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This is it. I walk to the entrance of the auditorium and stand scanning the mass of believers

chanting in harmonic unison. This is what I live for. The bandleader is lifting his palms toward the

Heavens and the chanting grows in volume and intensity. My eyelids shutter as a shiver traverses my

spine. I begin to mouth the words of the last verse of the song I hear almost every Sunday.

The song ends. Person after person bows their head, folds their hands, in the fashionable pose

for mediation in the western world. The silence is my cue to start down the path, toward the front of the

auditorium. In less than three minutes, I will be addressing a crowd of thousands for the second time

this morning. The words of Jesus and the hundreds of Gods messengers before and after him will flow

through me and to the minds and hearts of the crowd, settling souls. Quelling demons.

I reach the podium. Good morning, I project out unto the empty pews raising my arms to

show them my palms. My hands land back down on the pulpit. My head lowers until my chin touches

the ruffles of my ceremonial robe. Lifting my head, I continue the days sermon; lead no one in the

Lords Prayer; break bread for only me and the team of ants waiting for some holy crumbs; then close

with a procession back through the empty church.

***Back in the office slash changing room, I start to change out of my robes and into my white

collar. I button the last button before tidying up my amice when I hear someone walk in the doors, I call

out to them, Ill be out in a minute, just hold tight. I finish tucking in my shirt and tying my shoes and

head out to the lobby. Seeing no one, I look to the inside of the church and see someone sitting in the

last pew.

I approach the last row of pews. When I am still several paces away a mans voice breaks the

rhythm of my worn rubber soles on the beige covered floor.

I would like a confession, Father.

Ok, follow me, I say and turn to lead him towards the west wall of the church where there are

two black doors contrasting the white walls. He enters the room on the right, and then I enter into the

other door to perform my first confessional in many years; at least the first since the beginning of the

war.

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When I sit in the seat, the screen is already open and man is on the other side kneeling with his

head resting on his folded hands facing the screen. He starts to slowly rocking back n forth as he lifts his

head and I give him the sign of the cross.

Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been since my last time since my last confession, his

words are hardly audible even in the small confinements of the booth.

He paused. Tell me your sins son, I prompted him as his rocking slows almost to a stop.

I killed, he says. His face turning from white like Casper, to more dark like years of filth and

grease built up under the skin. We went into their villages and their temples; I put the pin in one, then

several of the doors. They are still yelling for help, but there was none, God was on our side, not theirs

What do you mean? I question after a moment. My brain is so out of practice, I have been

doing the same mindless routine for so many years now. I am racing through possibilities before I come

to the most basic and logical of answers, he is a soldier back from the war. Please my so

Our orders were to burn down the Temples, to destroy their beliefs. He starts up again. With

each word, it is as if he is having a toe or a finger broken or dislodged from its place next to the rest. I

watchedfelt the heat come off and disperse into the air which was heavy with ash. This was all they

could think of, that was all God could come up with, to instruct us to fight these beliefs and ideas based

on different teachings. Village after village we rounded up. Book after book we burned. It was a

liquidation of ideas and people different from us.

My son, the Lord, the Lord. I am at a loss. I am terrified and sick to my stomach. How he is

here, the war is still growing according to the news. They are still drafting young boys and men from the

cities and countryside; they dont have enough soldiers. The only way they come back is in a body bag, if

they come back at all. How did you get here?

It was too much, the smells, the screaming, the others laughing, he says softly, I had to leave;

I had to get away from there. At night, one dark night, I snuck into the restricted area where they kept

the dead soldiers blessed with Holy Water and a prayer. There were not many to choose from, maybe

two or three, there is not much of a fight anymore. I emptied one out and stole all his identity tags and

waited.

Its ok, I assure him as my consoling training kicks in. Im here; well take care of you.

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I abandoned Gods plan. I disobeyed orders and ran from the holy mission. I ran from what is

good.

God will forgive you, I say as he begins to choke up and cry. Lets say a prayer and get you

some food, ok? I start, My God; I am sorry and he joins in and we read the rest together:

for my sins with all my heart.

In choosing to do wrong

And failing to do good.

I have sinned against you

Whom I should love above all things.

I firmly intend, with your help,

To do penance,

To sin no more,

And avoid whatever leads me to sin.

Amen, I say as the crack of a gunshot ripples of the walls of the confessional booth. I fall back

in my chair and close my eyes trying to grasp what has just happened.

***I throw open the door. Standing in the double doorway to the church is a little girl. Call

someone for help, I say, he just shot himself. Without seeing if she goes to call for help, I rush to the

other door with blood red eating up the beige carpet as it escapes out of the confessional booth. I open

the door to see that he has shot himself in the left temple; however he must have turned his face away

from mine, because there is brain matter and blood covering the dividing wall just like in any old

Hollywood movie. It isnt until now that I notice I too am splattered from the middle part of my upper

arm up to my head with blood. He isnt breathing, oh God he isnt breathing, I say out loud, shaking, as

I back out of the booth and sit down in the pew directly behind me, almost tripping over backwards as I

do so. I close my eyes and there is silence.

***FatherFather oh God what happened here, a terrified voice slices through the silence as it

approaches me. You are covered in blood

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Its ok. Im ok, I assure her. She comes up and inspects me, first the left side of my head, then

around to the left side looking for a wound. Sister we need to call the police and an ambulance, hes

shot himself.

Ill go call, get yourself cleaned up.

***I am just drying my face and neck as I hear the sirens blow through the final intersection before

the church grounds. I start towards the front of the church still trying to compose myself enough to give

an accurate statement to the police. I cant tell them much, I have to remember what it is that has to be

kept between him, me, and God. God, what a murderous bastard we have made him into

***At the front of the church and I can see the flashing lights on the ambulance and cop car

approaching. They will be here in another minute and I look off into the distance. The trees that build

the country skyline are still, like the two old elms standing at their century old guard in the lawn. The

adjacent graveyard cast long shadows over the hollow grounds undisturbed for so long now. Stagnant

and heavy the air becomes hard to breathe as my eyes try reach farther off into the distance, maybe to

the sea. I want to be anywhere but standing in this doorway.

The ambulance and cop car stop at the curb in front of the church. I walk down the stone stairs

to the walkway our front to meet the officers to tell them where the body is, and then turn to follow

them as they keep walking. By the time we reach the confessional, the red of the blood has reached the

pew I sat in and is starting to run along the broad leg that supports the pew.

Do you know his name? an officer of average height, with a husky exterior says. His impatient

look is not broken as he flips open his note pad and clicks his pen.

No, but he was in the military, so he should have tags. I say as the officer scratches something

in his note pad and the other officer, which is a shorter, stockier man of about the same middle age,

starts to walk over to the body.

Thats unfortunate, there was a news report saying that the war is over, the officer taking

notes says with a slight laugh. Most general infantry from this area will be home by Saturday.

Sir, hes not wearing any tags, the second officer says, wait hes holding some.

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How did he get here? the officer taking notes asks.

I cant tell you what we talked about, I say sternly, all I can tell you is that he is here and that

he shot himself.

Probably a body bag stowaway, the officer says as he writes in his notepad, weve been

hearing reports of that happening a lot these days. He turns to look at the paramedics bringing their

gurney in and says, Those arent his tags, Kalowski. Let the paramedics get him out of here.

The paramedics lift him out of the chair and onto the gurney, which has a body bag on it. Once

they have the body in the bag and the bag is zipped up, Kalowski goes back over to the confessional and

puts the gun in an evidence bag.

Im sergeant Jim, heres my card call me if you decide to break your vow with any moreinformation.

I take the card and say, I assure you I wont, but thanks anyways.

I personally cant believe anyone still obeys his orders after some of the shit Ive heard about

the going-ons of this war. Kalowski, were done here, lets go.

Ok Sarge, Kalowski says and as they walk out the doors I hear Kalowski say, finally using that

body bag for its intended purpose, huh Sarge.