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Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And I urgently, desperately need your prayers. It's been . . . well, it hasn't been that long since my last confession. I don't know exactly. Everything's been a blur for the last week or so. Can you pray for my brother Murphy, Father? And throw one in for me while you're at it?
Of course, we can pray together. But you'll feel better if you finish your confession first, son.
Are you new? You seem a bit young, now, to be calling me son.
I'm here helping while the Monsignor recovers from the flu. If my age bothers you, I can find another priest. But I promise I'll do my best to set you at ease if you'd like to continue.
Well, I've done a lot of little things—drinking Murphy's beer when his back was turned, slipping an ace into my lap just to piss—sorry—rile him up playing cards. The usual stuff. So if I could, I want to just issue a blanket confession for all the little things in one go. Because I need to confess the big thing, and then I need you to pray.
Alright. What is the big thing?
I've killed some people, Father. A good number. Of course, God's not going to be bothered with that, because it was His idea to start with.
I—God doesn't—
But this morning, I killed a man, one I personally think God'll be happy to see wiped off the face of his good green earth. I've got no problem with that. Bastard deserved—sorry—he deserved worse. The problem is, for the first time since Murph and I understood what we were put here to do, I enjoyed killing him.
You enjoyed it?
He hurt Murphy. He's at Mass General, trying to get his strength back. Which is why I need you to pray. Pray for him, because that doctor with the twitchy fucking eye who barely looks older than you isn't sure he's going to make it. I told him, I said doc, of course he's going to fucking make it! Look at him! He's the toughest little fucker around, next to me. You'll be in the ground years before he will, you watch!
It's okay. I need you to calm down so I can understand.
He hurt Murphy. That's all you need to understand, so you can properly pray about it. The fucker did things to him, things to try to get him to turn on people I don't even think he knows. Murph told me what that—that fucking rat bastard did to him before they put him under. So when I found the piece of shite, I made him get on his knees. Made him apologize, like maybe that could ever fix anything.
Son, I—
Then I jammed the muzzle against his forehead and painted the wall behind him a cheery fucking red.
Murder is a—
Murder isn't the problem. But it made me feel good to do that fucker in for my brother's sake. I enjoyed it too much, and I think God might be a little cross with that when He gets a chance to sit and think about it. So that's my sin, Father. I've said it.
You can unburden your soul further by confessing this to the police and being held to account for your actions.
I'm sorry for these and all my sins, His mercy endures forever, so can you say the Lord has freed me from 'em, go in peace, and just please fucking pray for my brother?
I will pray, but you must understand that God's will may not include your brother's healing.
God won't let Murphy die. Not now, not without me. I just want to make sure He knows that I haven't forgotten it in case I'm distracted and lose my train of thinking for a while. Getting you to pray can only help. Intercession, and all. I think He'll appreciate the gesture.
Wait, don't leave yet . . . slow down! We should talk about this. Hey! Oh, excuse me sir. Excuse me, go right ahead. Wait, son!
Got no time, Father. And damn, I needed this cigarette.
As I said, I will pray for your brother. Why don't you finish that, and we'll go back inside and pray together? And then we can talk and try to come to a decision that's best for you. For your eternal soul.
My soul's fine, as long my brother wakes up. And all I've done is pray. Before I killed the fucker and since. Now I've got to go find the other one.
The other one?
The other one who hurt Murphy. You don't think he'd be in a hospital bed surrounded by beeping and blaring machines if just one bastard came after him, do you?
I-I don't know your brother.
He wouldn't. The silly fucker dumb enough to try, he'd be the one in the hospital bed, or in a fine pine box. All depending on the day and the nature of his transgression.
This man you need to find, you must let the police deal with him. Wouldn't it better to stay by your brother's side at the hospital right now? To provide comfort while he's recovering? Wouldn't it better to be there when he regains consciousness?
Hey, everything I keep breathing for is in that bed in Mass General, and Murphy knows that. He knows that nobody's more important to me than him, and no matter who I have to hunt down and kill for his sake, whether I end up dead or alive at the end, a part of me will always be right there with him.
Alright. Just calm down.
And he knows I'm countin' the seconds until I can get back there to be with him, right in the bed alongside him. For comfort. Hell, father, we're never really alone, the two of us. We decided that years ago. Knowing that, and knowing the other has our back with a gun and a plan, that's all the comfort we need.
Killing that man won't undo what happened. It only heaps more sin upon your head!
And keeps the bastard from doing anything like it again. Murphy'd do the same in my place if I was the one stuck in that hospital bed. Or he'd know I'd kick his scrawny little ass from here to hell and back to Sunday when I finally crawled out of it.
I think the police should be informed about this. What you know about what happened to your brother, and what you've done. They can find the other man for you. And you can accept responsibility for taking a life.
Hey, now, Father . . . the confessional is sacred. That's why I took time out to come here. You're not calling the cops, are you?
Of course, I won't call them. But you know in your heart, your soul, that you should.
Honestly, a couple of 'em know, and they're alright with it. But thanks for the prayers.
I—wait, your penance!
I've got to find the bastard first, then I'll say whatever God wants me to say for however long He wants me to say it.
But penance is a vital part of the confession! Son, come back!
After I set this right. We've an agreement of sorts between us, God and Murphy and me. It's like in the that Proverb, the Lord weighs the hearts and all that. If I do it later, He'll understand, Father. Try not to worry yourself so.
I'll . . . pray for that too.