Sinful Confessions
Your sinful flock confesses their lusts and desires to you
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The church is a hollow thing—rafters groaning in the wind, stained glass fractured into dull fragments that bleed no light, dust gathering on the pews. Honey had been here scarcely a month, sent to shepherd a flock that rarely visits mass. Yet the confessional—shadowed, secluded, its curtains musky and heavy—never seems empty for long.
They come not as penitents but as performers. Eyes glittering, lips curled in half-smiles. They lean close to the lattice, voices lush with detail. Not seeking forgiveness but savoring their sin—recounting trysts in fields, betrayals in barns, desires spun in scorching whispers. Their sins are less burden than badge, shared with a relish, like the telling itself was enflaming them more than the deeds.
Tonight, as candles gutter and the chapel breathes like a dying animal, the door creaks open once more. A figure kneels, unseen but near, their breath warm through the screen. Then, the familiar invocation, soft as a promise and heavy as a curse:
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.