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The confessional door opened with a smoothness that was both serene and somber. Jason had known every brick and floorboard of this church from childhood. His family had been members of the congregation of Saint Luke’s for generations. His great grandfather had been one of the men who built this place. Jason had heard all of the stories about the churches construction as if his grandfather had built this place single handedly. To hear him tell it he carried every brick and stone on his back and every stick of lumber on his shoulders. And by the grace of God himself he had built it from the ground up like Noah had built the ark. As a boy he had been fascinated with these tales of strength, endurance, and unwavering faith in the face of overwhelming adversity. His great grandfather had been blessed with long life and had not passed away until Jason was seven years old.

The church had been built in 1932 and Jason had been stripped of his delusions about how it was built when he was twelve and his uncle told him the truth about the hundreds of men involved in its construction. It had been built to last through the ages and thus far had stood the test of time through fires, floods and hurricanes. The finest artisans of masonry, carpentry, sculpture and construction had been gathered from every corner of Europe and America to contribute to what the Cardinal intended to be a monument to the faith. The very confessional he was now standing next to was hand made by a single pair of hands belonging to Philipe Montclaire. He had been responsible for all woodwork on the interior of Saint Luke’s from the stairs to the life size hand carved crucifix. He had travelled all the way from Venice at the age of seventy-four. It was to be his greatest work, his crowning achievement.

In his long life he had been sought by the wealthiest people in the world for his craftsmanship. Kings and Queens had requested him on numerous occasions throughout his career. The confessional doors were made of heavy oak and though they were heavy and solid they opened as silently and smoothly as they day they were made. Ornate cherry wood inlays covered the entire exterior in beautiful renaissance patterns inspired by the Vatican itself. He couldn’t count the number of times that he had personally opened this very door after feeling guilt about one sinful transgression or another. Of course he realized at an early age that feeling guilty was what the Catholic faith was all about.

The wood work was flawless and would live far beyond their creator. But the metal hinges had, as all things do, worn with age. At the end of the arc as the door was opened to its widest point the door hinges groaned woefully with the hollow echo of the ten thousand sinners who had passed through these doors. The rough grinding metallic moaning was filled with the weight of the confessions that had been heard here. Adultery, abortion, domestic violence, theft, and lust. Every possible variation in the full spectrum of the seven deadly sins in every conceivable combination had been committed and then admitted. This place had allowed those sinners to unburden themselves of each and every dark secret from the deepest depths of depravity that exists within all men and women.

All from the lips of vainglorious, hypocritical, covetous morons each seeking solace and forgiveness for their petty little transgressions. They too had been indoctrinated into a culture of feeling guilt for every little thing. Jason knew these people well. He knew their stories. He knew all of the sorted details to all of their secret darkness both large and small. But that was no surprise. In this tightly knit yet dysfunctional congregation everyone knew everything about each other.

But not one of them could have known what Jason’s darkness was. Nor could they have ever guessed where that darkness came from or what its unyielding destination was.

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.04.2019

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