Cody McFadyen - The Darker Side

"Disgusting," Callie says, curling her lip in scorn. "Did you also confess to agreeing with a murderer?"

Discomfort wiggles inside me. I too had been driven to the confessional by the Preacher. I'll make up for it by catching him.

"That is one of many. Not all agree with me, of course, but the point is-they are talking about it. They are discussing the subject of truth, lie, sin, God, confession, and salvation. The flame has been lit again, praise God. Attempts to block my message are a hopeless activity in today's world. Copies of this and all of my other videos have been put on CD and are being mailed worldwide to media outlets, authors, religious scholars, and skeptics. The message can be slowed; it can't be stopped."

"He's right about that," James says.

"I feel certain that my sister and I will be captured soon."

"He's right about that too," I growl.

"We welcome this. It's the next step on the path we've chosen. It is time that we preach in person, that we be available for discussions, questions, and interviews. Before that happens, I thought it was important to show that we are able to practice what we preach. Come here, Frances."

Frances, who I met as Andrea, steps into the camera lens. She too looks peaceful. Almost radiant. They are more attractive together than apart, light and mirrors reflecting back at each other. She smiles down at her brother, and turns to the camera. He continues speaking.

"Frances and I were born as twins. We were born healthy and have lived healthy, which, as you will come to understand, was God's first gift to us. It could have been much, much different. We lived a difficult life, and it was not without sin or lies. We strayed from God's path on more than one occasion. It's time for us to do what we asked others to do: it's time for our confession."

"This I want to hear," Alan murmurs.

"Our father," he says, "was a Catholic priest."

MICHAEL CROUCHED DOWN BEHIND THE CURTAIN AND CARE-fully, oh so carefully, put his ear to the wall of the confessional booth. Mrs. Stevens was in there, she of the blonde hair and the large bosoms. Mrs. Stevens specialized in sins of lust, which made for exciting listening indeed.

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth a little. It took a moment, but the voices began to filter through the wood.

"I can't seem to stop touching myself, Father."

A pause. Michael could imagine the priest covering a sigh.

"And where do you touch yourself, my child?"

A sharp breath, indrawn.

She likes this question, Michael thinks.

"Between my legs, Father. Under the panties, and inside the lips of my pussy."

Michael's mouth dropped open farther. What kind of harlot uses the word pussy in a confessional?

He chastised himself for his own hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was a form of pride, and pride was a sin. The truth was, the whole thing had given him a raging hard-on. The idea of Mrs. Stevens (she of the blonde hair and the large bosoms) touching herself there -heck, the idea of her in panties -was an image that boggled the mind's eye. The downside to this, of course, was that he'd have to come clean in confession. He'd have to admit-again-to hiding behind the curtain against the wall, to putting his ear up against the confessional booth, to listening to that most private of moments. In this case, he could add his own lustful thoughts to the quality of the sin. It made it more difficult that the priest he'd be confessing this to was his own father. Not Father Confessor, but Father Dad. No way around it, though. Confession was a must, and Michael would never allow himself to withhold a confession, whatever the price. Failure to confess was a one-way ticket to an eternity in hellfire. Michael believed in hell. No secret was worth that. One of the many things Michael admired about Dad was that he kept the separation between his job as a priest and his job as a father absolute. There was never a hint to Michael in real life that his dad had any personal opinion about what Michael had revealed in confession. As Michael listened to Mrs. Stevens getting more graphic about her sin of masturbation (wet, wet, she whispered, so very, very wet), he experienced a moment of admiration and love for his father. Dad was the best man Michael knew, the most decent, the most honorable. It was a question of character, and Frank Murphy had it in spades. He needed no priest's collar to prove it either.

Dad was the reason Michael wanted to become a priest. Dad was the reason he'd decided to enter the priesthood as a virgin. If he was honest with himself (and Michael prized honesty above all other things), that pledge was what he used to rationalize this moment. He was never going to know the touch of a woman, so was it really so bad to take a gander into the world of Mrs. Stevens and her wet white panties? Just a tiny, dirty peek?

Not so bad, no, he thought, but still a sin. Still to be confessed. He was amazed at his father's patience sometimes. Mrs. Stevens didn't sound all that sorry to Michael. She sounded pretty excited, as a matter of fact. Even at thirteen, Michael could tell she was using this moment to sin some more, that she was getting off on confessing her masturbation to a handsome and celibate priest. She probably had wet panties right now.

Pubic hair as blonde as the hair on her head, glistening as she gasped. .

This image both repulsed and excited him.

"Who's in there?"

The whisper would have shocked him to his bones if he hadn't sensed her coming. It was nearly impossible for them to sneak up on each other. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because they were twins. Michael pulled his ear away from the booth with great care and some reluctance, making sure the wood didn't creak. He turned to his twin and smiled.

"Mrs. Stevens."

She made a face. "That whore? Why do you like listening to her, anyway? Does it make your pee-pee hard?" she teased.

"No," Michael whispered in protest. "Of course not."

Frances just smiled back. It was a knowing smile. Michael reflected that lying was the other thing they couldn't do with each other.

He sighed and shrugged.

"I'll go to confession."

"Good."

That would be the end of it, he knew. The final thing they shared, the thing in his life he was most certain of, other than his faith, was that his twin would always love him, no matter what.

"Let's move away from here," he whispers.

They pad away from the confessional booth like master thieves. They head back to the living quarters, and their shared room. It was a small room. Some might even call it bleak, but it was home to them. The room was separated by a curtain hung from the ceiling that they could draw shut when they needed to. Father had put it up when Frances had begun to develop breasts.

"This is a wall," he'd said. "A wall with no door. When you draw it closed, only the person who drew it can open it again. You understand?"

"Yes, Father," they'd agreed, not really understanding the need for it at the time.

They understood better now. Michael masturbated at night, sometimes, after Frances had fallen asleep. He'd fight the urge, but it could become overwhelming. In a hidden place, inside a dark grotto that he wasn't quite ready to peer into yet, it was somehow more exciting to do it while thinking of his sister there, an arm's length away and yet untouchable. He tried to be silent, but knew, sometimes, he gasped louder than he should. Had she heard him in those moments?

He thought maybe. Yes. Maybe she had.

He'd heard her too. Late at night, when she must have thought he was sleeping, he'd heard her little sighs and muffled moans, and had realized that she was touching herself. It shocked him at first, then intrigued him, then brought forth something he decided not to look at. He'd never touch his sister, not in a million years, but he admitted something to her once.