Shorn of Burden: A Cleansing

Her hand streaked slowly across the tarnished old mirror to wipe a patch of steamy condensation from the glass, and once her fingers were out of the way, all she saw were her eyes. They were empty, hollow and devoid of their usual mischievous sparkle, dark circles rimming them, evidence of a plague of sleepless nights. The sight of herself in such a state caused her to lose interest in wiping down the mirror fully to see the rest of her features, and she dropped her hand to her side. And there she stood, nude, tendrils of deep brown hair trailing wetly over her shoulders, down to the small of her back, staring sightlessly into those dead eyes of hers for a long time.

By the time she emerged from her trance, the steam had evaporated from the room and the mirror was clear of fog. She ran her fingers up her belly, sliding her palms over her breasts, and she studied her muscular figure in a very detached manner. The only question that was on her mind circled endlessly, like a broken record on a toy train track, ceaselessly asking again and again from every direction, "What in God's name is wrong with me?" The silence around her was complete, save for the sounds of the bustling city outside and the small noises of other patrons of the bath house, but she'd blocked them out of her consciousness, the stillness of the small enclosure enveloping her in a numb embrace, acting as a sort of sensory deprivation chamber, dulling her senses and giving her a few moments of . . . not peace, but . . . something akin to it.

He had left her a while ago, dressing quickly and departing once their business had concluded, back to his own world. Her skin still burned where he'd touched her beneath the scalding stream of the shower, her palms, the pads of her fingers still tingled where she'd touched him, her mouth still craved the taste of him, her body still ached to be pressed against him. She couldn't have called what they'd done 'making love' because it wasn't. The relationship was uncanny, surreal-seeming, because all they held for each other was malice, yet there was an undeniable attraction between them that she could no more rationalize than she could breathe in space.

"What am I doing?" She reached out to press her fingertips against the mirror, still staring at her own reflection in that detached, academic way of hers, as though analyzing herself. In all honesty, she did know exactly what she was doing. She'd fallen into his arms to escape the agony of loss and regret, to give herself some new intrigue to focus on, to allow herself something to look forward to. All the men she'd loved in her life were lost and gone away, and this last time, the void in her was almost overwhelming, sucking the joy from the very marrow of her bones. At least there was no risk of heartbreak with this new lover - He would never love her. She could love him, but with no reciprocity, she wouldn't. He was a safe haven for her, and maybe it meant she was using him, but wasn't he using her just as much?

Something about all of it rankled her, it didn't sit right, it made her restless. Something about losing Iskrin - really losing him, not just as a lover, but to have him leave like that, without so much as a word, made everything about her life seem unbearable, intolerable. The incident with the Boros mafia had been enough to drive them apart romantically, even when there was no denying the way either of them felt about the other. But what could explain his abrupt and unannounced departure? She knew he was gone for good, and she knew better than to follow him. You do what you have to do. She'd told him that, and it seemed so long ago now that it was a ghost of a memory because so much had transpired between them in the months since. "What have I done?" It was another question that plagued her across the expanse of many sleepless nights.

And then, there was her position. As a captain, she wasn't only responsible for herself anymore. Now, she had a crew relying on her to make good decisions. Before, if she fucked up, it was on her and only her. She couldn't do that anymore, because those she called hers would suffer her mistakes and shortcomings right along with her. The transition into the role of captain was much more brutal on her than she'd ever imagined - she had lost a certain measure of freedom as she stepped into the responsibility of it, and the fact that there were now others who depended on her to survive scared the hell out of her.

Above all, there was everything she had done. Granted, she had done the worst of it under Mindo's control. But still. It was her hand that had done all of it. And she'd been fool enough to fall under his control. And there were those things she'd done on her own. Those things which had led to Iskrin leaving. Nothing could absolve her of that.

Combing her fingers through her hair, she pulled her gaze from the mirror, looking to the pile of her clothes, and moved sluggishly toward them. Methodically, she pulled them back on, her limbs on autopilot. The idea came to her as she'd searched from some solution, some way to leave it all behind her, let go, let him go and move on with her life. It wasn't her normal, I'll-just-shoot-it-'til-it's-unrecognizable M.O., either. It was something dredged up from her roots, something she hadn't left behind, but had pushed aside of late.

Grabbing her pack, she started to push through the screen that served as a door, but turned, her gaze falling on the grooming instruments laid out on a small table next to the sink basin, and she walked over to retrieve a small pair of shears. Before exiting the bath house, she spoke quietly to its proprietress, offering her a handful of credits in return for the shears. The woman probably wouldn't have given them up, but the look on her patron's face suggested a need far greater than those mundane ones of the next customer to walk in, so she let them go. With a sense of purpose now, she strode out onto the dusty street, all but oblivious to the herds of people meandering along the thoroughfare, cutting through the crowds like a hot knife through butter, wending her way across the city until she reached the outskirts, a quieter quarter, the atmosphere calmer, laden with a sense of tranquility. She felt the presence of the church before its structure, crumbling grey stone, a citadel of hope, came into view.

How many times had she come here as a child for mass? How many Confessions had she given to the priests here? How many times had she sat in the cool silence of the chapel and prayed for a different life? And now, almost thirteen years later, she was back. But this time, it was for absolution, release from her guilt and misery. None would remember her, she knew, pulling the heavy wooden door open wide enough to admit her inside, then turned to push it closed, sealing herself inside, leaving the chaos of the world beyond the thick walls of the sanctuary.

The cool air brushed against her skin, chilling the sheen of sweat encasing her. She dropped to one knee before stepping further inside, genuflecting, as she had hundreds of times before, and crossed the large entrance chamber, reaching out to pull the bell and summon a priest to her. She waited in silence, contemplating what she was about to do. Will God truly forgive me my sins? Will I ever truly forgive myself?

A priest appeared, hobbling slowly toward her from one of the many doors leading into the belly of the church, his wizened features studying her intently as he neared. She tried to smile, but here was a man she recognized from childhood, and suddenly, she felt shame, shame for every horrible, horrible thing she'd ever done, and all she wanted to do was run away. But the old pastor smiled gently, reaching his hands out to her, embracing her at the arms, and gazed into her eyes for a long moment.

"I see a girl I knew a long, long time ago in the beautiful woman who now stands before me."

She gasped, then pondered the life of a clergyman, how odd it must be to remember so keenly the face of every parishioner. Smiling then, if sadly, she brought her hands up to clasp his forearms. "Father Salvador. It's good to see you."

"Alex MacLaren. How long it's been. I had lost hope of ever seeing you again when your family disappeared. Your mother used to come daily to pray for you, you know." His wrinkled facade, so ancient, lines engraving every inch of his leathery brown skin, pockmarked with imperfection, yet full of knowledge, held no accusation. There was simply warm welcome in those deep, chocolate-hued eyes, and she felt herself calm, the panicked fluttering of her heart against her ribcage settling into a much more relaxed rhythm.

"I... I didn't think I'd be back again, Father." She didn't drop her eyes, but held his gaze.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?"

It was as though she'd been given a script to recite, the words she'd been ashamed to utter a moment before rolling easily from her tongue. "I need to give Confession, Father. Badly."

He smiled, and it was a sad smile, before speaking again. "Ahh, how hard it is when we lose our way. But God knows none of us are perfect. It is good you still have your relationship with Him, for He will never turn away from you." Dropping one arm from her, he led her delicately across the room and through a door she knew well, revealing a dim chamber, a row of confessionals lining one wall. "I would be honoured to take your confession, my child." With a nod of his head, he stepped into the nearest box and closed the curtain behind him.

Frozen for a moment, the panic and fear returned to her full tilt. This man knows me. Can I confess myself to him? But she had come this far. The shame she felt gnawed at her, but it also told her this needed to be done. So, she walked slowly toward the confessional, placing one foot in front of the other, telling herself, I need to do this, with each heavy footfall. She stepped into the box and settled herself down into the seat after pulling the curtain closed, taking in the tiny chamber, dark and claustrophobic, the screen between herself and the priest giving her only a silhouette perspective of his head and shoulders.

After giving her a moment and probably judging from the sound of her breathing, he began. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," she finished, her voice cracking as she continued. "Bless me Father, for I've sinned. It's been near two years since my last confession." She paused for a moment, dredging up a Psalm from the depths of her memory, and murmured, "Give back to me the joy of your salvation."

And with that said, the floodgates were opened, and she was speaking without conscious effort, the words tumbling from her lips unbidden. "I've loved and I've lost love. I've been selfish to those I've loved. I've been intimate with a man I don't love, but for the comfort o' havin' arms 'round me. I've been jealous and spiteful o' them that've got what I've wanted. I've not controlled my anger, I've taken it out on those 'round me. I've not loved my neighbors as I shoulda. I've judged. I've killed in cold blood. I've been afraid. I am afraid. I've lost my way." She stopped for a long moment before going on. "For these and all o' my sins, I am sorry."

Father Salvador was quiet for a long time, reflecting on her confession, but finally asked softly, "My child, what penance would you offer to absolve yourself of your sins?"

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, her hand slipping into the pocket of her pants to withdraw the shears. "I offer a part o' myself. I'll sever my vanity, my selfishness, my jealousy, my anger, my judgment, my thievery, my fear, my hopelessness, from myself 'long with my hair."

"You feel this is enough to absolve you of your sins?" She could tell the old priest was more asking, Are you certain you want to do this? She might regret it later on, but to her, it was a worthy sacrifice to offer as penance for all the wrongs she had done. So, she answered, "No, Father. It ain't 'nough by far. Don't reckon anything'll ever be 'nough. But it's a start."

Without waiting for his say so, she began reciting a Rite of Penance that she'd memorized so many years ago, bringing the scissors up to her head, her hand grasping at strands of her hair as she began to cut them away from her. "Lord Jesus Christ, you are the Lamb of God; you take away the sins of the world. Through the grace of the Holy Spirit restore me to friendship with your Father, cleanse me from every stain of sin in the blood you shed for me, and raise me to new life for the glory of your name." By the time she had finished the prayer of the penitent, she held the long strands of her hair in her hand, the short roots left attached to her scalp shorn, ragged, uneven. Her face was damp with her tears.

The old priest gave her a moment, and then spoke the penitent absolution over her. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." As he said the final words, he made the sign of the cross over her head.

All she could do was whisper, "Amen. The Lord has remembered his mercy."

She rose, as expected, pressing her palm against the grating between them, her eyes searching the darkness for something, some sign that everything was alright. Father Salvador stood in silence for a moment, and quietly intoned, "Go in peace, my child. Remember always that love covers a multitude of sins, and remember always that God loves you."

And with that, she fled, uttering an unintelligible apology to the priest, the bundle of her severed hair scattered and forgotten across the stone floor, like so many of her dreams.