“The choir…they sing beautifully, don’t they?”

Frank glanced over at the woman sitting next to him in the pews. He gave a slight, polite smile, teeth hidden, and hands still clasped in prayer.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, they do.”

The woman, such an interesting face, all angles but no sharpness, gave him a happy smile before turning her gaze back to the choir, their soft voices drifting through the cathedral as they practiced solemnly, faces grave and backs ramrod straight as they sang out one of the many Bach chorales. The sopranos rose to a light feather, the basses dropped down to the ground. Eventually both octaves rose and fell, meeting together in a chord that soared soundly through the eaves.

“I used to be in choir,” a voice said beside him. Frank blinked, pulled out of a reverie and turned once again to see the woman staring dreamingly up front. Now he knew that she was no longer absorbed in prayer. For a moment, the thought disturbed him—idle talk in a church during a time of prayer, of all things—but then it occurred to him that what he was about to do was far worse than anything thought earlier.

“But I quit,” the woman continued, “after…” she paused, and abruptly her voice dropped an octave, and her eyes became grave, “well…” she turned her eyes away from the choir and stared at Frank directly, “…after…” the brown orbs that served their purpose as sight scanned, searching for words. “…many things.”

Frank nodded sympathetically, not exactly listening to the conversation. Inwardly he cursed himself for not terminating the talk between himself and the woman, but the realization came that it really was of no relevance. Within a few minutes, the most important thing in his life would happen. Whether or not it would be for the best, Frank didn’t know.

He just knew that the tension was killing him.

More silence, then: “I still love the choir.”

The voice once again invaded Frank’s thoughts, and for the second time yanked him out of a broody mood. This time, however, instead of keeping his gaze straight ahead, it swiveled, landing on the woman. Being as side-tracked as he was, Frank opened his mouth.

“What?”

The woman blinked, seemingly pleased that Frank was actually engaging in the talk. A small, nearly child-like in its innocence smile came across her face. She repeated herself; eyes become more animated as she resumed talking.

“I still love the choir,” she echoed. “They sing so well, with so much heart. It just seems to make all my troubles go away.”

Frank’s eyes flickered, and words unbidden came from his lips. “A man that hath no music in his soul, nor is not moved by the sweet concord of sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; the motions of his spirit are as dull as night, his affections as dark as Erebus. Let no man be trusted. Mark the music.”

She gave a small laugh, one that sounded like the tinkling of chimes. “That was nice.” She said. “Is it from God’s book?”

Frank gently smiled. “No. It is from the Englishman’s book.”

“Dickens?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Ah,” she said. She opened her mouth to speak, but then silently closed it, digesting the information given to her thoughtfully.

Frank gave the woman an understanding smile, and amid the awkward silence that surrounded them both, searched the area, eyes roving as his mind whirred.

Guilt.

It gnawed at him like a piranha to a cow carcass. He needed to confess. He wanted to confess.

Slowly unfolding himself from prayer, Frank gave the woman a courteous grin, for once not being forced, and stood up quickly.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said quietly. She nodded absent-mindedly, lost in thought, before turning her attention back to the front.

Weaving his way through the rows of benches and people, heads bowed in prayer and resting gently on the back of the pews in front of them, Frank finally reached one of the aisles and walked rapidly towards a small brown booth in the corner. The confessional seemingly beckoned to Frank like Death to the crypt, and it frightened him. A small part of him hoped and begged to the heavens that the confessional be closed, but much to his dismay it was open, drape swaying gently in an unknown breeze. Checking his sides once, twice, three times, Frank stepped forward and moved the curtain aside, moving in and sitting down. He was surprised to find himself sweating. Was it from fear?

There was a long silence. Then, on the other side of the booth, the screen shifted and the blurred--marred by light and distorted by darkness--face of the father appeared. Frank bowed his head instantly as both a sign of submission and respect.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

More silence. Tension pulled evilly at his body, yanking him in all directions and then snapping him back into place as he waited for a reply, prayed for a reply.

Father cleared his throat, the sound almost shocking amid the quiet that had been before, and then spoke.

“What is it, my child?”

Frank opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, trying to grasp the words that he was searching for. They escaped him, racing off in the dark forest of his mind and hiding behind trees, underneath thorny bushes, waiting for him to find them. When he finally found them, when he finally grasped at their vowels and constants, the tiny things that normally were not a problem to him, he uttered them almost inaudibly.

“I have murdered, Father,” Frank said. He felt his body shudder in revulsion at what he whispered next, “I have killed my own child…”