Drip.
I can't move.
Drop.
Where am I? Why is it so dark?
A droplet impinged upon a liquid surface (a puddle perhaps?) with the steady and ominous cadence of a ticking clock, counting down the seconds. Was it raining outside? That would explain the clogged drainage odor creeping down his throat. Whenever it rained, San Isidro reeked of stagnant water and mold.
"Wake up. Can you hear me?"
Confused, Bishop López meant to ask the man shrouded in darkness who he was, but there was no way of knowing if a single word had left his lips; his mouth felt like wet cotton.
"Time for your confession," continued the man and, although he was just a shadow in the dark, there was something familiar about his manner of speaking.
That voice... López thought with some relief. The way his tongue caressed every syllable, the silky smoothness of his S's. Oh, how he loved to hear him speak! It's you.
"Julian," the bishop struggled, fighting the powerful paralysis that prevented him from controlling his arms and legs. "Help me. I need your help."
"It's always about you, isn't it? About what you want, about pleasing your needs."
Bishop López didn't understand. His thoughts were nothing more than the echoes of his numbed soul, bouncing aimlessly inside the empty husk of his body. What is going on? Where am I? Wherever this was, it was beyond the reach of light.
"Is this real?" López asked.
The deacon sighed in frustration at the question, and this awoke a primal dread in the bishop as he waited for an answer. The only time he'd experienced such anxiety creeping up in his chest was that morning decades ago, before breakfast, when his auntie called him and asked him where he was and if he was alone. As his aunt fought her own tears, a terrible silence stretched forever, and he could tell his life would never be the same after that call. That day he found out his mother had passed away, and yet, he was sure something far more horrifying than that crushing grief that almost killed him years ago awaited him tonight.
"Tell us about Anibal." Julian's voice was sharp.
"Anibal?"
"Yes. Your second cousin, your former altar boy. You know all this! Why are you making me repeat you what you already know?" The deacon snapped his fingers twice. "Hey! Stay with me!"
Why is he talking like that? In his sudden fear, López's mind should have only focused on a single thing: survival. However, a part of him couldn't help but wonder why Julian was so cold to him. Even if this was a nightmare (and it had to be one!), his icy words were like stalactites piercing his heart.
"Julian, I..."
"Wow! These drugs did a number on you."
"I have to wake up."
The bishop's head suddenly jerked sideways; it wasn't until a second later that he felt a slight tinge of pain in his cheek.
Did Julian slap me?
A heavy door creaked open, letting in the pattering sound of the violent rain outside and just enough pale light to outline the shapes of the room where they were in.
There were cracks dripping water in the low-arched ceiling above, small patches of exposed bricks on the decayed walls, and puddles on the floor that reflected memorial plaques behind him. Oh, God! The bishop's pitiful screams never made it out of his throat once he understood that being inside a mausoleum was not the most terrifying thing of this nightmare. The worst part was realizing he was lying in a coffin.
"Are we ready?" asked the man who had opened the door earlier. His fingers glittered with rings, his face hidden under a gray skull mask.
"Almost," replied the deacon. "Bishop, listen. It's time for your Sacrament of Penance. Tell us about Anibal."
"Help me," López begged him. "Julian, what happened to your face?"
The deacon's forehead and cheeks were red and swollen, oozing with blood, plasma, and something black.
"Stay focused. You once told me about your cousin's desecrated tomb, remember?" Julian reminded him.
"Your beautiful face is ruined."
"Hey! Tell us about your cousin!"
"Why are you doing this?" the bishop cried.
"I made a promise to Marcelino."
"Who is that?"
"The clock is ticking faster." Gray Skull pointed at his wrist as if he was wearing a watch.
"You never found out what happened to Anibal's body, right?" Julian continued. "We have it."
"It's in a dark place," murmured Gray Skull as if sharing a naughty secret with a friend.
"Don't understand," López said.
"The king wants you to repent before you die," the deacon explained. "To accept the truth."
"No. Please, don't kill me."
"Look at your new neighborhood," said Gray Skull. "You're already dead."
The bishop turned to the deacon.
"I love you, Julian, and I know you love me."
Gray Skull burst into laughter.
Without letting the masked man's cackles affect his tone, the deacon replied to the Bishop calmly: "Silly old man. If you tell people to cover the sun with one finger, no matter how hard they try, they will always squint at its brightness. There's no hiding it. But, if you convince them to use that same finger to gouge their eyes out, then the sun is no more. There is no more powerful lie than the one you want to believe."
"It can't be," López stuttered. Despite the numbness interfering with his senses, he still felt his heart breaking in his chest beyond repair. If he could have bent over to breathe better, he would have done it. Each word he spoke was accompanied by a breathless, painful sound. "Everything you told me—"
"An act!" Gray Skull interrupted him. "Can we hurry, please? We've found the priest, and you won't believe where he is."
"That kind of love," López said, his voice made tremulous by tears. "You cannot fake it."
Gray Skull laughed again. "You're joking, right?"
"No." The bishop's shallow breathing quickened. "The priest in Caracas, the letters of recommendation, the screening process..."
"Our king is talented at forging documents and Photoshop," Julian explained. "He made it seem like I'd been living abroad for years."
"Impossible. You can't fool the Church."
"This guy is cracking me up," said Gray Skull.
"Please, Julian. Tell him to stop."
"Focus. Did you—"
"Help me. I beg you!"
Julian raised his voice to silence the bishop's pleas. "Did you know what your cousin did to Marcelo?"
"I love you! We have something special."
"This won't work," Gray Skull said to the deacon. "Give me a hand."
As Julian and his masked companion pushed the casket outside, the bishop's begging became a sad litany silenced by the sound of the rain pouring down on them.
"Confess!" Julian told López once they lowered the coffin in the ground.
"You'll regret this," the bishop said, letting his heartbreak take him to the darkest corner of his soul—the place where love turns sour, and happiness rots into resentment. "The Church is a powerful enemy."
"The Mime King has revoked the visa of your God," said the deacon. "He's no longer welcomed in Venezuela."
"What are you doing?" asked the bishop once they were about to use their shovel to close the casket lid. "You need me, Julian!"
"An eye for an eye..." said Gray Skull.
"A body for a body," said Julian.
"I don't deserve to die," López cried, looking up at Anibal's tombstone above him.
"Pathetic." Gray Skull shook his head. "Should have found a religion that brings you comfort in your last hours."
"Tell us about Anibal," insisted Julian.
"I had nothing to do with that. I swear."
"Liar," said Gray Skull.
"I asked him to stop!" the bishop shouted.
"Like he asked you to stop when you raped him as a boy?"
The bishop's eyes widened with astonishment.
"I never molested him."
"Molested?" Gray Skull scoffed. "A little late to sanitize what happened, Father."
"If you'd kept it in your pants," Julian added. "Maybe Anibal wouldn't have grown up to be a monster."
"I raped no one. We just fooled around."
"Is that why you gave him money every month?" Gray Skull asked him. "Is that why you turned a blind eye to what he was doing to Marcelo?"
"No, please. Forgive me."
"To forgive is divine..." said the deacon, putting on a white skull mask. "But we are only human."
The bishop's last words were muffled once the Skulls closed the casket lid for good, and then his screams became but a murmur that grew fainter after they shoveled dirt over it.