Confession Or Penance

A shadow flitted across the tent wall. Large, distorted, shapeless like a beast. But it wasn't an animal. Animals couldn't open zippers. The sound of the tent flap opening, inch by inch, sent a shiver down her spine. Like fingernails on a chalkboard. Someone opened the entrance.

Carol sat up abruptly, grabbed the blanket to cover herself as best she could, her heart pounding against her ribs. She stared at the entrance like a deer caught in the headlights of a car that was about to hit it. The tent flap lifted and a figure leaned into the opening—just a silhouette against the light, but unmistakable, tall, broad-shouldered.

George.

He said nothing. He just stepped inside. Closed the flap behind him and sat down on the floor. He looked at her silently. The diffuse light from the fire outside bathed half of his face in warm amber, the rest was in black shadow. It was as if he were split in two, as if he were carrying two personalities inside him.

Carol held her breath. She couldn't move. She didn't want to.

Both were silent. They just looked at each other. Carol tried to read his face to see what was going on inside him. It was difficult. He had come because something was urging him to, that much was clear. But she couldn't figure out what it was. She thought she sensed anger in him. Maybe even rage. Rage at whom? And worry. Fear? No. That didn't fit a priest. Not George.

She remembered her stupid remark by the campfire. First sin, then confess. She had to giggle. The **** hadn't worn off yet and was making her feel reckless.

“Did you come to hear my confession, Father?” She emphasized the last word deliberately provocatively. “Or do you want to confess yourself?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. But not a friendly one. His expression immediately became stern again. His jaw tightened.

“No,” he said seriously. “Confession requires remorse. The sinner must realize that he has sinned. But even if this is lacking, he can still do penance.”

His fists clenched and it seemed as if it took a conscious effort of will to open them again. Carol suddenly began to tremble, even though she wasn't cold. The atmosphere in the tent had changed. The balance had shifted. She looked up at him, almost pleadingly.

“If—if I wanted to atone... would you help me?”

He didn't answer right away, taking a deep breath. His chest rose. Well-defined muscles tensed under his black T-shirt. Then he let the air escape, slowly, in complete control.

“Yes.”

Just one word. But with the **** of a meteorite strike.

The thin blanket slipped from Carol's suddenly weak fingers and slid down her body. George didn't pay any attention, didn't show that he was surprised that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. His eyes held hers.

She knelt down and lowered her head. Her words were barely audible, but there was no doubt in her voice.

“I don't regret anything. But I want to atone.”