The 7: Gluttony Read online

For a second, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. The small seat, the room, the priest unseen behind that screen? It all makes me feel claustrophobic. Looking down at my hands in the dim light, I can still see blood there, from that night of the wreck, no matter how long it’s been.

  There’s nothing to lose by doing this.

  Movement on the other side of the screen gets my attention, and I sit up a little straighter, wiping my sweating hands self-consciously on my thighs. Through the small window, I can see inside the compartment. Sweat trickles down the side of my cheek, and I absently swipe it away as I anticipate the next several minutes. I lean my face closer to the screen, look down, and begin to speak.

  “Just so you know, Father, I don't really know how to do this confessional thing.”

  “Well this confessional thing,” he chuckles, “as you say, is pretty simple. But I have to ask, have you been baptized? That would be the only thing that would prevent me from hearing your confession and from granting absolution of your sins.”

  “What if I don’t want it? What if I think you should save your absolution for someone worthier?”

  “To that, Colt, I would say we are all sinners, and there is enough absolution to be given to those that truly seek it.”

  That answer makes me feel uncomfortable, and I have to clear my throat because I feel like a fish out of water. At least, this is what I think a fish out of water would feel like. Odd, out of sorts, and simply lost.

  “So I just start talking?” I ask after a moment.

  “Yes, Colt. When you are ready.”

  Casting my thoughts back, I chose a random memory, one that’s not so bad.

  “So yeah, I was baptized. It’s one of the few things I do know my mom did for me.”

  “Good.” The priest pauses, as if he's gathering himself to listen to my tale, or maybe that's just my own imagination and I am the one who pauses in anticipation of talking for the first time in years. “Tell me, Colt, is forgiveness what you seek? Are you sorry for your sins?”

  How to answer that? And where to begin? Do I start at the beginning, or do I begin at the end?

  “I don't know if that’s what I want or how to feel. All I know is that this morning, I was informed that a woman I was with last night is dead. This, on top of all the other shit I’ve been through, and the possibility of going back to prison? It terrifies me. I don't know what I'm doing.” I rake my hands through my hair and give a hard tug. In this instant, I realize that the pathetic woman's death somehow bothers me.

  Maybe I am responsible, just like before.

  “Let’s do this, it may help. Tell me what it is that brings you in to this church? Let's start there. That's simple enough, isn't it?”

  I chuckle. My answer is not going to be something the priest expects. He's probably anticipating I’ll say that I was seeking some soul cleansing experience, maybe even some sort of exorcism.

  “I saw a woman on the street. She sparked my curiosity, and I followed her here.”

  “I see,” the priest says, sounding very much like he can’t see anything.

  “I mean, I'm not some kind of perv or something. She just somehow got my attention, and then it was warm in here. I admit, there was something peaceful about just sitting and watching her pray.” I rub my hands together, again feeling self-conscious and knowing I sound just like a stalker.

  “The woman set aside, the calm and the peace is something you should feel when you come here. Tell me, what it is you lack in your everyday life?”

  “Truly? I lack nothing,” I say in a still, dead voice that only emphasizes that fact that I am missing everything.

  The priest takes a moment before starting to question again, maybe allowing me to think of my answer.

  “Tell me what troubles you, Colt. Confess your sins and cleanse yourself of the burdens you so obviously carry.”

  “There are too many sins to confess. We would be here all day.” I hear a sadness in my own voice.

  “And I am here to listen until you are free of whatever it is that has a hold of you.”

  Free? Impossible for me, isn’t it?

  My heart races. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, and for the first time in my life, at least that I can remember, I want to talk. To purge all of this shit for my soul.

  To be free.

  “I didn't mean to kill anyone,” I begin with what haunts me the most. “That's the truth, no matter what they say, I really didn't mean for anybody else to die.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning, Colt. Tell me how you ended up on that bridge at that precise moment.”

  Relaxing back in my seat, I accept the fact that I'm about to tell what I've been ashamed of for so long. Even though the press made me out to be a cold, calculated murderer, I’ve carried shame every day of my life, not even able to look in the mirror. The priest gives me several moments of silence before finally, I take a deep breath and begin to peel back the layers to the thing that took me so long to bury.

  “I was in foster care until I was about fifteen. My mom OD’d when I was nine. I never met my father. So when I did get placed in a foster home, I learned real quick that I could make money and it would be money that would save me from ever having to be placed like a dog in the shelter ever again. I decided I would make my own life. I was convinced that money was my way out. I started stealing. At first, it was little stuff, like backpacks that were housed under the desks at school. When the lights would go out and the projector was turned on and everybody's attention was facing forward, I would use that time to pick whoever's backpack was closest, and I could get away without anybody ever knowing it. I was good at it, too”

  “It sounds as if you're proud,” the priest notes, but he doesn’t follow up with criticism.

  “I suppose, in a lot of ways, I was proud. It was exciting to be able to do something and nobody ever know about it. It was also exciting that I always had money to do things with. If I wanted more to eat, I had money to spend on whatever I wanted. That little practice, those little deeds, took root so when I was in the gym, or basketball practice, I would steal from the lockers. To everyone around me, I was this great point guard. I had talent on the court, and it wasn't long before colleges came to look at me.”

  I shrug as if this were no big deal, but it was.

  “When I was seventeen, I signed to play at the university here. That same year, I got caught stealing from a convenience store. When the clerk I flirted with left her register to help a customer, I quickly emptied the till before she got back, not knowing there was a hidden camera. It wasn’t until the next day when the owner asked me to come back to his office and showed me the tape. He told me that he knew who I was and he was a big fan, and that he was not going to tell anybody what I did as long I promised to never do it again. “

  The memory doesn’t slow my heart rate, if anything, it speeds up.

  “That was the beginning for me, as far as understanding that because I was an athlete, I could get away with much more. It wasn't long after that, I was offered a few thousand to throw a game. All I had to do was miss my foul shot, fake an injury, throw a bad pass and the game would go in favor of my opponent. But I wasn’t like that. I didn't accept that offer. Instead, I found a bookie that offered me twice as much if we won the game by at least five points. We won the game by ten. That was my freshman year in college, third game of the season, and I made more money by doing something I was good at than I ever would working in a fast food joint.”

  Shutting my eyes, I can remember the sounds of the crowd when they realized I was as good as the coach had promised.

  “I can recall seeing you play. You were good, but what happened after that first bet?”

  “So much happened. I started gambling, making even more money, betting on my own games and others all over the country. There was tons of females and interest in me from athletic companies as well, shoes, clothes, whatever. My NBA stock soared, and I quickly became a top ten draft prospect. Of course, all of
that was against the NCAA rules. But I had it all, but most importantly, I had the money. It means more than anything.”

  “Means more? As in it means the most to you still?”

  “Yes,” I admit, because there’s no point in hiding it. “Money means freedom, it means I never have to be pitied, or go without, and it demands respect.”

  “This is gluttony in its simplest form,” the priest says, and this time, I think he does see.

  “I thought that was just food?”

  “Well, spiritually speaking, it is food. Food you feed your soul. In this instance, it’s money. Whatever form it takes, it means the same thing, and an overabundance of needing or wanting something controls you, and therein, lies the sin.”

  His words make sense, and I can’t say I’ve ever given one of the seven deadly sins much thought.

  “Please, continue,” he prods.

  “You name it, and I could buy it. Even my best friend. The money I made paid for my expenses, and I could live in a decent apartment. Without it, I would have never been able to do it, but Owen? He had a good family, and old money. We were opposites at first. He was the good kid. I was the thug. But after we became roommates, we became brothers. And his sister become my girlfriend in secret. ”

  “You sound resentful, did the relationships end on bad terms?”

  “You could say that,” I chuckle, but it's not out of humor. “Owen ended up being a part of an investigation. At first, I thought it was to save his own ass, but I’m not sure what he did. I just know he informed on me. He kept it from everybody, especially me. One day, everything was fine. The next thing I know, the FBI's at my door telling me they have uncovered my elaborate schemes and accused me of money laundering. My bank accounts were seized, frozen. My school under investigation. My coaches under the spotlight, their lives ruined, careers down the tube. And what's even worse, was this was all on me. The school, the coaches, my teammates, none of them had anything to do with what I did, but they all paid for it.”

  I rest my elbows on my knees and look down to the dark corners of the booth. My heart drums so loud, I can almost hear an echo in the confined space. The priest says nothing, just sits behind his screen and listens, waiting for me to continue. Gathering my thoughts, feeling the crushing wave of guilt creep through my chest, I close my eyes, as if the memory of that night still causes me physical pain.

  “When I found out everything and all that I had worked for was gone, that my name meant nothing, I went after Owen. This guy meant the world to me, and he sold me out like I was nothing. You can probably guess, I didn't react very well. I busted up his knee, broke a couple of bones, and if it were not for his sister, I would’ve killed him eventually. I think I wanted him to hurt as much as I hurt in that moment. The pain was so great, it crippled me.” My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat twice before continuing. “The car I had was a part of one of my bets, so it was a matter of time before it was taken away. I guess I felt desperate. No, not desperate…I felt hopeless, broken, and without the money? I knew I would never be anything ever again. I made a split-second decision to drive off of the bridge. One hard land, and it would all be over. No having to face my wrongs, no grief, no nothing again. I just wanted it all to end. But something happened, something I wasn't expecting, and I certainly didn't plan, but there was a car. One minute, I’m driving to my destination, the next…she was just there.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I can hear metal crumbling under the massive force of our collision. The destruction so vivid, my hands tremble with fear from it.

  “I drove into her path. I don't know how I didn't see her. I just wanted the best spot of the bridge I could get the car airborne, but out of nowhere, she was just there. We hit head on. I went through the windshield, and when I landed, I was covered in blood.” My voice a whisper, I look down at my hands again. “The blood ran through the creases of my palms, and I remember thinking how odd it didn’t just gush like the movies. Crazy, I know. I wasn’t exactly sane in that moment, but I thought my actions would only affect me. It’s not like I have anybody that cares that would mourn me. Hell, everybody wanted me dead for all the hell that was happening to the school. Plus, the only person I ever cared about had just turned on me so I had nothing to lose. But the woman? She died instantly. Head injury or something. She had people, lots of family from what I was told. But I never saw her, didn't wake up until two days later in the hospital, handcuffed to my bed.”

  Taking a deep breath, I slowly inhale the remnants of the wreck.

  “Did the woman's family ever reach out to you?” The priest’s voice sounds far away now.

  “No.“ I shake my head even though no one can see me. “I don't blame them. What is it that I could possibly say or do? My lawyer said some were at the trial, but I never looked for them. After I recovered, I stood accused of reckless homicide. After a two weeks trial, I was sent to the pen. They said I was negligent, was careless with another’s life, and on top of everything else that had just transpired, I got ten and a half years. My lawyer said I should feel lucky, that twelve was the maximum I could've gotten. But they released me early, with a conditional parole.”

  “Colt, do you regret your wrongs? Do you seek forgiveness for this transgression?”

  “I regret that I did not keep my own secrets. That I ever trusted Owen, because I would’ve never lost the money, and I would be a professional player, worth even more.”

  Even to my own ears, that sounds horrible.

  “But yeah, I regret the woman. She wasn't supposed to be there, and I should've made sure I was alone, or I should've got out and just jumped.”

  “To repent, you would need to repent all and seek forgiveness for all.” The priest's damning voice now causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

  “Well, Father, I am sorry for all of it, but in my defense, I did work for everything that I had, and the fact that it was just taken from me by someone that I loved? I was wrong in a lot of ways, but my actions only affected me.”

  “Until they didn't,” the priest chides.

  “Until they didn’t,” I repeat, sitting back and letting my head fall backward with a thud. “Until they didn't. Yeah, that just about sums it up.”

  The flesh on my arms tingle as the realization slams into my chest.

  I’m going to Hell for this.

  All of a sudden, I can’t breathe anymore, and this pisses me off.

  What the fuck did I think would happen in here?

  The tiny room closes in on me, taking the only oxygen left, and I have to claw at my chest to loosen the tightness gathered there. Without uttering a word, I bolt out of the confessional box just as the priest begins to speak. Jerking my jacket from the pew, I quickly put my arms through it and almost run to the exit, nearly pushing the door off its hinges as I plow through.

  The blistering cold wind gusts through my hair and stings my eyes instantly. To my horror, I realize my face is wet, but not from the falling snow. Pulling my hood up over my head, I brave the bitter elements as I walk quickly away from the church, from the priest and his questions. It’s midday, and it’s dark and miserable now, pretty much like my soul. Any energy I may have possessed earlier, is gone, drained or sucked out by the priest.

  Twice, I look back, over my shoulder, feeling like I’m being followed. My lungs burning, I push my head down to the wind and ignore the priest calling out for me. Just before I can cross the street, a hand takes hold of my arm. I jerk away to no avail before I turn, stopping just inches from the man’s nose. I bare my teeth like a wounded animal.

  “Let go of me!”

  The priest doesn't waver. He stands in his garb, no coat, and just stares at me, almost pleading with his eyes.

  “Colt, son.” His voice breaks with a desperate plea, the way I imagine a parent would speak to their child. “If you go now, you will run from this for the rest of your life.”

  Slowly, the priest places his hands on either side of my
face and pulls me down into an embrace. The feeling is so foreign, it freezes me in place before he pulls me back up to look me in the eyes. “Come back? We don't even have to talk anymore, I just don't want you to go like this.”

  The priest pats my cheek then leaves me to make a decision. After moment of fighting my instinct to run, I turn and follow a step behind him as we make our way back to the church. My mind feels raw, my heart feels stricken as I numbly remove my coat, placing it back on the pew. I stand there and drop my hands on the back of the bench to catch my breath. The priest has given me space, and twice, I have to rub my eyes to clear them of unshed tears.

  “I hate this, I hate feeling anything.”

  “Feeling this way might seem awful in this moment, but it's progress. It means you are human.”

  “Progress?” I say incredulous. “Exactly how is me turning into this sobbing, weak child progress?”

  Keeping my eyes down, I don't bother to look at the priest, and he doesn't say anything, just stands there letting me feel all this shit. The worst part, by far, is admitting that I was the reason someone was dead, that kids grew up without a mother, just like I did and may go to foster care, just like I did. Hell, they may even end up being a convict, just like me. Yeah, that's the worst part.

  Rubbing my eyes with vigor, I turn and look at the priest.

  “You’re right. If I don't do this now, I'll never do it.”

  Not waiting on a response, I walk to the confession booth and sit once more. The priest enters his side and sits back, the divider still open so I can hear once he settles in his seat.

  I settle back as well, knowing the worst is over, yet I’m far from done.

  SEVEN

  Drained, I numbly walked back to my hotel. Not once do I glance up from sidewalk, or the steps, or the door. I keep my head bowed and stare down at my feet as the elevator slowly ascends to my floor. Sadly, I don't think I feel any better after talking to the priest. In fact, I may even feel a little worse, and for the first time since the night of the wreck, I'm seriously contemplating jumping off the roof. It's not like anyone would miss me, like I had someone waiting on me when I get home or even a dog that would need to be fed. There's simply nothing for me to go on for.