Catholic Roots
WHO: Miguel Ortiz and ... anyone who happens by.
WHAT: Confession and Last Rites.
WHERE: Zone Three, St. Isidore's.
WHEN: Right after this.
WARNINGS/NOTES: Religion.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been eight years since my last Confession."
The confessional was shadowy and close - something that used to bother him when he was younger, but now it somehow felt like a comfort. If he'd died, a part of him thought, he should be somewhere close and dark. Not walking around like nothing had happened.
"How can I help you, my son?" the priest answered. His sincere voice was enough to tighten Miguel's throat.
"Father... You know this place... isn't like Earth."
"Yes, I do."
"And that... people might tell you weird things that happened to them."
"Of course."
He took in a deep breath. "Father, I have reason to believe that I was killed. And that I'm... back now."
Silence fell between them in the confessional. Miguel could watch his hands shaking in his lap. It was still something his mind just didn't want to accept, the thought that he'd died... "I was a soldier on Earth," he said hurriedly, trying to explain, trying to break the silence. "I was in the Navy. I worked on a submarine. And I knew that death was a possible part of the job, and I did almost die a few times. But the ... the death I think I had here... wasn't in combat. It was just a stupid death, for no reason."
He remembered it now. He remembered being held in the bug's pincers, he remembered being dropped into the thing's maw. That was an image he'd never be able to get out of his mind, no matter what he conjured up to try to chase it away.
"I'm... I can't forgive it. I should, but I'm not that... pious. Not that holy. I'll probably try to kill the thing that did this to me. And I'll..." He swallowed. "I'll probably be back here for another confession if it happens."
"My son, I'm not--"
"Father. What I came here for is... if I died, I think I need my Last Rites. It'd put some kind of peace to this whole thing. I don't want forgiveness for what I've not done yet. And I don't want permission. I just... want my Last Rites."
The priest took a shuddering breath on his side of the confessional. "I... understand," he said, for all Miguel could tell from his tone that he didn't. "Then we need to start at the beginning once more. I'll be glad to hear your confession."
"Thank you, Father," Miguel murmured in answer. "In the last eight years..."
His confession and penance took the better part of an hour. He knelt in the church's sanctuary as he repeated the Hail Marys and Our Fathers as the priest had told him, a gifted rosary clutched in his hands. The light touch on his shoulder let him know when the Priest had time to meet with him privately for the rest of his rites, and Miguel still had the vague taste of the communion wafer on his tongue when he stepped out of the church.
It had helped. Maybe not quite enough, but he was less on edge than he had been before. His knuckles were bloodied and sore from where he'd punched the building. He'd have to clean himself up when he got back to his apartment, but he'd have to let go of the rosary first. Even with his hand in his pocket, he had yet to let go of it, the beads offering a tactile kind of comfort as he braced himself for the long walk home.
WHAT: Confession and Last Rites.
WHERE: Zone Three, St. Isidore's.
WHEN: Right after this.
WARNINGS/NOTES: Religion.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been eight years since my last Confession."
The confessional was shadowy and close - something that used to bother him when he was younger, but now it somehow felt like a comfort. If he'd died, a part of him thought, he should be somewhere close and dark. Not walking around like nothing had happened.
"How can I help you, my son?" the priest answered. His sincere voice was enough to tighten Miguel's throat.
"Father... You know this place... isn't like Earth."
"Yes, I do."
"And that... people might tell you weird things that happened to them."
"Of course."
He took in a deep breath. "Father, I have reason to believe that I was killed. And that I'm... back now."
Silence fell between them in the confessional. Miguel could watch his hands shaking in his lap. It was still something his mind just didn't want to accept, the thought that he'd died... "I was a soldier on Earth," he said hurriedly, trying to explain, trying to break the silence. "I was in the Navy. I worked on a submarine. And I knew that death was a possible part of the job, and I did almost die a few times. But the ... the death I think I had here... wasn't in combat. It was just a stupid death, for no reason."
He remembered it now. He remembered being held in the bug's pincers, he remembered being dropped into the thing's maw. That was an image he'd never be able to get out of his mind, no matter what he conjured up to try to chase it away.
"I'm... I can't forgive it. I should, but I'm not that... pious. Not that holy. I'll probably try to kill the thing that did this to me. And I'll..." He swallowed. "I'll probably be back here for another confession if it happens."
"My son, I'm not--"
"Father. What I came here for is... if I died, I think I need my Last Rites. It'd put some kind of peace to this whole thing. I don't want forgiveness for what I've not done yet. And I don't want permission. I just... want my Last Rites."
The priest took a shuddering breath on his side of the confessional. "I... understand," he said, for all Miguel could tell from his tone that he didn't. "Then we need to start at the beginning once more. I'll be glad to hear your confession."
"Thank you, Father," Miguel murmured in answer. "In the last eight years..."
His confession and penance took the better part of an hour. He knelt in the church's sanctuary as he repeated the Hail Marys and Our Fathers as the priest had told him, a gifted rosary clutched in his hands. The light touch on his shoulder let him know when the Priest had time to meet with him privately for the rest of his rites, and Miguel still had the vague taste of the communion wafer on his tongue when he stepped out of the church.
It had helped. Maybe not quite enough, but he was less on edge than he had been before. His knuckles were bloodied and sore from where he'd punched the building. He'd have to clean himself up when he got back to his apartment, but he'd have to let go of the rosary first. Even with his hand in his pocket, he had yet to let go of it, the beads offering a tactile kind of comfort as he braced himself for the long walk home.