EXALTATION II

                                                                     DGAR. MURPHY 31.10.02.

                                                        WHITEFRIAR STREET CHURCH,  DUBLIN.

"You've done very well, Donal. The Lord smiles upon you."

The Reverend uncupped his hands and left his chair, hands firmly rested against his habit, so-named smile little more than a poorly masked grimace. I stayed in my seat, legs stiff, cock stiff, not wanting to move anyway.

"Don't give me that look," he'd said, like flapping one hand like a retard could just wave it all away, "In circumstances such as yours we must think thin."

Very thin. How thin was he? How else was he? How was he? How the fuck did I know.

I took a deep, quiet breath.

"...I want to see him."

The Reverend turned round, flabbergasted at first, and then sighing an irate sigh. "Donal, no..." he came forwards, hands outstretched, "You've come this far, do not permit yourself to fall back into shadow..."

I was clenching my fists, lines between my brows, the black pouring out.

"You will not let yourself corrupt the boy."

My hand came down hard on the table, the ink jumping, the chair falling backwards, legs still stiff, cock still stiff. "Corrupt him? Fucking corrupt him?"

"Donal–"

"Father, how long have I been coming to you?" The spit was flying and it shouldn't have been. Nothing should have been; "What have I been telling you? It's not about how far it can go..."

But it had.

"Donal!"

His hands were hovering over my shoulders, pushing me back down onto the replaced chair by the bleeding force of God.

"My son," he said, a thin veil of concern hushing his voice as he held his hands in that God awful puppeteering fashion round the weathered planes of my face, "My son..."

I felt his supposedly knowing fingertips draw out the tears – "Father" – the black pouring out.

"The Lord smiles upon you. Your sins are abolished, through faith in the Lord."

But I was shaking my head.

The hands set back into the cupped safeguards on the wide breast of his habit.

"Have you relapsed, Donal?"

I said nothing, looking at his modest jawbone, chewing the inside of my lip, red raw.

And I started again, the only way I'd known how.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Relapsed. Relapsed. Relapsed, again.

"It has been 22 hours since my last confession."

Relapsed. Relapsed. Relapsed, again.

"I convict myself of the following sins."

Relapsed. Relapsed. Relapsed, again.

And I didn't think there were biblical terms for what had recently damned me, so I told him straight out in the bloody language of the black, the beaten, and the scum of our earth.

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