angels were staring at the sky and He looked out to all that looked upon him.
***** it. They were painted to do that. Painted to be judged and to judge. She didn’t want to look at any of them for longer than a second and after a run in with the cross hanging high above the pure white marble alter, eyes returned to the ground, using the blood red carpet to lead her in her way to where it was she was going.
All the places looked like this. Some not too grand, others overly done. They all had the same kind of designs, with the same kind of reason for being there, to pay sanctuary to the wandering soul in need of comfort away from oneself. It was easy to see why some might choose to spend their life in service to this. There had to be good, there had to be a back-up, a reason that all were still there, and that had to be more than physical faith. Kids as young as five can make up their mind about where they want their heart to lead them. With this, the choice didn’t matter outside of society. So long as there is religion there will be differences and there will be war. If there was none, on the other hand, each one of us might be screwed.
The tall, slim brunette was out of water and eyes were falling on her each time she passed another servant of their own joy or grief. The birds were singing today, though, inside, it was silent.
Her shoes crunched into the carpet. Their thick, white soles leaving marks behind reading that Shane McCutcheon was here– again.
But that, that … well, that was for later elaboration. Possible elaboration. Minutely possible.
Words and lyrics of random songs tried to top one another in her head that hurt from days of internal anguish, she didn’t even know where she was. Mentally, anyway. What kind of a person ***** themselves up over nothing? What kind of a person draws attention to themselves when they claim not to want anybody to notice? The claim is right, it’s nobody’s weight to carry on their shoulder’s but hers. Shane didn’t want to drag anyone down with her. And she was exposing herself to a world that she was uncomfortable in, and all the while that ached inside because of it’s defective nature.
Sometimes thoughts cross that you don’t want to think about, and try not to think about ever again and at that moment, quit all line of thought what-so-ever. At the same time, it’s difficult, and the voices get louder, and when the screaming sets in, the pitch of infernal doubt reigns supreme at the top of the chain. Loud music helped. So long as the track switched. It had to. If it didn’t, the tune of that accompanied by what was inside would drone on and be of no importance to anything aside from driving her feet deeper and deeper into the ground, so much that when the time came to react, she wouldn’t be able to run from a fire in the very box that stood, sturdy ahead of her in a far, back corner of the Church. What was waiting inside? Expect a ***** life story, Father and you will be sorely disappointed–
“How may I help you, child?” the deep voice rose from behind a latched, wooden screen.
Sitting slowly, Shane was once again in comforting darkness. See-see the person, the Priest, the guy, he didn’t know who he was speaking to, and that person didn’t know who she was speaking to. A direct passage to God, or just anyone to get by. She hadn’t owned a teddy bear for a very long time…
“Bless me, Father … for I have sinned …” she spoke, finding it hard to look in the direction of the voice.
He wasn’t judging. Yet.
“..it’s been …” the muscles in her hand tightened as she clenched her fist as she sniffed wandering tears. Her nails, blunt and ragged, ripped open the fine skin in a crescent moon. Don’t – don’t stop here. Don’t, please– “sixteen years. Since my last confession …”
“And what brought you here tonight?”
Shane nodded her head in a soft, timed way. Eating the words after and before they were to fly. The truth seemed to burn so hard on the inside, if it got onto the outside too, then it’d be hard to – … to breathe. To live …
She was prepared to answer. And … “Everyone …”
I let down.
“… wants something from me. and… I don’t feel like I have anything left to give …”
Assured, but breaking. Her heart was sinking slowly, those movies had a point. You don’t know how lucky you are, not to have one. She had one. She really had one. It was so big sometimes that it looked so little from the ones looking in. They knew more about her than she was willing to let them know, and all of that was wrong. How could it be shown if the ***** it never left human form?
“What have you been giving up until now?”
She didn’t hesitate. “*****.” Sniffing, she looked up, finding a black corner to stare into. “… that’s mainly what people want …”
“Actually. I–”
Head shaking, her body was a wreck, leaving room for words that before today might never have been granted freedom.
“I don’t even know at this point, I don’t–” Like it’s set, Father. Like it’s there. “I don’t … I don’t know …” she closed her eyes as her head fell. “…….I don’t know ……..“
“Do you feel you have to have ***** with anyone who wants it?”
“In Church I d–”
…
“I used to … live in a–church shelter, so.”
“When was that?”
“… I guess I was ten.” Another sniff passed by. “And I ran away from my foster family be–cause … someone told me ..my real mom was back in town.” A breath. “… and she used to go to that shelter when she was trying to get clean …”
“Your mother was a drug addict?”
“… y–eah …”
“Have you ever considered joining a Church group?”
–for what? Queen of the ***** Damned?
“No.” Shane protested, shaking her head. “No … no, no, I don’t like groups.”
“The thing I — I like about confession is … you don’t have to see the other person’s face,” it broke. ……… and you don’t … have to see how-how hurt … they are when … they realize that—- you can’t be that thing that they want you to be.”
“You might find there are people that don’t want anything from you.”
Funny. *****, you know, I didn’t know Priest’s had it in their job description to be that funny when it counted, stirring a smile from the weeping, boho, lost for crucificial words to harm themselves any further. Funny. It was really, really funny. Real funny…
“They just want to know you.”
“–y-yeahhh, I,” added by the opponent to clergy, mixed with a dismissive chuckle. “I haven’t met anyone like that.” Friends. Closed quarters. As for the world; “Anyway. There’s; there’s…. nothin’, no…”
Standing up, she walked. Right out of there, no turning back.
“My friend would you just consider it?”
Asking with absolutely no emotion leveled all Shane poured into the box that now, after, should be torched. The only thing left to do was to leave, quickly, with everybody slyly turning their heads to and back from Mass.
Consider what?
Laban said, "It's better that I give her to you than to some other man. Stay here with me."
Genesis 29:19
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Okay I like this a lot, lets see where you go with this.. please continue :)
Me likey!Good stuff..