Confessions Novels & Stories

“At least…” My grip tightened around the glass. “I don’t want to.” Camille didn’t respond immediately. The night stretched around us. Quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful for the mess in my head. Finally I laughed softly. “You know what’s embarrassing?” “What?” I stared out at the water. “My walls are breaking.” The confession felt ridiculous. Humiliating. I rubbed a hand over my face. Camille looked down at her glass. “Do you believe him?” She asked, “His apologies.”

To whom it may concern: This statement serves as both my confession and my testament. I, Harrison Ford, solemnly and sincerely confess responsibility for the murders of Catherine Thompson and Elisa Velasco. To those mourning them, I offer my deepest apologies. And to anyone who once believed I was a better man than this, I am profoundly sorry for betraying that belief.

I exhaled only when the doors shut. He knows. Or worse, he suspects. ★ That night, I went to the confessional. I locked the doors, shut the screens, and knelt in the darkness. “Forgive me, Father,” I whispered, voice hoarse, “for I have sinned. I am a liar. A hypocrite. A coward.” My hands gripped the lattice until my knuckles whitened. “I let him touch me. I let him break me. I let him—God forgive me—I wanted it. I still want it.”

This was a career-ending sermon. Confessions were just as bad. As a priest, I obviously could not judge them, but it was quite something. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I lusted after my neighbor’s wife with desire in my heart,” the man confessed. I nodded sagely, trying to focus. “And how many times—” “But she looks just like that dangerous-hot looking Norwegian ex I had. Her ass is round and perfect and…” I coughed to get him back in order.

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.

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.

David said nothing; he was clearly angry at Roslyn but he’d refused to say it. They continue to eat in silent until David opened his mouth to speak; “I want to tell you something but I worried you’ll not talk to me again.” Roslyn knitted her brow; she pondered why David said that. “Well, if ya think I’ll not speak with ya again, why bring it up?” she asked. “You can tell me anything David; only if it doesn’t have to do with you cheating on me.” she told him sincerely; David shakes his rapidly in denial. “Far from it, the last thing I’ll ever do is to cheat on my wife.” “Then what is it?” asked Roslyn good-naturedly. He shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair and sighed. “It’s about Dave.” Ro

And they want me to know they know. I grab my phone. Hands shaking. I should call Jamie. I should call Marcus. Hell, I should call the damn FBI. But all I do is stare at my screen, with the draft confession blinking back at me from my notes app. Suddenly the lies aren’t just lies anymore. They’re leverage. And I’m not the only one holding them.