Confessions A Novel Novels & Stories

"You can't possibly do that. What about school?" "I don't care as long as you learn that your confessions are non-negotiable." "You're fucking crazy." I shoved his chest, but he didn't move an inch. He leaned into me. "Tell me the truth dorogoy. What are you really afraid of? Are you afraid that you don't like it or is it that you're afraid that you like it too much? That it makes you wet?" I gaped at him. "You're delusional." I tipped my chin and straightened my back. I didn't falter as I took determined steps towards his confession room.

Her confession today was different; not the usual petty transgressions of thought, but something deeper, more unsettling. "I… I have been having… impure thoughts, Father," she confessed, her voice barely audible. "Thoughts that shame me. Thoughts of… flesh. Of touch. Of wanting…" She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a deep scarlet visible even in the dim light. Father Michael clenched his fists, the cheap fabric of his cassock rough against his skin.

And sometimes aliveness looks like being held down, used, ruined in the best way. What would you do if you weren’t afraid? So began our exchange. Anonymous confessions slipped behind the brick, thoughtful, and increasingly depraved, responses appearing within a day. I confessed to fantasies I’d never spoken aloud: being choked until my vision blurred, being spanked until I cried, being fucked on my knees in a public place where anyone could walk in. I confessed to coming so hard thinking about a stranger’s belt around my wrists that I left teeth marks on my own arm to keep quiet.

"I was still conscious at that time. I just couldn't move. I heard what you said." Esmerelda's eyes widened. She had said more than just that. Frantic, she asked, "Mom, did you only hear that one line? Was there anything else?" Ruth was stunned. She asked coldly, "You said more?" Relief flooded over Esmerelda. As she blinked, tears rolled down her cheeks. She flung herself on the bed and grabbed Ruth's hand, saying, "Mom, Clara was accusing me, and I lost my temper. I was just momentarily confused. You know me. I was just throwing a fit…"

Her pale face turned a strange, ghostly blue under the flickering overhead tube light. She had thought the cell was the lowest point of her life. She had thought that if she could just blame Lily, if she could just claim ignorance, she could find a legal loophole to escape. But Lily had confessed. Lily had put her name at the very center of the conspiracy. Arthur Vance now had a full, written, and signed confession linking Chloe to a bombing, an attempted murder, and a high-society poisoning. There were no loopholes left. There was no way out.

She brought it to River, unsure, unsure if it was meant to be found, unsure if she had overstepped. But River just nodded. “She wanted someone to read it one day.” She sat on the floor of the guest room, knees pulled to her chest, and opened the journal beneath the light of the moon coming through the window. The first page read: This isn’t a story. It’s a confession I haven’t earned the right to forget. She read slowly, carefully, like the pages might dissolve if handled too quickly. The entries were dated, but irregular. Weeks would pass between some. Months between others.

When I finally hear the first sounds of the city—a cart grinding on the cobblestones, a merchant opening his shutters, the heavy step of a labourer—I rise like a condemned man torn from his cell to be led to the scaffold. I take the envelope. It burns in my hand. For an instant, temptation overwhelms me: to tear it up, reduce it to ashes, erase the confession before it finds a reader. But already my legs move forward despite myself, heavy, determined. They lead me to the door. At first light, I entrust my confession to the mail. When my fingers release the envelope, I feel as though I am tearing away a piece of my flesh. And suddenly, there is nothing left to do but wait.

From anticipation to confusion, from disappointment to frustration, then to simmering anger. He must've been thinking we had agreed to go through our 144th declaration today. Why didn't I show up? Why would I humiliate him like this in front of the world? But Aldric, hadn't I gone through that same humiliation 143 times? Well, thank goodness, there wouldn't be a 144th time. This time, I was the one who was done. My resignation stirred quite a storm inside Cromwell LLP. Most of my colleagues never knew about my past with Aldric. But now, after everything that happened, the rumors have begun to swirl.

Tonight the church is empty and I’m sitting in his confession booth with my heart in my throat and my underwear already wet. The wood smells like incense and furniture polish, and when he settles on his side of the screen I hear his breathing change because he knows it’s me before I say a word. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” “How long since your last confession?” His voice is tight, careful, the way you handle something that might break if you hold it wrong. I give him the easy sins first because I want him comfortable. Missed mass, took the Lord’s name in vain, never visited my grandmother enough.

He keeps walking down a dimly lit hallway behind the main hall. The moment the noise fades Marcus spins around. His face is furious. “Are you completely out of your mind, Rhys?” Marcus barks, stepping right into my space. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Pretending to be Reid? Chloe told me Jami had confessed to Reid, but the moment I saw you, I knew you were at it again…what kinda shitty game are you playing, kissing Jami in front of the entire city? Do you have any idea how messed up this is?”