43 Chapter 43: Fishers of Men, Part 1

The confessional was dark. Dark, like the lost souls who come to me with their innermost secrets and torments. Men and women with guilts piled high against their consciences, like swollen bags of garbage heaped against a rusty mailbox. But when a city has no conscience, its citizens turn to men like me to unburden their hearts.

That's my job.

I'm a priest.

It was a Saturday afternoon in July. The air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the humidity that clung to the air like an insecure lover with a texting addiction. A warm drop of sweat ran beneath the arm of my bifocals, and into my right eye. I took my glasses off, and wiped the stinging rivulet away with my sleeve. I let out a long and tedious sigh. Summer was always a slow season for penance. People spent their summer afternoons outside, having more fun committing sins than worrying about them.