Hm, this one…is interesting, I think. It only took me a bit to write—it just came to me like that—and I hope that you all like it. Read and review! Also, as a note, I don't think that having homo/bisexual feelings is a sin. I'm just going with what the common idea of the times was.
I don't go to confession anymore.
I know that I'm supposed to, but I don't like it. I always said the same things:
"I disobeyed my parents."
"I didn't pray as much as I should have."
"I have not been reading the Bible."
"I took the Lord's name in vain."
"I said spiteful things."
I never told the father what I really did. After a while, I decided that I should simply stop going. Deep down, I knew that disobeying one's parents, especially when they weren't exactly the best examples, wasn't the most horrible of sins. I knew that praying didn't add up to much—nor did reading the Bible. I hardly believed in God anymore, after all. Therefore, why was saying His name in a stressful situation such a sin?
And saying spiteful things? Who cared about that?
The priest, of course, would have died had he heard what I'd really done—had he heard the sins I'd really committed.
I've kissed another girl—full on the lips, and wanted her in a somewhat sexual way, although really, Father, that is hard to explain.
Would he have taken that so well? Perhaps, had he seen Pippa, he would have. Beautiful, lively Pippa…she was the only one who ever truly loved me.
I lost my virginity before I was wed, at the age of fifteen.
The priest would have never understood the constant passion coursing through my veins—the want to be wanted. Of course, the young man I slept with all those years ago has forgotten about me by now, but I really don't care about him. I forgot about him the moment we went back downstairs to the ball. No one looked twice at me. Of course my hair was a bit mussed, but I'd pulled myself together. He tried to make eyes at me the rest of the night, but I ignored him, flirting with other men.
It wasn't that he was a toy to me—he just wasn't what I wanted.
I've slept with various other men since then—some twice my age and some my own. None of them had the intent to court me (let alone marry me!). Well, most of them didn't.
I'd let Simon win after all of those months of him chasing me. Looking back on it, I wish that I hadn't. He wasn't like most boys of his age that I'd slept with, of course. He knew his way around the bed well enough—surely he'd made love to a woman at least once before this. But after that night, he never really flirted with me again. And when he did flirt with me, it was in a cool, condescending way.
Part of me was hurt, but only a very small part.
I've teased other girls mercilessly. Recently, I discovered that I added so much to already existing pain in a girl's life that she self-harmed herself.
When Ann told me, point-blank, that she'd cut herself with a pair of sewing shears once after I spent an hour teasing her for her lack of fine clothes, I simply told her that she was pathetic and that that was stupid. She did agree whole-heartedly with me, but when I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep. I sobbed for hours, until it was six-thirty and time to wake up.
I've sacrificed an animal for my own well-being and power.
Now how would I explain that to the priest? Surely he'd kick me out of the church right then and there, thinking that I worshipped the Devil.
And yet that's another reason why I don't go to confession anymore. Mass is bad enough. I want to be worshipped—I don't want to be the one to do with worshipping.
I almost made love to a gypsy boy once after months of toying with him, but in the end I broke his heart.
I'd never broken a heart before, and so breaking Ithal's was perhaps my worst sin of all, at the time. Yes, breaking his heart was a wonderful, powerful feeling, in a sadistic way…but at the same time, it broke my own heart. Simon's rejection hadn't broken my heart. No, it had taught me an important lesson—that I had a poor reputation, and that therefore I would often be viewed by men as good only for sexual use.
Ithal, on the other hand, didn't want me just for that. He did care about me, somehow, and I'm sure that would have lasted had I slept with him that night. Rather, even if I didn't sleep with him, I'm sure he would have continued to care about me had I not spurned him and told him the truth.
I'd been with dozens of men twice as handsome and millions of times as rich as he was.
There are more sins, of course. I locked a good friend of mine in a chapel once, but that was before we were good friends. I got drunk on a school night. I dabbled in illegal substances. There are too many to list. But some are worse than others.
I made him do it to me.
I didn't even think to lock Polly's door that first night.
Yes, some sins are worse than others. And that is why I don't go to confession.