TAP. TAP. TAP. Rhys took the blade of his serrated knife to the door of Father Sullivan’s confessional booth, the sharp vane sending shockwaves of dread through every bone of the priest’s body. The very man that was ordained to lead the faithful had created irreparable havoc, murdered the futures of many, and disregarded human life. “Knock, knock, Father. Are you ready to come out and bathe yourself free of your sins?” Rhys whispered, leaning his sweat-misted body against the cool wood. The humming of the aged air-conditioning units sputtered to life in the large church, making Rhys remember the dilapidated motel and the life he took. He didn’t often wonder about the girls he had taken, eleven to be exact. The others were let go. But for some reason, he found himself thinking of what kind of person she was. If she was good or bad. A mother or sister. A lover or wife. Pondering such things angered him deeply; forming connections to humans was not something he had been capable of, ever.
