Forgive Me Not For I Have Sinned
Crouched in his sombre chamber of seclusion along death row, Theodore's crude hands slithered over his features as his lengthy nails, still amassed with dirt, glided up, clawing against his shaven scalp. Water dampened his eyelashes and cascaded down his cheeks, colliding with the dusty floor below. He inhaled the abhorrent odour of dampened sweat. The Perspiration clutched hold of his orange uniform, forming darkened rings round the pit of his arms. Solemnly, he rocked himself backwards and forwards, attempting to comfort the lonely heart that beat against his rib cage. A dim light emanated through the bars of his small, opaque window, providing slight illumination into the shadowed cell that claimed his life.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "Forgive me." Silence responded. The wall to which he pleaded had an insolent habit of not responding. He entwined his fingers and rested them against his lips, persisting with his swaying motion. "Forgive me."
"Well now, Theodore, you didn't ask 'please'."
An unwelcoming voice startled his ears. His head darted towards the speaker, though shadows sheathed its face.
"Who's there?" he quivered. No words passed through the intruder's lips. "Answer me… Please?"
The speaker grinned. "Theodore, it's father Bundy, your prison Chaplain. No need to be alarmed."
"Oh. Sorry, father, I didn't recognise your voice."
"I know. You never do."
The bottom of his palms compressed against the dusty floor as he lifted his legs to stand. His eyes glanced in the direction of his cell room bunker, falling upon the shaded figure of his chaplain. "What have you come to speak to me about today, father?"
"That seems to be all we ever talk about."
"Well it's a serious matter, Theodore. Your sins have severe consequences." The clammy sound of accumulated saliva brushing against the priest's upper lip reverberated through the cell's musty walls.
"I've made my confession, though." Bundy nodded. "And I'm truly sorry."
"Then why won't God forgive me?"
"Murdering rapists don't go to heaven, Theodore."
Tears cased the brim of the inmate's doleful eyes, for now the promise of the afterlife appeared less promising. Soon Theodore would make an acquaintance with the electric chair and gasp his final breathe, thereby forcing him to meet his maker. However, father Bundy plagued his conscience; ensuring redemption would never be granted. Death was staring Theodore in the face and it wore the pall of a vengeful priest who damned his soul.
Gravely, he lowered his head in woe. "You know, when I was younger I used think priests were like superheroes. They would wear their robes that fitted like capes and everyone would praise them, because they served as the sinners' key into paradise. A single confession could rid their hearts from the toxin of their sins and they too could be saved."
Father Bundy smirked with superiority. "Not everyone can be saved…"
A sudden clang echoed from Theodore's cell bars. "Hey! Silence in here," an austere guard commanded. "No talking past nine." The inmate glanced back to his bunker, finding that the shaded figure of his chaplain had departed.
The guard's strident feet hammered against the prison's steel floor, whilst his baton repetitively pounded against his palm. "Hey, new guy," he called out to a fellow prison guard. "Keep an eye on prison cell 661. Prisoner Theodore Bundy's been rambling on again."
"Rambling on to whom, sir? He's alone in there."
"He thinks he's some priest."
"That sounds a little schizophrenic, sir. Shouldn't he be placed in a mental hospital instead?"
"The only place where that sick bastard belongs is in hell."
"I'm sure the priest inside of him would disagree."
"Mph. You might be surprised."