Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Sinned

It's so much more exciting To look when you can't touch You could say I'm different And maybe I'm a freak But I know how to twist you To bring you to your knees

      Mikasa shrugged off her worn-out backpack, plastered with pins and patches, and hurled it into the corner of the room. She collapsed onto her unmade bed, still messy from the morning. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, and her head was crammed with a thousand tangled problems. Everything had hit her all at once, and she didn’t feel like doing anything at all.       “Alexa, play some music,” she mumbled into the pillow, hoping the device would pick up her voice. Alexa did not disappoint. A second later, the speakers burst to life with the thunderous chords of her favorite hard rock band.       “Alexa, turn it down.” Mikasa rolled onto her back, eyes drifting up to the faded ceiling. The last thing she needed was her mom storming in with another rant about the volume. God, wouldn’t it be amazing to go to one of their concerts just once? Not that her parents would ever buy her a ticket to what they called “satanic nonsense.” And getting a part-time job? Not a chance.       She was expected to come straight home after school. At most, she was allowed to stop by a friend’s house a couple times a week—for group projects only, of course. Each of those friends had been thoroughly vetted before her parents begrudgingly approved the "influence." Her pocket money barely covered school snacks and cigarettes. Her dad had long since given up trying to get her to quit—he’d laid down only one rule: no smoking in the house. Mikasa stuck to it religiously.       She came up with all sorts of tricks just to sneak out for a bit. Just like everyone else, she wanted to party, try booze, maybe even hook up with a guy. The only thing her parents ever gave her real permission for was tattoos. All it took was a little bluffing—one threat to get inked in some back-alley shop, catch God-knows-what, and die tragically, and they caved. Not right away, but eventually. Still, Mikasa couldn’t say she had much to complain about when it came to her family. If it weren’t for their over-the-top religiousness, she probably wouldn’t have any real gripes.       She slipped off her heavy metal rings and tossed them into the nightstand drawer, feeling slightly better as the lyrics of her favorite song filled the room. The posters and band flyers on the walls brought a strange kind of calm. At last, she let herself exhale. School drained the life out of her, but now that she’d changed into her comfiest clothes and started humming along to the next track, Mikasa could finally relax.       But her moment of peace didn’t last long. A knock on the door. Before she could say anything, her mother stepped into the room. Mikasa didn’t even have to turn her head to know who it was—her dad had long since stopped entering her room uninvited.       She glanced back at her mom, who stood in the doorway eyeing her with that familiar look. Her mother’s face twisted in silent disapproval, scanning Mikasa’s bold makeup and the oversized cross earrings she hadn’t taken off yet. Mikasa was already bracing herself for the inevitable: accusations of being out of control, warnings about demons taking over her soul. She was mentally rolling her eyes, preparing to hear it all over again—when the lyrics of the song caught her ear.

I get off on you Getting off on me

      “Alexa, next track,” Mikasa blurted out, cheeks burning. Well… at least this time her mom’s disapproval wasn’t aimed directly at her. That was something.       The song cut off sharply and was replaced by a Japanese tune Mikasa hadn’t heard in ages. She recognized the melody of Dear Maria and gave a silent, bemused sigh. Her mom looked almost pleased for once, casting a nod of approval toward Alexa. As if she remembered a single word of Japanese. They’d been in America longer than some citizens, and the only thing left of that “exotic culture” was the shape of their eyes.       Mikasa eyed her mother again—still standing in the doorway, still dressed like she was headed to a funeral: a dark turtleneck with a stiff collar, a dull gray skirt, and those hideous house slippers. Mikasa never understood the need for such formality, even at home. Next to her, in her crumpled t-shirt with the messy neon print and saggy shorts, she always felt like she didn’t quite belong.       “We should’ve taken you to church a long time ago,” her mom finally declared. Mikasa couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes so hard it felt like her pupils might go looking for her brain.       “Don’t roll your eyes.”       “Mom, I said I’d go on Sunday,” Mikasa replied smoothly, already planning how her period would mysteriously start that morning, or maybe a migraine would strike, or some massive homework assignment would pop up that had to be turned in Monday. Tonight, all she wanted was to scroll through Twitter and watch something utterly stupid. Arguing about church didn’t make the cut.       But her mom pulled something bright from her pocket and held it out just far enough for Mikasa to get a good look. Her breath caught in her throat.       “Evil Wasp? You’re kidding me,” Mikasa whispered, inching closer. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her mom had actually bought a ticket? But before she could snatch the glossy paper, her mother shoved it back into her pocket.       “I know you’ll try to come up with something. So here’s the deal—if you want to go to that concert, you’re coming with me to church on Sunday. No excuses. You bail, and I’ll tear that ticket up and toss it.”       “But it must’ve cost a fortune!”       “I’m hoping we can make a deal. You need to step into the House of the Lord from time to time, confess your sins. I pray for your soul every day, and I’m hoping this might get you to finally take it seriously.” Her mom looked more serious than ever, and Mikasa didn’t doubt for a second that she wouldn’t be able to get the ticket any other way.       “Fine. I promise.”       “That’s my girl.” Her mom stepped forward, gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, ruffled her hair, and walked out.       With a hint of irritation, Mikasa shut the door that her mother—as always—had left ajar, and flopped back onto the bed. The thought of the upcoming concert made her grin, even if it meant spending Sunday morning in a stuffy room that reeked of old women and incense strong enough to make her dizzy.  

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      Mikasa tugged the awkward dark shoes onto her feet with visible reluctance, mentally saying goodbye to her crop tops and short skirts for the day. The black turtleneck—identical to her mother’s—choked her with its high, tight collar, and the wool skirt itched like hell. But the concert tickets made her bite her tongue and even smile through the discomfort. A satisfied mom meant a guaranteed trip to the show.       She still couldn’t understand why, according to religious fanatics, God seemed to hate bare skin so much. Didn’t Adam and Eve strut around Eden completely naked? But arguing with Christian doctrine was a waste of time. Mikasa twisted her short hair into something resembling a bun, though the sleek strands kept slipping free no matter what she did.       With a heavy heart, she stepped through the church doors, bracing herself for the flood of nonsense she was about to hear—and for the awkward moment of confessing her “sins” to Father Patrick, a chubby old man in his sixties who only looked like a sweet, God-fearing grandpa.       She slid into the pew beside her mother and glanced around. She had to admit, their church was beautiful. Unlike the bland little boxes in other parts of town—basic cubes with plastic windows and a cross slapped on top—this one had history. The carved arches, the humble rows of wooden benches… it gave off a strange sort of comfort. The only overtly religious element was a large crucifix behind the pulpit. Warm sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, painting the pale floor in soft hues. If it weren’t for the smell of burning candles, Mikasa might’ve said it wasn’t so bad.       She sat between her mom and dad, waiting for Father Patrick to appear—only he didn’t.       Mikasa’s eyes widened as a different man stepped up to the pulpit. Much younger than Father Patrick, maybe half his age. He wasn’t tall, but he was… pleasant. His long fingers flipped through pages of the Bible with an absent grace.       “Mom, who is that?” Mikasa whispered, leaning in.       “Shh,” her mother hissed, silencing her with a sharp glance.       No one else seemed fazed by the new priest, so Mikasa figured she’d just missed a memo by skipping so many Sundays. If she’d known this guy was leading the sermons, she might’ve seriously reconsidered her relationship with God.       She stopped paying attention almost immediately. “We are all servants of the Lord…” his voice rang out—deep, smooth, velvety—and Mikasa practically melted at the sound. There was something rich and dry in his tone that made her drift further into her own head. She found herself watching his mouth more than listening to his words. Luckily, the church was small, and their pew was close enough that she could study him in detail.       She was curious—what was he like under those robes? They looked more like a black bedsheet than actual clothing.       His face was striking: mature, angular, with sharp cheekbones and a defined jawline. The dark hair glinted in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and his thin lips moved in rhythm with words Mikasa had already stopped processing. She didn’t even try. His calm delivery, so unlike the fire-and-brimstone theatrics of the previous priest, was oddly hypnotic. Soothing, even.       She glanced around. Was she the only one noticing how hot this guy was? The rest of the congregation sat as usual—some stared ahead blankly, others had their heads bowed in prayer, and the kids looked like they were simply waiting for the ordeal to end.       Mikasa smirked to herself. Just a few minutes ago, she would've been right there with the bored kids, but now she couldn’t take her eyes off the priest. She was trying to guess the shape of his body beneath that robe. Was he lean? Muscular? Soft? Totally scrawny and saggy? Judging by the sharpness of his features, he probably had a body to match—tight and defined.       As she watched him, something unexpected bubbled up inside her.       For the first time in her life, Mikasa was looking forward to confession. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

⊹──⊱❈⊰──⊹

        The service flew by so fast it barely felt like two full hours of talk about God and the joys of obedience. Mikasa was almost surprised when it ended.       The priest stepped outside onto the front steps, likely to warm up a little and get some fresh air. Her mother, on the other hand, took Mikasa gently by the arm and guided her toward him.       What followed was excruciating.       An awkward introduction, a drawn-out speech about how far Mikasa had strayed from the Lord, and how important it was to help her find her way back to the light. Mikasa stood there like a museum exhibit while her mother spoke on her behalf, her voice full of concern and righteousness.       All the while, Mikasa kept her eyes on him.       She watched as his cold, pale face slowly turned toward her, those glacial eyes scanning her like frost creeping over glass. A shiver ran through her body, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t show a thing. The way he looked at her… there was something razor-sharp in it. Something that made her pulse quicken despite herself.       She tried not to think the thoughts that were already forming in her head—especially not here, under the high, echoing arches of the church. But the interest was there, bubbling under the surface, undeniable.       Then something shifted. His face softened slightly, and to Mikasa’s surprise, he gave a faint smile—first to her, then to her mother.       “Of course, Mrs. Ackerman,” he said calmly. “Let’s wait until everyone’s left. Then I’ll speak with your daughter.”  

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        Mikasa soon followed the priest into a separate room, quietly noting that from the pulpit, he’d seemed taller. But now it was clear—they were the same height. Somehow, that didn’t bother her in the slightest.       She walked a step behind him, eyes trained on the subtle movement of his robe, trying to make out the shape beneath the flowing black fabric—but it was hopeless.       “Typically, we hear confessions behind a screen,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “But that room is currently under renovation. I hope that won’t discourage you from confessing your sins, Miss…?”       Mikasa bit her tongue, fighting the sudden urge to tell him she’d never been more eager to confess anything in her life. Instead, she gave a casual shrug and said she didn’t really mind.       The priest nodded approvingly, made the sign of the cross over her, and asked what sins she would like to confess today.       Kneeling down, Mikasa lifted her eyes to the crucifix with the most innocent expression she could muster—her face pure, angelic, serene. Then, without a hint of shame, she said:       “Sorry, daddy. I’ve been a bad girl.”       She cast him a sly, sideward glance—curious, playful, anything but repentant. And to her satisfaction, she caught the faint blush rising in his cheeks, saw the way he shifted slightly, trying to hold on to his composure.       Mikasa drew breath, ready to say something even more ridiculous, but he interrupted her first. Clearing his throat, the priest responded with strained dignity:       “Miss Ackerman, in the house of the Lord, the proper form is: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’”       She widened her eyes, feigning surprise as she met his gaze—but he immediately looked away, refusing to lock eyes with her again. Her expression softened just slightly, and a single thought flared up in her mind with such clarity it nearly startled her:       I want him.       The truth was, she didn’t really have anything to confess. As a nonbeliever, the concept of sin didn’t mean much to her. So she mumbled a few vague transgressions—slacking off in school, disobeying her parents from time to time—and with that, the whole charade was over.       She walked out of the church a few minutes later, her parents at her sides, the sun warm on her skin.       Her mother, beaming, was thrilled to hear that Mikasa would now be coming to Sunday sermon regularly.  

⊹──⊱❈⊰──⊹

        Mikasa flopped down onto her bed, which let out an annoyed creak beneath her, the Evil Wasp ticket clutched tightly in her hand. She still couldn’t quite believe how easily it had all worked out. But her thoughts kept circling back to the new Father.       Why were the hottest men always either gay or priests?       She groaned into her pillow, annoyed with the universe—and herself. Her mind spun with wild schemes and stupid little fantasies, all of which she knew would shatter against the brick wall of reality. That damn Bible was right about one thing: forbidden fruit really was the sweetest. And now Mikasa knew exactly what that meant. She felt it, raw and bitter, beneath her skin.       No matter how much she wanted to change something—do something—she knew the path to that man’s heart was sealed shut. And the one thing standing in her way? A God she didn’t even believe in.       After a few restless minutes, she grabbed her phone, hoping—foolishly—to find him online. A social media page, a tag, anything. But the search came up empty. Of course it did.       With an irritated sigh, she tossed the phone aside. Enough of this. Time to put on something less suffocating and clear her head with a walk.