Dark Thoughts..

Thorne.

I closed the door behind me and took a breath.

The room was small, quiet. The walls felt like they carried secrets.

I changed quickly—slipping into my cassock, my collar.

The uniform never felt heavy until moments like this.

When I had to become something more than just a man. When I had to be the wall people leaned their guilt against.

She didn’t say a word when I stepped into the confession booth.

I could see her face from the cracks, of course— from where I sat behind the screen and I could feel her presence. Like heat. She was sitting there, barely breathing.

I adjusted my posture, cleared my throat slightly.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I began, quietly.

“You may begin when you’re ready.”

The silence stretched.

Then I heard her exhale slowly, like she was letting go of something she'd been holding for years.

“I haven’t done this before,” she said.

Her voice was steady, but low. Strained. Like it cost her something to say every word.

“I don’t even know what to say. Or how.”

“You don’t have to sound holy,” I said quietly. “Just honest.”

A pause.

Then she said, “Okay.”

Another breath.

“I… I lied to my mother before I came here,” she began. “I told her I wanted to help Grandma. But the truth is… I just wanted to get away. From everything. From the noise. From the guilt.”

I didn’t speak. I let her keep going.

She laughed lightly—nervously. “It’s stupid. I’m not even sure what I'm guilty of.”

“Say what’s on your heart.”

Silence again.

Then she said something I didn’t expect.

“I’m still a virgin.”

Her words landed heavy. Not because of what she said, but how she said it. Like it was a confession soaked in shame, not pride.

“But… I’ve been touched,” she added quickly. “Not sex. Not that. Just… fingers. And it wasn’t even my boyfriend. It was someone else.”

I felt my fingers tense in my lap.

“I let him,” she whispered. “I liked it. I wanted it. And I hated that I wanted it.”

I could hear the break in her voice now. Her guilt. Her confusion.

“I told myself it was harmless. I mean, I didn't go all the way. But it didn't feel harmless after. It felt like something got opened that I couldn’t close.”

I breathed in slowly. My throat felt tight, but I couldn’t show that. Not now.

“You think you’ve sinned,” I said carefully.

“I know I have,” she said.

“Because you wanted it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because it felt good. And now I look at myself, and I don’t feel clean. I feel… used. And pathetic.”

“Was it forced?”

“No,” she said fast. “That’s the worst part. I wanted it. I leaned into it. I didn’t stop it.”

My hands curled slightly on my knees.

“You’re not pathetic,” I said quietly. “You’re human.”

“But it’s a sin, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause before I answered. I wasn’t just a priest in that moment—I was a man, too.

A man trying to keep his voice steady while a girl behind a screen poured her ache into the air.

“I think what hurts you more than the act,” I said slowly, “is that you haven’t forgiven yourself for wanting something that made you feel alive.”

She didn’t respond. I heard her swallow.

I leaned back, pressing the tips of my fingers together.

“Mia,” I said her name gently. “This isn’t about keeping a perfect scorecard. God isn’t standing with a clipboard waiting for you to slip.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about truth. And about healing. You felt something, and it scared you. But shame won’t fix it. Honesty will.”

Her silence was louder now.

“I didn’t come to the church to feel worse,” she said finally. “I came because… I needed something to help me breathe.”

“And does this help?” I asked.

There was a beat.

“…Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, it does.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“Then that’s where we start.”

I watch her carefully as she knelt before me, the weight of her confession hanging in the air. Her eyes are downcast, fingers twitching nervously at the rosary she still clutches tightly in her hand.

The room feels charged, the silence almost unbearable.

“I’m sorry for my sins,” she whispers, the words barely audible but somehow heavy with the weight of truth.

“I... I’ve never been with anyone, not really... but I... I’ve sinned. And I regret it.”

The way she says it, her voice trembling with shame, makes something shift within me. There's power in this confession, in her vulnerability.

But I don’t respond immediately. I let the silence settle between us. She needs to know I’m not here to offer quick forgiveness—at least not yet.

Her posture is tense, like she’s waiting for me to pass judgment, to deliver some kind of absolution. But that’s not what she gets from me—not yet.

Instead, I lean forward, my voice deliberate, almost casual. “Confession is a path to redemption, Mia. But redemption doesn’t come easily.”

I watch her flinch at my words, and I feel a rush of satisfaction. She’s still unsure of herself, of what she truly wants.

It’s clear in the way she avoids looking at me through the holes.

She nods, slowly, still holding her breath as if she’s waiting for me to deliver some kind of final judgment.

The tension in her body is palpable.

I stand, moving toward the small table at the side of the room, my steps deliberate, measured. “Your penance will be a simple one,” I say, turning back to face her.

“But it’s not just about action. It’s about understanding the weight of your choices.”

She looks up at me, the slightest tremor in her hands betraying her calm exterior.

“What... what do I need to do?”

I paused, my gaze lingering on her—on how she’s reacting to the situation, how she’s trying to mask her discomfort but failing.

There’s something raw in her eyes, something that calls to me, a quiet desperation. It’s almost too easy to read her, but I’m not interested in her discomfort.

I want her to understand what she’s walking into.

“Your penance, Mia, is about submission. A test, if you will. To show that you truly understand your place here. Your sin... it’s not just about your body. It’s about what you allow others to take from you, what you let yourself be,”

I murmured, my voice darkening with each word. “Do you accept your penance?”

She hesitates. Her lips part as if she wants to protest, to pull away. But her eyes betray her uncertainty. She’s torn between fear and a desire for something deeper, something more.

“I... I accept it,” she whispers, barely audible. But the way her voice cracks, the way her body betrays her hesitation, tells me more than her words ever could.

I move toward her slowly, deliberately, watching as she shifts uncomfortably on her feet. I can almost feel her heart racing, but she doesn’t move back. It’s as if she’s given in already—whether she knows it or not.

“You’ll leave here tonight changed,” I say, my voice firm. “But only if you can accept that change. Only if you can truly understand the weight of your penance.”

Her chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “

I understand,” she says quietly, but her voice trembles.

I step closer, standing just a few inches away now.

The air between us is thick with anticipation, with something unspoken that neither of us is ready to face. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and for the briefest moment, I saw the struggle in them—fear, desire, confusion. All tangled together.

“You’ll leave here knowing something about yourself that you didn’t before,” I murmured. “Whether you’re ready for it or not.”

"Yes... I'm ready father Thorne..." She nods, her breath quickening, her grip on the rosary tightening. But she doesn’t pull away. And that’s what keeps me here.