Free The Void by Bryan Healey Page B

please...
    "I hope I'm something of a comfort to you."
    You are! You most certainly are!
    You give my nights sound, give my silence a break, a voice to the
void! I could not have kept my sanity, kept my mind, kept my peace,
without your songs of conversation!
    You're my angel by night!
    "You've certainly been a comfort to me..."
    I'm glad...
    "...as odd as that may sound." And she giggles ever so lightly,
and the ruffling of sheets ceases.
    I don't find it odd...
    ...although, I
am
a vegetable...
    I would laugh with her, if I could...
    "I'll see you tomorrow, Max. Sleep well."
    I will rest, at the very least... Sleep is something else entirely,
but rest for sure...
    I always rest...
    And then further silence...
    "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many months
since my last confession."
    "Tell me, child, what troubles you?"
    I am in a church, somewhere downtown, having left work early and
having no reason to return home. Jenny is at some school function
with Brian, and I can't get in after it starts.
    And I can't be home alone...
    "I'm lonely, Father."
    "Lonely?"
    "Yes, Father, even at home."
    "Are you unmarried?"
    "No, I am. And a father."
    "Then why do you feel lonely?"
    "She can't understand me."
    "Have you tried helping her understand?"
    "No," I answer honestly.
    "Why not?"
    "Because she could never understand."
    "What could she never understand?"
    "How I feel, what I feel..."
    The priest takes a breath, slowly exhaling. He seems frustrated with
me; or perhaps trying to figure me out... it was difficult to tell...
    "Son," he began, slowly, carefully, "you can tell me in
confidence anything you wish. So tell me, what do you feel? What can
she never understand?"
    I rub my chin, momentarily considering leaving the confessional and
disappearing; but I came here to talk, and so that's what I will
do...
    "That I want the drugs."
    "Drugs?"
    "Yes, drugs."
    "Why would you want drugs, my son?"
    "I want to not feel, Father. I want to stop seeing the blood and
the sand and the face of the men who killed my friends. I'm just so
tired," and I begin to cry, gently, but noticeably, "tired of
everything, of feeling again, of the nightmares. I'm tired of
everything... everything..." I cough, rub my nose.
    "I'm tired of living." I conclude.
    "Of living?"
    "Yes," I confess. "The only reason I'm here now is for my son,
for my wife. I couldn't hurt them like that. I couldn't leave them
like that," and I take a deep, slow breath, keeping my chest in
control.
    "You must let go, my son."
    "Let go?"
    "Of the demons that haunt you. Of the pain in your soul, you must
surrender it to God and allow him to care for you. You can't do it
alone."
    "I don't believe in God," I further confess.
    "You don't?" He seems genuinely shocked.
    "No, I don't. I don't know that I ever have."
    "Then why, my son, do you come to His house and seek counsel with
His disciple? Why are you talking with with me, looking for the will
of the Lord?"
    "I'm not looking for the will of the Lord."
    "Then what do you seek?"
    "I seek-" and I burst forth a momentary sob, my chest heaving
and my eyes leaking; I rub my cheeks vigorously and wipe my eyes,
circular, pressing until I can see spots flecked against the back of
my lids.
    "Go on, my child..."
    "I seek, I guess, compassion."
    "Compassion?"
    "A listening ear."
    "There are many listening ears in the world who do not follow only
the will of our Father. I believe you are seeking more than
compassion. You are seeking faith. You wish to believe, and you wish
to surrender. You know the Lord is out there, waiting for you, and
you wish to find him."
    "No-"
    "My child-"
    "No!" I shout, more fervently than deserved. I cup my hands over
my mouth, to restrain myself. "No," I repeat, more softly,
firmly, honestly.
    "Then tell me, why do you seek compassion here, in the house of
the Lord?"
    "Because it's what I know."
    "It's what you know?"
    "I came here, as a boy. With my father and my mother. I sat in the
third row, every