The Absolution

The basement of St. Jude’s smelled of rising damp, cheap bleach, and the copper tang of old blood. It was a deconsecrated space, stripped of its crucifixes and holy water, leaving behind only the heavy, oppressive architecture of a God who had long since moved uptown.

Father Silas sat behind a folding table, his hands folded over the object. He was a man of sharp angles—sharp nose, sharp elbows, and a faith so brittle and sharp it could cut glass.

Across from him sat Mr. Vane. Vane was wet, shivering in a raincoat that cost more than the building they sat in. He was weeping, a snotty, undignified sobbing that grated on Silas’s nerves.

"I didn't stop," Vane choked out, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It was raining, just like tonight. I felt the bump. I knew it was a person. But I... I just kept driving."

Silas didn't offer a tissue. He didn't offer platitudes about God’s forgiveness. Modern religion was soft; it offered therapy, not cure. Silas offered excision.

"The guilt is a tumor, Mr. Vane," Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly drone. "It is a foreign body. It does not belong to you. We must cut it out."

Silas removed the velvet cloth covering the object on the table.

It was a jawbone. Humanoid, but too thick, the angles of the mandible wrong. It was fossilized, turned to heavy, grey stone over millennia. It had no teeth, just jagged ridges where roots had once taken hold.

"Place your hand on the Hilaria," Silas commanded.

Vane hesitated, looking at the grey stone with revulsion. "Is this... allowed? Is it Catholic?"

"It is older than Rome," Silas lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. He didn't care. "Do you want to sleep tonight, Mr. Vane? Do you want the face of that pedestrian out of your mind?"

Vane nodded frantically. He reached out and placed his trembling palm on the curve of the bone.

Silas closed his eyes and began the chant. It wasn't Latin. It was a guttural, rhythmic set of syllables he had transcribed from the walls of a cave in the Negev desert. It was a sound that tasted like dust.

The air in the basement grew heavy. The pressure dropped, popping Vane’s ears.

"I accept the burden," Silas whispered, channeling the energy. "Give it to the bone."

Vane gasped. His back arched, his spine popping audibly. His eyes rolled back into his head. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Instead, the jawbone on the table twitched.

Then, Vane made a sound. *Heh.*

It was dry, like dead leaves skittering on pavement.

* Heh. Heh. Ha.*

Vane’s face contorted. The muscles in his cheeks pulled back violently, exposing his gums. The tears on his face were still fresh, but his mouth was stretching into a rictus grin that defied anatomy.

"It is done," Silas said, pulling his hands away. "The sin is eaten."

Vane stood up. He knocked his chair over. He was laughing now, a barking, rhythmic sound that had no joy in it. It was merely the expulsion of air.

"Thank you," Vane wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Ha! HA! Oh, God, it’s funny. It’s so... funny."

"Go," Silas ordered, feeling a sudden wave of nausea. "Penance is complete."

Vane stumbled toward the stairs, his laughter echoing off the wet concrete walls. It sounded like metal grinding on metal. He didn't look relieved. He looked lobotomized. He walked into the doorframe, hit his head, laughed louder, and disappeared into the rain.