> The old pine bench creaks gently under your weight as you shuffle and try to get comfortable, though it occurs to you that's not really the point.
"..."
"You may speak."
"It's been 7,142 days since my last confession. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
"I've lost everything to lust. For people who should have never been near me. For people who don't know what they've done. For people who took everything I had left until I turned into them. Imitating them. Trying to create the same rush, the same release. Every chance I've had to be a real person has been wasted. And rigged. Because I always do this. Every time I'm in a situation where I have the chance to do something depraved and disgusting I take it because nothing makes me feel anything like he did. No one's hands are as rough or as scarred. I would choose death a thousand times over just for the smallest chance of getting back to him. And I hate him, but never as much as myself."
"No child is innocent. I knew what I let happen to me. I knew that I was being corrupted and destroyed and I loved every second of it because it was more exciting than any sort of normal life could give me. I wanted nothing less than eternal servitude. And I only have it in spirit. I don't have a purpose here. I pretend to be someone with an interior deeper than this. Something with interests and wants and love for people who are like me."
"All I can see is his star. It blinds me to everything else. Two hands raised against either side of the doorframe and a face you would kill for but can never describe, but I know who he is. I know who he was. I know what he did. The words escape me. Something you can only reach through metaphor, and they call me a ridiculous man, but I see it. I always see it. Nothing else could ever be brighter. I'm lost in light that touches every part of my body, every second of every day. That I only saw for one night. I can't experience anything else, or be present for anyone else, because I'm stuck and I'm poisoned and I love every disgusting second of it."
"I don't ever want to escape this prison. There's something in me that wants to be free sometimes but I wish and hope that he might stomp it out for good someday. I'm afraid I'll never stop running towards it, every distraction making me scream bloody murder. I want to be forgiven but I know in my heart that I don't have the strength to stop. That nothing is stronger than this. That I might never be free. I'm sorry, my Lord, for the abomination you see in front of you. I'm not one of yours. I don't think I ever could be."
> You hear the bench creak as the priest leans forward and slowly sighs. The breeze whistles through the intricately adorned lattice divider.
"So why are you here?" he asks. "If not to be absolved, if you believe you're following something stronger than yourself."
"I'm guilty. What else is there to do?"
> The air settles. You don't know where everyone went, but you don't really care. The branches poking your eyes out are higher on your list. You let out an exagerrated sigh, snicker to yourself a little, and crawl out of the 8 year-old boy sized clearing you found nestled between the fence and the bushes.
> A boy stumbles past, almost missing you. He runs like he has dumbbells strapped to his feet. Your younger brother.
"Star? Where you'd you go! Come on, we're over here." he says, barely taking a breath and dragging you by the hand.
> You see him sat atop the boarded off part of the wooden walkway between the trees. The rest is plastered in clumsily-applied thick plastic sheets to stop kids like you from falling. Your gaze falls to the floor as soon as his eyes meet yours. Your older brother. Stupid to even look.
"Where the hell did you go, baby?"
"Over there..." you squeak. Your arm doesn't rise or even twitch. Your head stays locked in place aimed at the ground. You're counting the wood chips again.
"Help me get more planks for the base." He gestures to the older blond kid behind him. "Throw that over the branch."
> You don't need to say okay. He knows you listen to him. It's not mutual.
>You slam the door in his face.
"You know you're not allowed in my room. Fucking weirdo..." he spits, and you see the shadow of his feet slip away.
>Clunk. Your head smacked against the door when you dropped to your knees, eyes stinging from the tears. You didn't even go in there, not this time at least. He doesn't know what you have.
> The church bell tolls above you.
*clang*
>You jump a little.
*clang*
> The bench creaks as you lean back and rub your hands together. Like he'd forgive you.
*clang*
>It's been far, far too long.
*clunk*
> The bathroom door clicks into place from the breeze coming through the window. You sit down and lean over. Rubbing your hands together again.
> You hear three sharp knocks.
"Let me in."
> ...
"Let me in."
> ...
"Let me in or I'll kill you."
> ...
"I'm busy" you hoarsely whisper.
> He tries the handle.
"Just wait like, five minutes"
> He tries the handle again. The door shakes a little.
"Can you just wait?"
> You hear a loud thud as he slams against the door with his shoulder. The handle won't stop moving. You're used to this. He's just mad. He'll stop.
*thud*
> ...
*thud*
"I-I'm busy. Stop."
*thud*
*thud*
*thud*
> The door bulges out of the frame. Please don't.
*clang*
"You were saying?" the priest butts in.
"Sorry. Zoned out."
"I sent a bear to its death last week."
"How do you do this? The job, I mean. Without loving someone. I know God is all you need, or whatever, but how does that work?"
"You give yourself up. It's not rewarding in the way most people think. I don't enjoy it. But I'm here. It's what I'm in this box for. People. That's my love."
"There's a wall though. Literally. You can't see me. You can't hold me. You can't touch my hair. All there is to love is carved wood and grated panels."
"Have you loved something greater than you before, child?"
"Far too many times."
> 540 days ago. Your chair snaps into place after you jump into it from the bed. A fine move. It starts ringing. You fix your hair, push up your glasses, get into frame. There she is. The words don't matter in this one. You're not really listening, even though your face says you are more than you ever have in your entire life. In that way people do when they're in love, your eyes glaze over, and everything else disappears. Fixated on every little sound that squeezes through your crumb-covered laptop speakers. Everything you ever thought yourself to have built is nothing next to this. You'd piss on the Mona Lisa a thousand times to see an inch of her face, a single word on her tongue. This won't mean anything soon, and you know that, but you've been stuffed into a crate you could never hate, your heart barely holding it in. I'm not occupied with bursting dams today.
"Do you love the wind, Father?"
"As much as I love you, child."
> He means it, holding a flaming sword to your tongue.
"I expect the ocean to give a little back, just this once."