Ladies First

The day has come; I am making my first confession. Honestly, I’m scared to death. The absolute darkness of that confessional box reminds me of a final resting place — a coffin. Even with the screened wall between us, I felt too close to the priest. His breathing was raspy, that’s what old age does to a man, and it gives me the creeps. As I sit on the narrow bench, I lower my head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; this is my first confession.”

The Father, on the other side of the mesh, said, “I already know your sins, boy. You will pay dearly. There aren’t enough Hail Marys to release you from your sins. You are undeserving of blessings and absolution.”

I swear I felt pee stream into my jeans. What have I done that deserves separation from God?

I couldn’t stop thinking about what the priest said, “You are undeserving of blessings.” I scanned through the actions of my life and could not think of a reason that was so horrific I wasn’t deserving absolution. My confession was that I accidentally killed a neighborhood dog while driving. I remember him lying on the road, breathless, limp, and bloody. Yet, I don’t remember him running to the road or me hitting him.

Recently, I saw a woman my age walking on the sidewalk through town with her friends. She stood out. They were all very average, except for her. Her long curly red hair, freckle-adorned nose, and she had slightly blushed cheeks. Her laugh was captivating, as if she were enchanting me. I needed to get to know her. I needed her to be a part of me.

I decided to take another walk on Garden View Lane. After all, this seems to be her routine path wherever she goes. My heart was sinking as I walked; she was not coming. I looked down and kicked a stone. With a sigh, I looked up, and there she was my ginger beauty.

I smile at her and put my hand out to her, “Hi. I am Michael.” I hoped she didn’t feel the sweat in my nervous palm.

Shuffling words in my head, I awkwardly declared, “I have seen you here before, and I could not get my mind off you. I don’t know you, and I am attracted to you.”

She smiled in return, “Hi, my name is Angel, and I admire you as well. I especially admire the outcome of your first confession.”

Hesitantly I asked, “How did you know about my first confession? Do I know you?”

“Oh, Mikey, I have known you a long time.” She had a smirk or a look of knowing something I should know.

We stepped into a dark hole-in-the-wall dive where she ordered wine for us. She took my hand into hers, and her warmth was almost as if she were branding me. “Mikey, let’s take a walk down memory lane or lost memory lane.”

I focused on the intensity of the heat between our hands — the warmth of the wine in my belly. I didn’t notice we were in the backyard of my childhood home.

“Mikey, recognize where we are?”

He looked around and smiled at the gardens. The house had a wrap-around porch with two rocking chairs. In the backyard hung the tire swing from a giant tree. Mikey swung as high as he could to see as far as the trees could.

Angel asked, “There were good times here and bad times too. We can talk about them.”

With trepidation, Mike smirked and looked away. Angel could see that he was in deep thought. Again, she asked, “Do you want to talk about the bad times? Father George said that facing our darkness is how we will receive his blessing. He says that to people like us.”

Mike grinned as he watched his child image pull wings off from a butterfly. Time passed, and Mike’s child image was about twelve years old, fuzzy, and unclear. He was shooting squirrels with a makeshift slingshot. He relished the joy of hurting small animals and soaring with delight if they died. An evil filled his eyes and overcame his expressionless face.

“That’s right. You are a killer.”

He closed his eyes, let out a brief huff through his carefree smile, and thought back to the day he hit the dog. He opened his eyes to watch himself speed up and intentionally swerve to hit it — to kill it. He could feel the tainted wine swirl in his belly.

“Yeah, Mikey ‘ole boy, a cold-blooded killer.” Almost as if his murderous nature amused her.

With his hands over his eyes, Mike bitterly pleads, “No, no, no, stop! Stop it, stop it. I am not that way anymore. I was a rebellious child and would hurt any creature that was unfortunate to cross my path.”

Angel stood there with a grin as if she were feeding on his pleas.

“My parents were cruel. My mother, the belt-wielding disciplinarian, and my father, the drunk blackout absent from our home. If either of them had attempted to say a kind word, it would have been anguish for them. Never did my Father call me by my name. He was quick to call me a variety of profanities and diminish my humanity. After my Father’s death, my mother’s depression made her weak. My mother eventually died due to breast cancer. It was almost a pleasure watching her fade away. After her final breath, I felt a cruel intrusive attitude overtake me.”

Angel knew something else was missing from the conversation but waited.

The awkward silence was piercing.

“Mikey, you know me. I have been with you. I am the darkness you feel when you kill. I am the absence of your memory when you devour the souls of the innocent. The cruelty of our parents fed us. Drove us. Allowed us to be what our nature intended us to be, killers.”

Angel lunged at Michael, and with a swift slice, she drew a knife across his throat, “Mikey, I know your thoughts. I know your demons — they are mine too.” Angel leans in closer, “We are the same. Bloodthirsty. You wanted me to be your first human kill,” She kisses his head, “Sweetie, you are mine.” She whispers into his lifeless ear, “Ladies first.”

THE END

MaryAnn Lindquist & Mojha R. MacDowell