Faith was something that lacked in your life, your being. Belief, you were sure that it wasn't for you, certainly not. If the feeling is not genuine, then why bother pretending? You hated that. The hipocrisy of so called saints, very ones who sinned more than the non-believers by them condemned. And you were one of them.

Still, you didn't know exactly the reason you set foot into that church, and you were sure you would burn or the building would tremble the moment you did. Nothing happened, what a relief. You think too highly of yourself sometimes, you were just another one from lost lambs in the vast clearing, forsaken from your shepherd. The disgraced ones, and still you dared enter this sacred place. May you be reprimanded.

Not one single soul apart from who seemed to be the priest, or was he an angel? You couldn't tell, but he did look like one. The stained glass that painted 'the last supper' covered the roof, allowing the light to come in in thin colored beams, and from under the light, by the altar, he looked back at you, as your footsteps echoed through the empty building. Each, and every single one chanting your sins to him, as if outing your indignity, preaching them to the cross hanged in the center of the wall and the hanged man on it. And for one moment, you swear you felt God's judmental eyes upon you... Or maybe it was his.

You take a seat in one of the pews, unsure of what to do now that you were finally here. You didn't know why you were there in the first place, you just... did. Your feet guided you. Or was it God's wil? Whatever it was, your inner turmoil seemed to not go unnoticed by the priest, who calmly made his way to your side, taking a seat at the other edge.

It wasn't time to any rite, and you were there. So he asked, "Are you here to confess?"

Were you?...