|
"Bless me, padre, for I have sinned. It's been
two days since my last confession."
Father Jerome's heart dropped when he heard the rushed
voice of Francisco Montoya. "What's happened, Franco?"
"I robbed a store."
"Are you truly penitent?"
The silence from the other side of the confessional
gave Father Jerome his answer. "You know I cannot absolve you if you aren't
sorry, Franco."
"Man, I gotta feed my family." There was a
note of pleading in Franco's voice.
Sighing, Father Jerome folded his hands on his legs,
absently scratching at the scratchy fabric of the cassock. "There are other
ways." He heard the rustling of denim as Franco shifted position. A soft
click indicated the boy had opened his pocketknife, most likely using it to
clean under his nails. The sound might have alarmed the father if he hadn't
known Franco since the time he was a baby. He'd baptized Franco, and just last
year, Franco's son.
Franco ignored his words. "Padre, Josue brought
his gang in last night, and they cornered Miguel. My brother's in the hospital,
in critical care."
Father Jerome said a silent prayer for Franco's
younger brother. "God is with your family."
"God ain't goin' to retaliate, padre. It's up to
me and my homies."
"Turn the other cheek--"
"So he can slap that one too?" Franco
demanded. "All I got is my respect, sir. I can't let Josue come into my
territory, mess up my brother, and go free. A response is respected, required
even."
Shaking his head, Father Jerome said, "You have
more than your respect. You have a mother to take care of, a girlfriend to watch
over, and your son to think about. You'll get yourself killed..." Even as
he counseled the boy, he knew his words fell on deaf ears.
"I ain't got no choice, padre. That's why you
gotta forgive my sins. If I die without forgiveness or Last Rites..." There
was a wobble in Franco's voice, betraying his tender years and deeply ingrained
fears.
"I can't absolve you, my son." Father
Jerome's stomach twisted as he said the terrible words. To deny forgiveness was
nearly unthinkable, but Franco did not meet the requirements for absolution.
He heard the folding chair slide across the floor,
then slam into the wall as Franco got up. "Thanks for nothing, padre."
"Please reconsider, Franco..." The boy's
answer was the sound of the hooks holding the curtain being forcefully thrown
aside, followed quickly by the slamming of the church door.
Tears appeared in Father Jerome's eyes, and he bowed
his head in prayer, begging God to intercede. "Please give the boy the
wisdom to walk away. Dear Lord, please don't let him repeat my mistake..."
"Joe, they're in our territory right now,"
Clark yelled as he came running, suddenly bending over and vomiting on the
sidewalk. He panted heavily, trying to regain his breath from the sprint he'd
just made.
Joe's eyes narrowed, and he reached for his knife.
"This is the last time." Several other boys joined the group as Clark
led them to the location where Tony and his boys were waiting for them.
Tony, a tall blond boy with bulging muscles and cold
eyes, stood negligently against a red Caddy, cradling a pistol in his hand.
"You came, nigger." His insolent eyes raked over Joe, quickly
dismissing the rest of his gang.
The use of that word pumped adrenaline through Joe's
veins. His rage grew boundless, and he vowed to kill the leader of the rival
gang, at any cost. He would have sold his soul right then if it was required to
defeat Tony. "Hiding behind a gun?"
Shrugging, Tony sat the piece aside and removed a
switchblade from his pocket. It was close to nine inches, with a wickedly sharp
edge that gleamed under the piss-yellow glow of the light post above them.
"I'll carve you into kibble, coon."
The boys rushed each other, feinting and lunging,
drawing blood and increasing their thirst for more. The other boys stood around
silently, raptly watching their leaders face off. When the final thrust hit
home, they all flinched.
Tony's body fell to the ground, and Joe stood above
him. Primal rage flooded through him, and he offered up an animalistic shout of
pleasure to the heavens. At that time, he wasn't thinking about the years he
would spend in prison, nor his eventual conversion to Catholicism and his
parting of the old ways. All he felt was satisfaction at the death of an enemy
by his own hands.
He couldn't even remember anymore why he'd hated the
boy with such intense passion. Joe sighed and wiped a hand down his sweaty face.
The memory always filled him with shame and disgust at his own behavior. Though
there was no question Tony had set out to provoke him, Joe had been unable to
forgive his own actions. He didn't want the same thing to happen to Franco,
assuming the boy survived his confrontation.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
