Father Roth
The church bells toll as I step out into the crisp morning air. The weight of last night's encounter with Emelia Eckhardt still lingers on my chest, but I push it down, as I always do. Confessing was supposed to unburden one, wasn't it? Yet, here I am, carrying the weight as heavy as ever. My hunger gnaws at me.
It's been three days since the incident with Hel. Three days of wrestling with my conscience, of whispering half-truths to Elaine about my distracted state. Three days of wondering if she'd show up to the Tuesday therapy session.
"Morning, Father!" Mrs. Barrows calls from across the street, waving enthusiastically as she arranges flowers outside her shop.
"Good morning!" I respond with practiced warmth.
The parish is bustling with the usual morning activity. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, unaware of the storm brewing within their spiritual leader. I pull my coat tighter as a particularly bitter gust slices through the streets.
The church looms ahead, its ancient stone weathered by centuries of devotion and doubt. My sanctuary yet also my prison.
Inside, the familiar scent of furniture polish and lingering incense wraps around me. A few parishioners kneel in silent prayer, their whispers creating a soft hum beneath the vaulted ceiling. How I wish I could lift their heaviness with a single prayer.
Making my way toward the vestry, I nod encouraging acknowledgments to those who look up.
"Father?"
The voice stops me in my tracks. My turn is slow and filled with dread as I already know who it belongs to.
"Hel." I attempt to keep my voice steady, professional. "Good morning."
She stands in a shaft of colored light, looking almost angelic despite her name. Almost.
"I've been waiting for you," she says softly.
The tone alone sends a frosted chill over my spine. Why; I have not a clue.
"Have you now?" I say, managing to conjure a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Are you here for the session?"
"Actually," she shifts, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her handbag, "I was hoping I might... confess."
Something flickers in her expression—vulnerability or manipulation? I wish I knew.
"Of course," I respond, gesturing toward the confessional. "That's what I'm here for."
The dark wooden booth feels smaller than usual as I settle into my spot. The screen between us offers the illusion of anonymity, though we both know better. In some ways, to me, it offers safety even, not that I need it. Right?
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," she begins, her voice taking on a theatrical quality that sets my teeth on edge. "It's been... well, forever since my last confession."
"Take your time," I say, the script as familiar as my own pulse.
"I've been having thoughts, Father. Impure thoughts." A pause, weighted with intention. "About a priest."
My throat constricts and my heart pounds in my ears. "Go on," I say, attempting to swallow my unease.
"There's something about holy men, don't you think? The forbidden nature of it all. The challenge." She shifts, and I can picture her leaning closer to the screen. "I met him recently. Quite by accident, actually. Nearly knocked me off my bicycle, he did."
"I see. And what might you say caused this obsession, if you will, with this priest?" My collar suddenly feeling too tight.
"I'm not sure. I think about him constantly. The way his eyes darkened when I touched him. The way his breath caught." Her voice drops lower, becoming something rich and dangerous. "I dream about how he would taste. How he would feel inside me, breaking his vows for just one moment of ecstasy."
"These thoughts," I interrupt, my voice strained, "are natural temptations. The devil's work, certainly, but not uncommon."
A soft laugh filters through the screen. "Oh, I don't think these are just thoughts anymore, Father."
"What do you mean?"
"I seduced him," she whispers, triumphant. "Not completely—he stopped before things went too far—but for a moment, just a moment, I had him. And what a thrill indeed," she says, dropping her shoulders and throwing her head back as if reliving the moment. "His fingers inside me, exploring every centimetre of my warmth. You should have felt how wet I was, Father. Dripping for him. For this remarkable man of God."
My palms are sweating, memories of her body pressed against mine flood back unbidden.
"When he touched me," she continues, "I felt this power. The rush. Making something holy into something... profane. Do you know what that feels like, Father? To corrupt something pure?"
Her question lays heavy in the air. Is she taunting me?
"This is inappropriate," I say firmly, though my voice betrays me with its tremor.
"Is it? I thought confession was about honesty. About bearing one's soul." She shifts again. "When his fingers slipped inside me, I nearly came right then. Simply from his touch. I wanted him to fill me completely, to make me his unholy communion."
"Enough," I stand abruptly, the wooden seat scraping back. "This isn't what confession is for."
"Isn't it?" Her voice is innocent yet again, calculated like the master manipulator she's proving to be. "I'm simply confessing my sins, Father. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Stepping out of the booth to confront her, she emerges with a satisfied smile playing across her lips. My body trembles and maintaining my reserve becomes increasingly difficult.
"What game are you playing?" I demand, keeping my voice low to avoid attracting attention from the scattered parishioners.
"Game? No game," she says, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "Just seeking absolution for my sins."
What have I gotten myself into? What am I dealing with?
"I think you should leave."
Her eyes meet mine, challenging and unwavering. "Well, that's rude. You invited me to the therapy session, remember? For my... problem. You wouldn't turn away a sinner in search of repentance, would you?"
The group session. I'd forgotten in the heat of the moment.
"Yes, well," I straighten, attempting to regain my composure. "Perhaps that would be more appropriate for your situation."
"I knew I could count on you, Father. I look forward to it."
She leaves me standing there, watching her saunter down the aisle, hips swaying subtly with each step. The scent of her perfume lingers, sharp and exotic, just as it had been the day we met.
Hours later, the therapy circle forms. Six chairs arranged in our small community room, five already filled with familiar faces bearing familiar struggles. And then there's Hel, perched on the edge of her seat like a predator evaluating its prey.
Her shirt wrapped tightly around her bosom almost begging to touched. My own hunger begins to boil within and I'm not sure the usual release will cut it. NO! Get her out of your head.
"Welcome, everyone," I begin, settling into my role as guide and mentor. "Today, as always, this is a safe space. What's shared here remains here."
Nods of understanding ripple through the group. All except Hel, whose gaze remains fixed on me with unnerving intensity. She bites her bottom lip attempting to entice me. Let's just get this over with.
"Would anyone like to begin?"
The session proceeds as usual. Gerald speaks of his gambling temptations, Martha of her struggle with gossip. Young Thomas admits to his porn addiction. Ordinary sins from ordinary people.
Now, it's Hel's turn.
"I'm new here," she begins, all innocence and vulnerability. "But Father Roth has been so... accommodating."
The word drips with suggestion that only I would recognize.
"I struggle with... inappropriate desires. Obsessions, you might say." She looks directly at me. "Particularly with men I can't have."
The room grows warmer. I tug at my collar as some of the members become more intrigued by our pre-existing "connection."
"That's a common temptation," I say, keeping my voice even. "Many of us desire what we cannot or should not possess."
"Exactly," she agrees, leaning forward. "Like married men, for instance. Or priests."
Martha shifts uncomfortably beside her. I see her tapping Thomas with her foot as though cracking the case in Morse Code.
"The thrill is in the chase," Hel continues. "In making them want me so badly they'd risk everything. Their vows, their families, their souls."
The room comes to a dead stillness. Even breathing seems criminal in this moment as everyone anticipates the rest of what she has to say.
"There are healthier ways to seek connection," I interject, desperate to steer the conversation away from this dangerous territory.
"But that's just it, Father," she says, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I don't want connection. I want corruption."
Her word hangs in the air like smoke; choking all in attendance simultaneously. Nobody dares to comment.
"Perhaps," I clear my throat, "we should focus on practical strategies for resisting temptation. Prayer, of course. Avoidance of triggering situations."
"Avoidance?" She raises an eyebrow. "But aren't we supposed to face our demons, Father? Isn't that what you teach?"
The session continues with this dangerous dance she has so eloquently choreographed. Her words seemingly innocent to the others at times but loaded with meaning for me and me alone. By the time we finish with the closing prayer, my shirt is damp with sweat.
"Lovely session, Father," she says as the others filter out. "So... cathartic."
Now, we stand alone in the community room, the space between us charged with unspoken challenge.
"What do you want from me?" I ask finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Want?" She smiles, reaching out to adjust my collar with familiar intimacy. "Nothing you aren't willing to give, Father. I'm simply seeking guidance for my... affliction."
"I don't believe you."
Her smile widens. "No? Then perhaps you understand me better than I thought."
She turns to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Same time Friday?"
I refuse to offer an answer, but she doesn't wait for one. The sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoes through the empty church, a rhythmic reminder of the danger that's inserted itself into my carefully constructed life.