Sympathy for the Devil

Originally titled "The Confession".

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I release the safety on the revolver. It’s heavy. Makes a loud thud as it falls to the heavy mahogany desk between us. I check the clock.

 

Four minutes left.

 

Not much time.

 

“It has been nearly three hours since my last confession.”

 

The Bad Man in the black robe and white neck cloth either doesn’t hear me or is ignoring me. He brings a bottle to his lips. Tilts it back. Empties the dark amber liquid down his throat.

 

I sit forward in my seat and nudge the gun on the desk. “Are you prepared to hear my confession, Father?”

 

His eyes water. A solitary tear escapes and gets lost in the graying forest of his beard. He coughs. “I have no need to hear your confession, child.” He opens his desk drawer and withdraws another bottle. He twists the top open and places it next to the revolver. His gaze meets mine"almost as if he’s daring me to drink what the label describes as “Kentucky’s Finest Bourbon.”

 

A loud explosion rocks the building. Both our eyes go to the door separating us from the main sanctuary. On the other side of it stained glass shatters. Opulent beams crumble. Bodies ravaged by fire shriek in agony…or ecstasy. To me it sounds one in the same.

 

It’s close now.

 

Almost too close.

 

The encroaching fire has warmed the room. I accept The Bad Man’s silent challenge and place the bottle between my lips.

 

It is tasteless, of course. I don’t get to benefit from the liquid fire. My mind is as clear and focused as ever as I finish half the bottle.

 

I place it back on the desk and lick my lips with a sad smile.

 

“Are you ready for my confession yet, Father? There isn’t much time.”

 

He makes a cross. Touches his forehead. Chest. Shoulders. Mumbles some words in a dead language. Whispers my name. His name. Says something about the soul.

 

Two minutes.

 

I am running out of time. I rattle off a list of sins. Not my sins, though. I’ve had my turn. I list his. “Say it with me, Father. I have take our Heavenly Father’s name in vain,” I begin quickly, my voice raising with each sin that crosses my lips. “I have told lies. I have dishonored my parents. I have dishonored myself. I have manipulated and violated those who have come to me for leadership and guidance!”

 

There is a loud thump and the door to the chamber seems to groan. The first flicker of flames seep through the cracks, chasing after the dark black smoke that has begun to fill the room.

 

“Father, make this right!” I’m screaming now.  I have to. I practically shove the revolver in his lap. “You know what to do.”

 

The Bad Man picks up the weapon. Studies it.

 

Points the barrel to my chest.

 

He pulls the trigger.

 

There is a hole in my chest, but it does not hurt. Then again, I didn’t expect it to hurt any more than The Bad Man.

 

“You know that’s not what you’re supposed to do, Father.”

 

He pulls the trigger again. This time there is a hole in my head.

 

The Bad Man is an excellent shot.

 

“I would save your bullets, Father,” I advise.

 

He says words a man of God should never say and fires the weapon again and again.

 

And again.

 

The door to The Bad Man’s chamber cracks and splits under the pressure of the bodies piling outside the frame.

 

One minute.

 

“One bullet left, Father. Use it wisely.”

 

The door pulsates under the pressure, ready to give way at any moment. The window above his head explodes.

 

Flames erupt around the window frame.

 

It’s almost as hot as hell in here.

 

The priest turns the barrel of the six-shooter towards himself.

 

The church bells begin to chime signaling the beginning of a new hour.

 

The door to the chamber finally explodes, allowing a plethora of burning, howling bodies to stumble into the room.

 

I tilt my head towards the rapidly crumbling roof and I smile.

 

As The Bad Man levels the barrel against his temple, I whisper, “Amen.”

 

He pulls the trigger.

Reviews

[gcp]

Pow.

Reminds me of that western about a town called Hell - High Plains Drifter? Great use of language - good pace. You sure have the gift of the story - your prose grabs hold and refuses to let go - even after the last line is read there's an still an echo of the voice in the air. Great stuff.

A minor typo up the front:

Makes a loud thud as it falls to the heavy mahogany desk between us.

Either this needs an article - or you need to join it to the previous sentence - a simple 'It' would do the trick ;)

[N.S. Jones]

A powerful piece of writing. I love the suspense of it. I like that you use 'The Bad Man', as a way of emasculating the preacher. It's very much like how Jean Rhys does in Wide Sargasso Sea with Mr Rochester by calling him 'that man' or 'my husand'.

I also love the phrase "There is a hole in my chest, but it does not hurt.' Really poignant.