I don't quite know what inspired me to write this. I just got the idea in my head and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. I hope someone enjoys it, anyway.
Minor spoilers for the end of the series, by the way.
ALSO: I'm not a Catholic (or a religious person at all, really). I have no opinion whatsoever on Confession or sin or anything else discussed here. It's merely a framing device for a character study.
Liked this story? Hated it? Hate my face and want me to know that? Leave a review!
We are each our own Devil, and we make this world our Hell.
-Oscar Wilde
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned- holy shit, it must've been ten years since my last confession."
Father Andrew fidgets uncomfortably at the profanity, but otherwise keeps his composure.
The voice on the other side of the confessional is too old to belong a child, but too young to really be called a man's voice. It's wavering and uncertain, the shadow behind the curtain fidgeting nervously.
He's used to that, though. Most people are nervous when they first enter the confessional.
"What sins have you come to confess?" Father Andrew asks, wanting to put the boy at ease.
The shadow on the other side of the curtain laughs wryly.
"Do you want the full list, or will the Cliffnotes version do?"
The shadow scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"...What I say in here stays private, right?" He asks, his voice quiet. "You can't tell anyone else, ever?"
"That's right."
"So, even if I've killed people- you still can't tell anyone?"
The priest's blood runs cold in his veins; he can feel the boy's eyes burning into him even through the curtain.
"...Yes, my son." He answers, finally.
A heavy sigh from the other side of the confessional. There's a heavy creaking sound as the shadow shifts on the kneeler.
"I put a bullet in the back of a guy's head when I was seventeen. I put a bullet in his head because I was told to. 'If you wanna be one of us, then shoot him.' That's what Ross told me. So I did it."
The boy laughs again- a bitter, hollow laugh.
"The funny part is, I don't even feel bad about shooting him. He was fucking scum- my only regret was that I didn't shoot the bastard sooner. Funny that I hate Kira so much, when I'm just fine deciding who lives or dies on my own."
Father Andrew doesn't speak, silently urging the boy to go on.
"I figured that after all the times the guy fucked me up the ass and didn't care that I was bleeding afterward, I probably deserved to shoot him, anyway."
Father Andrew startles, caught off guard.
"Oh yeah- I'm a fucking fag, too. Forgot to mention that part."
The flippant toss of his head doesn't quite match the dark tone of his voice.
"That one might actually be the worst, actually. Because I dragged Matt down with me."
The priest finally finds his voice again.
"Is Matt someone important to you?" He asks
"I love him." The shadow answers.
His voice cracks ever so slightly as he says it.
"I love him so much. I love him, but I treat him like shit. I love him, and he loves me back, and I don't deserve it. I'm scared to go to Hell on my own, so I dragged him down with me so we can burn together. Romantic, isn't it?"
What initially sounds like more laughter morphs into heavy sobbing.
"He doesn't deserve to be stuck with a rotten motherfucker like me. But he sticks around anyway, no matter how awful I am to him. I wish I knew why."
"What do you do that makes you feel that way?" father Andrew prods, gently.
"I hit him," the boy answers matter-of-factly. "I get up in his face and scream at him when I'm pissed off- and I won't even be angry at him. I'm just angry, and I have to be angry at someone- so I take it out on him. And he just stands there and lets me do it and I don't get it!"
His voice is cracking rather badly now, half-strangled with emotion. His breath comes in great, shaking gasps. He rests his head in his arms while he cries,leaning heavily against the thin wall of the confessional, his trembling making the entire booth shake.
"I've made him do awful things, too. And he does them for me, just because I asked. He's going to hell all because of me, and he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve any of it. It's all my fault."
Father Andrew lets a long silence pass, while the boy on the other side collects himself- not that he knows what he should say, anyway (what can he say in this situation?).
"...It's almost funny, though," the boy says, making a motion like he's running fingers through his hair. "Matt doesn't even believe in God, and he's a better Christian than me.
"Oh?" Father Andrew is taken aback by the rapid shift in the boy's mood.
"Well- at least he's got the 'turn the other cheek' thing down. He says, with another mirthless laugh. "If I were him, I woulda kicked my ass a long time ago."
More uncomfortable shifting on the kneeler.
"He keeps telling me to stop hating Near too. It's bad for me, he keeps saying. And I know he's right. But it's a habit I don't think I'll ever be able to break."
"Why do you hate him?"
"Because he's an arrogant sack of dicks. Because he's always so damn calm, no matter what. He stays quiet when all I wanna do is scream in his stupid smug face. Because no matter how hard I try, he's always just a little bit better than me and it drives me up a fucking wall."
Father Andrew frowns. The boy must feel that frown, because he sighs wearily.
"I know. Envy is a sin. Wrath is a sin too. I've tried controlling it, okay? It's just too much for me."
He hides his face in his hands, so his words come out muffled.
"I thought God didn't give people more than they could handle. So why can't I just deal with all these shitty feelings inside me?! I mean- it's not like I want to be angry and fucked-up and miserable all the time! Do you have any idea how exhausted I am?!"
A pitiful whimper bubbles out of his throat.
"...If God really loves everyone, then why did he make me this way?" He pleads, softly. "It's too much. It's always been too much. I can't take it."
Father Andrew has no answer to give. He furrows his brow and regards the sad little shadow in front of him.
"It's like someone's stabbing me in the heart. All the time. Every day. I can't take it anymore."
The priest opens his mouth to say something, but gets cut off.
"-That's okay, though. I'll be dead soon, and it'll all be over. Maybe God'll give me an answer before he sends me down to Hell."
"What do you mean?" Father Andrew asks, his heart suddenly gripped with fear for the angry boy behind the curtain.
"I'm going after Kira. I'm gonna hunt him down and make him pay- but I know he's probably gonna end up killing me, too. The scary part is that I'm okay with that. I know I'm going to Hell, but I'm still not afraid to die. I guess I'm just fucked up. But I figured this way, at least maybe my death will mean something."
Another great, shaking breath.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you all this," the boy mutters. "I'm not expecting any absolution or anything like that...I mean, there's not enough Hail Mary's in the world to save someone like me. I guess...maybe I just need to get it off my chest."
With a great creak, the boy rises from the kneeler.
"Thanks anyway, Padre. It's nice to have somebody listen."
"Wait-"
Father Andrew has been a priest for almost thirty years. He's listened to the sins and burdens of countless people. But he doesn't think he's ever been as sad or as afraid for any of them as this one boy who's leaving right now.
With a speed he didn't think he still possessed at this age, he bursts from the confessional to stop the boy from leaving.
He reaches to grab the sleeve of the boy's leather jacket, but recoils when the boy turns his head, and he finally sees his face.
An angry, ugly, half-healed burn claws its way across his beautiful face and down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of the jacket. It looks unbearably painful- like this boy was halfway in Hell already.
Bright blue eyes- as deep and as blue the ocean depths- peer from beneath a fringe of cornsilk hair, regarding him curiously.
Those blue blue eyes are ringed with red from crying, his mangled face full of anguish, and Father Andrew wants to hug him, to tell him that he doesn't have to die.
He doesn't get the chance to say that, however.
"Hey- don't gimme that look," the boy murmurs, a soft and surprisingly genuine smile spreading across his face. "I'm not worth worrying about, trust me."
He turns his back again, heading out the doors of the now-deserted church.
He pauses briefly, laying a gloved hand on the doorway like he needed it to steady himself. Father Andrew watches him, the crease in his forehead deepening.
"...Hey," the boy says, hesitantly. "My name is Mihael, by the way. Mihael Keehl. I just...thought you should know."
With those words, he steps out into the snowy streets of New York City, disappearing into the crowded streets and out of sight.
Shakily, Father Andrew falls to his knees, and utters a fervent prayer for the soul of angry, wayward Mihael Keehl.
And, a few months later,when he hears a news story from Japan, about two young men killed in a vain attempt to take down Kira, he has a sinking suspicion that he already knows who they are.
-End
