Confession |
Issue 14
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PART I
You know exactly where she is…in the soft light of the coffee shop. She’s bright when she answers the phone. Why not? She doesn’t know why you’re calling. The moment feels foreign. As if you’re calling from another life. Stay there, you say. Wait. It’s the first step onto a bridge you’ve never crossed. And though you’ve rehearsed this, your throat tightens at the idea of ever getting to the other side. The drive is a blur. The road unwinds beneath you like an endless ribbon. You want to stop. But you know that if you stop, you’ll never try this again. PART II
She sits there. You want to sit there with her and speak of anything but this. You start with a smile and you immediately ditch it. Swap it for a more real face. One that won’t fool her again. Because you’re a devil you actually catch yourself trying to weasel. You whisper to yourself, “It’s not too late. You’re a good liar.” But you’ve done that before and that path leads to a desert and you swallowed your last dram of water three weeks ago. No. Not quite right. Not water. And not weeks. What was it? Barely 30 minutes ago. Standard operating procedure for the last six months and before that the last 10 years as you’ve been sliding down this slope…one with no bottom. Unless you stop it here. |
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella, Words on the Page, out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection, To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction, out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.
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PART III
You stare at her and say it… and the words fall out like stones. They hit the air and shatter. They come out jagged. They strike her about the face and throat.
Once they’re out they’re out. It’s almost a relief. The words. “Hiding…Lied…Drank…Liters…”
She mumbles a few questions.
You give her more words like vomit.
You imagine everything you ever drank pouring out of your throat. Nice if it worked like that, right? Just put it back where it came from. Undo it. Rewind it. But this isn’t Disney and spells aren’t real.
You stare at her and say it… and the words fall out like stones. They hit the air and shatter. They come out jagged. They strike her about the face and throat.
Once they’re out they’re out. It’s almost a relief. The words. “Hiding…Lied…Drank…Liters…”
She mumbles a few questions.
You give her more words like vomit.
You imagine everything you ever drank pouring out of your throat. Nice if it worked like that, right? Just put it back where it came from. Undo it. Rewind it. But this isn’t Disney and spells aren’t real.
PART IV
Is it weird to think of God now? Is this what He meant? He said plenty of words, too. You memorized some of them. “Confess…Forgive…Cleanse…Justify…” Should you say some of those?
No. She’d think you’re playing her. Trying to soften her up. After all, that’s her Bible on the table. That’s how you knew she’d be here. Same place every day. Coffee…tea…Psalms.
The next set of words don’t work, and you can hear yourself mouthing the script in return. “I’ll do better.” (wrong) “This time it will be different.” (lie) “You deserve better.” (True…but where is he?)
Instead, you pour out a deluge of pledges hoping enough volume will kill the flame.
You promise again. And again. You beg for a different kind of cleansing, one that doesn’t come from words but from some holy place.
Is it weird to think of God now? Is this what He meant? He said plenty of words, too. You memorized some of them. “Confess…Forgive…Cleanse…Justify…” Should you say some of those?
No. She’d think you’re playing her. Trying to soften her up. After all, that’s her Bible on the table. That’s how you knew she’d be here. Same place every day. Coffee…tea…Psalms.
The next set of words don’t work, and you can hear yourself mouthing the script in return. “I’ll do better.” (wrong) “This time it will be different.” (lie) “You deserve better.” (True…but where is he?)
Instead, you pour out a deluge of pledges hoping enough volume will kill the flame.
You promise again. And again. You beg for a different kind of cleansing, one that doesn’t come from words but from some holy place.
PART V
You think about those words--cleansed from all unrighteousness. You think of the line between guilt and forgiveness.
Where are you on the line? Too close to the first to feel the second?
For the first time, maybe, you let the words sit before you. You don’t try to bend them.
You think about those words--cleansed from all unrighteousness. You think of the line between guilt and forgiveness.
Where are you on the line? Too close to the first to feel the second?
For the first time, maybe, you let the words sit before you. You don’t try to bend them.
PART VI
And, in fact, that’s where it started. Real healing.
Years later, you can look back and say some new words to yourself.
“Sober…Six months…One year…Three years…”
And today the morning still starts at the coffee shop. But now the two of you are there together.
She still has her Bible.
And you have one of your own.
And, in fact, that’s where it started. Real healing.
Years later, you can look back and say some new words to yourself.
“Sober…Six months…One year…Three years…”
And today the morning still starts at the coffee shop. But now the two of you are there together.
She still has her Bible.
And you have one of your own.