Pray For Me, Father

He was barely breathing now. He had been on the other side of the confessional.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned," I had said to him. It was the first time I've been to church in many years.

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Long enough."

"What would you like to tell me?"

"I have killed, Father. There is blood on my hands."

"When have you killed?"

"Last night. And a week before that. The hunger for it is growing. I don't think I can control it."

There had been an uncertainty in his voice after that revelation.

"And yet you tell me this. This...this is a sign that you would like to stop. It is a good thing."

"You're mistaken. I have no intention of stopping. I don't want to stop."

There had been a silence after that. And then he spoke.

"Why are you here then? Forgiveness? I cannot forgive if you do not repent."

"I just needed someone to talk to. I have no one to talk to."

He had had nothing to say to this. This was virgin territory for him I'm sure. I hadn't blamed him.

"Father?" I said.

"Yes, my son."

"Thank for listening. And I'm sorry."

"You need not apologize to me. You must repent your sins before God."

"No. I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."

That is when I left my side of the confessional, entered his, and strangled him. You may not believe me, but I am sorry he was dead. He had been a good listener,