Unholy Confessions

“But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?” ― Mark Twain.

Graham let his tired gaze rest on the bright light the lamp on his desk provided. He had grown rather reminiscent of the nights when he would let himself roam the crowded streets of London with a half-empty bottle of the brown liquid he used to adore all those years ago while the rest of the town went to sleep. Of the nights when the street lamps seemed bright like the Sun. Nights when they kept you warm so long as you remained near them, dare to step away and you’re back into the chill the night offers so graciously.

It was a damn shame he didn’t allow himself to act as a real man, anymore.

There were secrets hiding in the cracks of his lips, begging to be let out. There were voices inside his head reminding him all about the things he had to take away from his own self.

Every time his tongue brushed against his lips it was like you could almost hear them, taste them.

Nothing would ever taste as bitter and that is a goddamn promise.

Graham remembered the times he would go out and return to his home when the first rays of Sun peeked across the sky. The night would pass with him finding a new willing victim, a woman that he couldn’t help but take advantage of in both of their drunken states. Most times, to be honest, that state did not involve intoxication by alcohol or even drugs but the simple promise of ecstasy.

And Graham was a man of his word, he didn’t take his promises lightly.

Working undercover took those simple rights from you, tore them away, to be precise. His boss had made it crystal clear that he was not to engage in any physical contact with any of the women in the town. Graham wasn’t an idiot, he knew that if he even thought about doing such a thing, he might as well have shot himself in the head.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t bend the rules slightly.

So, once in a blue moon, the cop in him would miss the feeling of a woman’s soft body beneath him. He would miss the sounds and the words that came out of the mouth of his victim of the night. His hand would itch to touch the soft curves he couldn’t stop fantasising about.

Oh, those unholy thoughts never let him be, he was never free of them, like a man in seclusion wanting to feel the Sun touch his ashen skin.

Every time the urges returned, he put on a mask and went on his way but satisfaction wasn’t like he remembered it, it wasn’t all that full-filling. Probably because if anyone recognised him he would have to say farewell to the Queen of all things: Life. Nobody could a well executed blowjob when his ass was on the line, not even him.

The flesh is weak but the soul is strong, he whispered to himself mockingly. The mantra was an invention of his predecessor, Father Logan and let’s just say that his boss, Sean, had grown rather fond of it, to the point where he would repeat it just to make Graham bite his tongue and suck it up.

It was, as Sean would say, his destiny.

At the age of thirty two Graham pretended to give himself to God.

Before that, he had spent three years in a cartel full of Neo-Nazis. The fact made his skin crawl and his skull to tingle, unable to forget the marking he had suffered. All in the name of keeping his cover and his head, for that matter, in tact.

He was only thankful that after twelve long sessions that disgusting SS symbol was gone from his body. However, that did not mean that he was enjoying the black robes and the dog collars that accompanied his newest assignment.

It had been four years since the day he had first moved into that town, pretending to be nothing more than a cleric and he was nowhere close to solving the case and returning back to where he belonged, to a small apartment in London with a view worthy of competing with the Buckingham Palace.

There was a part in him kicking itself for not choosing the homicide department when he had the chance.

A disturbing thought passed briefly through his troubled mind and in response to it Graham stood up from his chair abruptly and left his room in a hurry. If anyone was looking at him, he would certainly think that he was losing whatever sanity he had left, that all those prayers had turned his brain rotten.

If anyone dared to say that to his face, he would agree but he wouldn’t have cared.

He didn’t pray, anyway.

He had reached the point of no return and wasn’t planning on going back to the safe side any time soon.

Graham felt it in his aching bones that he needed to get out of that depressing room and walk all the way to the church. After all, it would give him time to think, time to process his next steps.

Would speaking to an invisible force make anything better? Of course not, the conversation would remain strictly one sided but he had grown used to it, he had been working for the department for over a decade now, one sided conversations were all he knew, especially during the first years.

Before walking out of the door, he stole a glance at the mirror across from his bed. A black wife beater and a pair of grey jogging pants were everything that adorned his body, it was quite evident that he wasn’t dressed appropriately and he could just imagine his mother’s expression had she seen him like that.

Something tells me that God won’t be much bothered by my clothes since I’ve already booked my flight for the Inferno.

He was also certain that it was a fairly good idea to keep his feet completely bare. He was in such a hurry, you see, that he couldn’t bother with such technicalities.

Come as you are, a voice whispered to him. He didn’t know if he should take it as a Godly sign or if it was just the voice of Nirvana summoning him closer.

As he reached the heavy metal front door, he let out an exasperated sigh of relief he wasn’t even aware he was holding inside and produced a key from his back pocket, which managed to open it. He moved slowly, his footsteps echoing through the deserted church, making him rejoice at the thought that he could finally speak his mind to someone.

The moment he reached the back of the building he fell to his knees please, not caring if he scraped them. “I need to apologise, Father, for all my sinful thoughts, for all my moments of doubt. I need to apologise for loving my freedom more than You. I shall try to be a better servant, a better man, someone you are proud of creating. Give me a sign, Father and I will follow it, I will never doubt you, again.” His striking face was bowed, his eyes glued to his bare feet. If somebody saw him in that moment he would have thought that the scene in front of him was a re-enactment of a child that was being scolded by a strict parent, not a grown man who had to fight his impulses and continue to be a pawn in a life-sized game of chess.

“If you happen to be listening to me, whoever you might be, I’ll admit I need you to help me. I’ve been lost since that dreadful first time I succumbed to my desires.” His eyes found the painting of Jesus upon the cross and he let out a long, tired sigh. “We all have a cross to bear, and this is mine. I will try not to doubt my purpose again, I’ll go wherever the road leads me.” The twinkle in his eyes could not be extinguished, no matter how hard he tried. “I will never question your will, I will simply obey you, like a good little soldier.” As the last word escaped from his twitching lips, a distinctive clapping sound managed to draw his attention.

“You should have been an actor, you’re wasting a precious talent rotting in places like these.”

“Tell me about it.” He muttered, turning his face so that it was staring straight at the small camera over a painting that depicted Jesus on his cross. “It’s a damn shame I followed the family tradition.” He sighed and the sound was as dramatic as expected. “I’m doing the Devil’s dirty work.”

“Pretty sure he’s doing your dirty work.” It was a private joke between them, something Sean did not let him live down.

There might have been a few women that had come to the station just so that they could yell at him, create a scene and paint themselves the victims, as if they hadn’t known from the very beginning what would occur, as if they hadn’t begged. They would call him good for nothing Casanova and Devil.

And to think that Graham did not believe in the existence of the deity everyone accused of for their wrongdoings. He was the first to admit that he used those women but what kind of a hypocrite wouldn’t admit that they had used him too?

“Perhaps,” He muttered, his voice loud enough for Sean to hear him. “You’re right, boss.”

“Have there been any news? Has our little jailbird shown up?”

“Every Sunday for the last four years, as you know.”

“Yet, she hasn’t shown a little bit of interest in you? Graham, I think you’re losing your touch. You’ll be working in the office, if this continues.” Sean was joking but the threat felt like heaven to Graham.

“Who could ever resist my pretty grey eyes, chief?” He questioned, finally feeling his sore muscles starting to relax. “Besides, my charm has solved quite a few cases for you.” He could almost see the middle-aged man scold at his. His fingers were probably twisting his moustache, tugging the hairs slightly, enough to show the first symptoms of his displeasure.

“But not this one.” The boss muttered and Graham bit his tongue not to say anything that would cost him his job. Things were hard when you were an undercover cop, you couldn’t walk around with the same idiotic confidence the guys in the Homicide department carried, you had to keep your head low and take whatever others were willing to offer you.

“Yet.” Graham added. “I haven’t solved this case, yet.” He heard Sean grunt to himself but he paid him no mind.

“Next week, same time and think of a better confession, you’re starting to repeat yourself.” Sean let out a yawn that he had tried to disguise as a cough, and Graham imagined the lines of his face getting deeper as the years progressed and even more apparent as something as mundane as a yawn decided to make an appearance. “Go home, kid.”

“Goodnight boss.” With that he made his exit, slamming the doors on his way out.

There was nothing more comforting than going back to his bed and surrendering his body to Morpheus who could take him to a world where he was free of everything, albeit only for a few hours.

The moment he reached the two-story house he fell on his unmade bed with a deep groan of satisfaction before turning to his side and letting go of all consciousness.

His dreams did not stop painting the vulgar images. Graham, always dreamt about bodies and actions, about motions and touches, never faces. Perhaps, there was a symbolic reason hiding behind the reason why every face remained blank in his dreams, but he didn’t care enough to find out.

The only symbols he could recognise in those Goddamn dreams was that he couldn’t stand human faces due to their eyes.

He hated his eyes the most, though. Those pale grey irises drew people in, people who wanted to solve his mystery, people who he didn’t want to go around sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.

Too much hatred for the heart of a servant of God, he whispered mockingly to himself, a smirk playing at the corners of his full lips.

Graham woke up earlier than usual the next morning and, with a heavy heart, got ready for the Mass. He moved gracefully around his bed and dropped his night time attire, a pair of silk black boxers, on a pile by the laundry basket.

He stood there, completely naked, and gazed at the beams of Sunlight that were passing through his window, grazing his skin lovingly. It was one of the few pleasures he was allowed and he made the most of it.

After a few moments of blessed silence and serenity, the man stretched his powerful arms, causing his muscles to flex. The image he created was downright sinful, a man like him shouldn’t be showcasing his body in such a manner. It wasn’t that he was simply luring females in, if anything the church should thank him for increasing the number of clients it got on a daily basis. No, it wasn’t appropriate because the women in that wretched town talked more than they listened or saw and the men chose to make hasty decisions.

Who the fuck cares? He wondered silently, feeling a sunbeam hit his light coloured orbs.

He painted the most beautiful picture, not one person could deny that. His strong male features made nuns and generally women pant like dogs in the summertime. His hair was unkempt, beautiful dirty blond locks that stopped exactly at the collar of his uniform. His brows were arched and a whole two shades darker than his hair. His eyes, well, they were two of the things he considered the cause of most of his misfortunes, for not one person who had seen them, could forget them. It made his job hard.

Those pale grey orbs held so much mystery that the fact that they caused him problems was unavoidable. They were eyes that had become the main theme of many dreams.

Then there was his mouth, the most perfect imperfection of them all. While his upper lip had been graced with a sharp Cupid’s bow his lower lip was abnormally plump, the kind women and men- it’s good to be honest every now and again- dreamt about biting to the point of drawing blood.

A Roman nose and a sharp jawline completed his allure.

Come to think of it, his whole face was not helping with his job.

You couldn’t possibly forget a face like that.

He was a physical miracle, he truly was, with taut muscles curved from the years he spent manifesting his anger into something beautiful, skin drawn an irresistible golden brown hue. It was only a small indication that he was still in contact with his previous Devil, the Sun.

Graham is a man who only worships the night.

Who seeks comfort in the darkness for it is his only God.

In the darkness he stopped hiding his true self, his monster.

Usually, when the urges got out of control he would go to drown them at a pub, a few towns over. Other times, when not even Whiskey could help he would go to the ‘Rabbit Hole’, a club strictly created for the souls of the wicked.

A place where your every desire, every fantasy, no matter how sick or twisted, came to life.

A sex club, to keep this short, there’s no need to beat around the bush.

That’s where he made most of his most delicious mistakes, the ones he stripped down on a wooden cross and made beg for a sliver of his scorching touch. Some nights, when he was in the house, learning what he could about his target, he could still feel the leather against his palms.

He gave pain to those who wanted it, played with their fears, pushed them to their limits and all that, just to get his cock wet.

As he stood by his mirror, his clothes in his hands, he wondered if he had time to offer a small mercy to himself but a quick glance to this clock and the thought left his brain as quickly as it had come.

He had a job to do.

He always had a fucking job to do.

He put his clothes on quickly, his movements mechanical, almost wooden. Needless to say, Pinnochio would have done the job with more life-like enthusiasm.

As soon as he was ready, he opened the door and stepped out, locking it out of habit.

A few minutes later he was standing at the altar, staring at the people beneath. The jailbird hadn’t bothered to show up this time.

Guess Sean will have to deal with yet another disappointment. He thought to himself, sighing softly.

The eucharistic prayer was followed by the Communition Rite and so on. Words kept flowing out of Graham’s mouth and the residents of the town never let their gazes leave his powerful form.

After almost an hour, he finally stopped talking. His mouth felt dry, his throat scratching him every time he tried to swallow what little saliva he had left.

He saw most of the people leave after the last word left his mouth. The ones who stayed were, usually, middle-aged women, bored of their lives. Women who saw his as an exciting shiny, new toy.

It was almost comical how they were like vultures who circled their prey, waiting for the right moment to attack, to sink their teeth and nails into his body.

“Oh, father you were wonderful” Mrs. Robinson commented, her tone unusually breathy. Graham was restraining himself from offering her a mint to help with her sore throat and from snickering at how obvious her desperation was. “As always.”

Her nails were placed on his hidden forearm, digging into his skin and holding him in place. Mrs.Robinson was in her early forties, not much older than Graham himself, with dark brown hair that turned the few silver hairs she had into platinum gold highlights and grey eyes. She reminded Graham of a teacher he had in middle school, one that had grown rather infamous due to her after school activities.

She, apparently, had a P.H.D. at seducing teenagers that couldn’t even grow a stubble. Somehow, he knew that if he shared that information with her, she would have been positively furious. Even if she did roughly the same thing.

He also shouldn’t mention how the teacher had been one of his first arrests for that would certainly cause a few problems.

And here’s to you Mrs. Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will know, woah, woah, woah. God bless you please Mrs. Robinson, heaven holds a place for those who pray, hey, hey, hey. Graham thought with a irresistible smile, he would never get tired of that one.

“Thank you, Mrs. Robinson. You are being very kind.” He replied gently, a muscle in his jaw twitching hysterically, hating her touch. That was another one of his quirks, he didn’t like people touching him for no reason.

That was probably the only good thing he could say about the Nazis he had encountered: They respected personal space.

“Oh, dear you can call me Mary, we are not strangers.” She purred, her nails digging further into his flesh.

He forced a smile on his lips, one he kept especially for female suspects he wanted on his side. “Of course, Mary.” He gripped her hand, forcing himself to be gentle, and removed it from his body. “Now, of you’ll excuse me.”

The second he stepped away from her, a victorious smirk surfaced. The exit was close, so close, in fact, that he could taste the fresh air, feel it move from his nostrils to his lungs, taking away the toxins of the town. He was only a couple of meters away when he heard a voice call out. “Father, do you have a minute?” Graham was starting to get annoyed at the intrusion but as he turned to look at the woman who had called him he felt his eyes flare in excitement.

The jailbird had finally flown to him.

“Of course.” He kept his face emotionless even though on the inside he was yelling in triumph. “Follow me.”

Sean was surely rubbing his eyes in astonishment.

Graham led the young woman to the confessional booth, away from the prying eyes of the vultures. He opened the door to her side, being a gentleman for once, before letting her settle into her seat and taking his own place.

After all, they were both pawns in that game.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned.”