Anyway here's a short piece of it, if you're wondering what my voice sounds like as a novelist...
[Aragon, Spain, 1921]
Absent Confession
He sits in his seat in the confessional box, weighed down by his robes and thoughts. He taps the dark oak panelling on his bench quietly, out of habit, and the wood gives off a beautiful clear echo. The air is heavy with the golden scent of incense, smoking candle wicks, and the grave holy silence that feels as though God were here, deep in thought.
Across the wire screen—all intricate lace and coppery patina—she sits head bowed (low enough for reverence, but with her chin angled defiantly towards the door). She fidgets impatiently with the fringe on her shawl, but moves nothing else.
As always, he is the first to break the silence.
“My child, hasn’t it been long enough?” Not yet.
He drops his voice, almost embarrassingly. “Is he still waiting outside?” he murmurs. She crosses and uncrosses her feet but again gives no reply.
Finally she speaks. Her words are clipped and hurried, her tone stiff and recital-like.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been three weeks since my last confession.”
He answers slowly and patiently, as though they have not been through this at least a hundred times before.
“It is not a confession my child, if you say nothing.”
Every third Tuesday of every month, she is here in her corner of the confessional box, mute and defiant. She may be forced to walk through that door and sit in that corner, but her private penance she guards furiously. That, she reveals to no one.
In the first few months, he would press her on with polite questions, carefully trying to lull out a confession—something, anything to unburden her and give her some semblance of peace. But she could never be persuaded. Now, they are both simply content to sit here quietly, each in their own way stealing a few precious minutes of refuge in this tiny world, bordered within these dark walls and velvet curtains.
More silence. Ten minutes more.
Then with the self-assurance of someone who has given their dues, she gets up to leave, picks up her shawl and looks him straight in the eye, right through the mesh screen. They share a brief moment of total sincerity, rare between these walls. She smiles quietly and sadly.
He opens his mouth to speak, but catches her eye. Her look stops him and he says nothing. What he would have said might have been “God give you the patience to remain sane in that house” or perhaps “May you be rid of him soon” or simply, “I am sorry”.
But he is not brave enough for any of them. Instead, he sighs heavily, signs the cross as she stands up to leave and recites solemnly:
“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
She throws back the thick velvet curtain, clicks open the thick oak door and marches out.
Purple heels on the polished marble floor, all along the aisle, and out the door.
So, what do you think?
RocM notes: I know this goes without saying, but please use this for inspiration and not imitation. Why? Because I spend a big chunk of my measely salary in a bookstore. And if you use this in your novel, chances are I will most probably buy it, and read it. Then I will hunt you down, and sue you (nicely and politely). Please & thank you.
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