Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Alfred Hitchcock. Yadda yadda yadda.
A/N: This is an alternate ending to the movie I Confess, directed by Alfred Hitchcock and starring Montgomery Clift. I felt the ending was weak and lacked power, and really begged for tragedy. Actually, I think Hitchcock was going to end it tragically but wasn't allowed to do so by the censors. Anyways, I am not a Catholic, and I am using only the film I just watched as a basis for my fic. Anybody who sees a glaring error is definitely free to tell me so, and I'll try to correct it. Warning: this fic is extremely dark, so if you don't like dark fics, please don't read it. I really dislike flames. Constructive criticism I appreciate.
Vows
"Guilty." The words rang through the courtroom, almost unnaturally loud. There was silence all around, except for an anguished and not entirely suppressed sob from the front row. In the accused box, Father Michael Logan kept his head bowed. His face was blank, carefully devoid of all expression.
He was handsome, in a quiet, delicate sort of way. He had a thin, refined face and clear grey eyes, above a finely chiseled nose and mouth. His brown hair was combed, and his pale hands were folded before him. He could not look up.
He knew that if he did, he would look straight at Otto Keller, that he would be unable to help himself. Otto Keller was the reason he was standing under the bright white lights of the courtroom, so bright and so white that they caused the sweat to break out in beads on his forehead. Two weeks ago he had been up late, walking with the woman who still loved him, even after seven years of marriage to another man. He had returned to the cathedral at about quarter or half past eleven, and soon after that, Otto Keller had come in and had asked for confession.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed Villette."
It was not, Logan thought ironically, the sort of situation which priests were routinely expected to handle.A slight smile appeared on his face which just as quickly disappeared as he was recalled to the full severity of the circumstances.
Found guilty, and unable to break the seal of the confessional to reveal the true identity of the murderer.
Again, a smile flitted across his face, this time utterly devoid of mirth. Whether or not I speak, I will no longer be a priest.
He could feel laughter boiling up inside of him, heavy, hysterical laughter. His shoulders began to shake with the fury of it. He had held his emotions in check for so long that now the strain nearly overwhelmed him, but somehow, he forced the treacherous laughter down, wrapping his hands around his arms as if he were cold, firmly holding the shaking in check.
He gazed out at the crowd, forgetting that he should not do so, that if he were unable to look away from Keller, even that could be considered a breach of the confessional. Only two faces were clear. The first was Ruth's, the terror, the anxiety, the love so great in her face that she was painful to watch. The other was Alma Keller's. Alma Keller, a small, stooped woman, shy, retiring in her duties from day-to-day. Her expression was a seething torrent of guilt. Somehow, Logan found it in him to smile at her, trying to reassure her even though he was unable to reassure himself.
God will care for his own.
Then why is God allowing this to happen?
Sickened, he dropped his eyes to the floor once more and found, to his surprise, that it was swimming before his eyes. An instant later, the darkness overwhelmed him, and he crumpled slowly to the ground in a faint.
He awoke in a cell, small and cramped but not uncomfortable. Several days passed in a blur. An attempted appeal. Denied. The sentence passed. Death. He tried to pray, but his thoughts would not form sentences, only fragmentary questions and supplications. Is this right? Give me strength, for--shall I keep the confessional? What if it were another's life in danger? Could I speak then? Why not to save my own life?
Ruth came to visit him once, wracked with tears and guilt, believing her testimony to have condemned him to death. Condemned him who had been her lover, whom she still loved with her whole heart. He kept a smile on his face for her, somehow. He reassured her with platitudes, told her that whoever's fault it was, it was not hers. She left comforted, if only slightly.
Father Logan lay on the hard bed in his prison cell and wept long into the night after she had gone, huge sobs which wracked his whole body. My God, my God, why was this burden visited on me? I am not an oak; I will bend; I will break.
I will not betray the ideals for which I left my lay life forever. I will not forsake my vows.
The day arrived after a blur of weeks of grey monotony. His last hope, that the murderer would confess, finally obliterated. His last hours spent, trying to make some kind of peace with himself.
And then he was walking into an inner courtyard. Somehow, he managed to notice that the birds were singing, that the sun was bright, high above, that the day was warm and blue and spring. Once, the words threatened to well up. He bit his tongue. What good would it do now? They would not believe him, so he would die notwithstanding, and with a guilty conscience.
He had been given confession, but had been unable to confess. He did not know how much he could trust himself to say. The priest had left, shaking his head sadly, no doubt believing that Father Logan's soul was destined for Hell. Perhaps it was. He was no longer certain of anything, only of the monstrousness of the heavy machine of justice when combined with the tyranny, and yet the necessity, of idealism.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
There was a gallows in the center of the courtyard, and it appeared to be the only clear, certain thing in a world that now was filled with the shifting sand of uncertainties. He was terrified, but it was a cold terror now, and in some way removed from himself. He walked steadily, without a break, without a pause, walked up the steps and bowed his head for the noose.
The rope felt rough and heavy around his neck.
I killed Villette.
He heard muffled cries, muffled screams outside the door. "What is it?" asked one of the guards.
"Probably nothing," responded another.
The ground was snatched from beneath his feet. He dangled, writhed once, and was still.
The door burst open. A woman rushed in. "He is innocent!" shrieked Alma Keller.
There was a confused buzz of voices.
"My husband is the murderer, Father Logan could not break confessional!"
"Quick, man, cut him down!"
"Call for a doctor!"
The rope was duly cut, the priest brought hurriedly down.
Too late.