“I’m here to help you,” he said quietly, and brushed black curls back from pale cheeks and bright eyes. There was something infinitely sad about the face that watched, the face that compelled, the face that hoped. Few could meet his gaze and not want to tell, to confess, to beg forgiveness.

His mother had always hoped he’d become a priest, announcing salvation with a nod, a touch, a whisper.

Rosary beads and crucifixes, mercy and prayer.

Alleyways were his confessionals; icy rainwater sacred and the feel of his teeth a holy pilgrim’s kiss.

He gave absolution of a different kind.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Absolution

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Let us like in the alleyway come to some understanding of where your skin gives me the gall to find the beginning of mine. And other hairy stories. Link them, forget them, find them, return them. Do something.

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