Redemption
The priest promised forgiveness was possible.
—Kneel, he whispered, —and confess everything you did.
She knelt on the cold stone floor. The cellar reeked of wet earth and lilies masking rot beneath.
—I buried them deep, she said. —All three of them.
—You truly repent?
—Every night.
The priest smiled. His jaw unhinged, skin tearing at the corners. Behind yellowed teeth, three small faces pressed against translucent membranes. Mouths gaping in silent accusation.
—Redemption demands restitution, he said.
His voice fractured into a child's soprano.
—Give us your eyes. Your hands. The years you stole.
She screamed.
They crawled inside.