Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

With every click of the cog a droplet of water rolled down your chin. Nothing could be heard other than the rhythmic tick of the clock and increasingly reckless thumps of your heart.

You couldn’t see his face, the curtain acting as a form of armour that protected your identity.

Sitting within the confessional, hands drenched in sweat as you waited for the priest on the other end to speak.

“You may call me Father Neuvillette. Please begin your confession.”