A Little Faith Read online

  A Little Faith

  An MM ABDL Romance Novella

  Tara Tingle

  This is a work of fiction. All similarities to persons, living or otherwise, is purely coincidental.

  This work contains materials that might be offensive to people of certain faiths. This work is not intended to displease such readers, rather, it seeks to tell a story of which the character’s religion is an important element.

  Copyright 2020

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  A Little Complication (Preview)

  Also by Tara Tingle

  1

  The Last Confession

  Doubt.

  Early in my years at the seminary, we were taught that doubt is the enemy of faith. We were trained how to deal with doubt and how to censure it from our thoughts. We learned how to think in terms of extremes, namely the good and the bad, and everything in between were just misguided notions that needed to be shepherded towards the light. There was no room for doubts in the sphere of definite duality. If there's no doubt, there's no hesitation nor confusion nor fear. There should only be faith... a belief stronger than any force in the world... one that would constantly reassure us that if we'd only follow the dictates of the innate morality in our hearts as guided by His Will, we would always end up doing the right thing.

  Doubt.

  I've been a man of God for close to eight years now. I've served my parish well. I've stayed true to the tenets of the Church. I've done everything that was expected from me, and more. I knew who I was. I was certain of who I was.

  I should have no doubt.

  But as I walked towards the confession box at the corner of my empty chapel, I found myself questioning many of the matters which should've been beyond apprehension. My heart pounded harder with every step I took. My gut swirled faster with every inch of my approach. My throat became drier as I neared the solemn cubicle.

  Was he there, I wondered?

  It was a ridiculous question. Of course he was. He was always there for his confession every single day, without fail, for the past five months. He was always there at the exact same time - a quarter past four in the afternoon - never late, not even for a minute.

  I haven't seen him, not even once. But I knew him. I knew him well. How could I not? His confessions have become the highlights of my days.

  He cleared his throat as soon as I entered my side of the booth. He started to breathe a little more hurriedly as well. It was not difficult to hear these small affectations as only a lattice separated us.

  There was silence that lasted for almost a minute. I was waiting for him to start while he was waiting for me to give him the signal to proceed. It wasn't the first time such awkwardness happened, and always, it prompted me to snigger.

  He responded with a chuckle of his own. Soft. Delightful. Childlike.

  “S-Sorry, Father,” he mumbled, with a voice that was just as tender as his laugh. “I guess I should begin, huh?”

  “As should be the case,” I replied, smiling. “Protocol, you know.”

  “Yes, Father, of course,” he agreed, his tone turning earnest. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he began. “It's been twenty-three hours and fifty two minutes since my last confession...”

  If this was our first conference, I would've been offended by the exactness of the detail he shared. It would've been easy to construe it as something that was meant to mock. But this wasn't our first confession, and I've come to know him as someone with very particular... quirks. One of them was his obsessive compulsiveness for certain specifics.

  “Should we even go through the formalities of this sacrament?” I asked him warmly. “You've been confessing every day for the past few months. I may not know your face, I may not know who you are, but I would love to believe that I am quite familiar with you, as you are with me, I hope.”

  “I... I appreciate the time you always give me, Father,” he responded rather shyly.

  “My time is God's to give,” I said. “And I do believe that God appreciates your visits, especially in this day and age when His children seem to have forgotten the need to seek His forgiveness.” I stated a fact, albeit a sad one. This confession booth has never been a busy place since I took over this parish years ago. Rare where the times when I had to hear someone confess... until he came along.

  “I do not wish to remain impure,” he responded.

  “And for that, you should be commended,” I told him with a smile that I wished he felt. “Go on, child,” I invited him to proceed.

  “My sins are... well... uhm,” he struggled to continue. “Father... I... I don't think I've been a good boy last night.”

  “What happened?” I asked him with a surge of concern.

  It was against the mandates of my calling. We were trained not to show any emotions whatsoever whenever we were performing the sacrament of confession. We shouldn't exhibit condemnation, disgust, hatred, fear, loathing nor delectation regardless of what we'd hear from the person at the other side of the screen. We should remain as detached as we possibly could. It was the only way to repress judgment as the human mind was, by nature, designed to criticize.

  But this person... this man... he has become a constant presence in my afternoons, and at a time when I was so lost and burdened and in desperate need of a diversion... even if he was the cause of my vacillations. His stories have become more than just passing fancies. They've served as my anchor - a reminder that despite the crisis of faith I've been enduring, my role as a man of the Lord was still serving a very real purpose.

  So, yes... for me, he was more than just someone who was seeking redemption from his transgressions. Hence, his troubles affected me greatly and no amount of training could make me hide that.

  “I... I think I made my daddy upset,” he answered. His voice started to tremble. He was clearly distraught with the memory of what transpired the night before. “I think... I think I did something he didn't like.”

  He has spoken about his father many times before. From his tales, I inferred that his father was a stern man – strict, old-fashioned, and a bit of a disciplinarian. But I also learned from his stories that his father was a loving man – one who was never ashamed to show his love for his son, one who rewarded him with tenderness whenever affection was called for. He even spoke of moments that made me marvel about the relationship they had – like playful episodes of tickling and cuddling and cooing and shared baths - moments that were usually partaken by a father and a young child, moments that they were never ashamed to continue even through his adult years.

  Whatever problems he was having with his father was most certainly something transient and trivial, I believed.

  It was a thought that was immediately shattered when he continued with his confession.

  “H-He... He hit me,” he went on to say as he began to snivel. “He hit me so hard, Father... I didn't know what to do.”

  “Now, now, child,” I tried to calm him down. “Why did he hit you? What made him so upset as to strike you like he did?”

  His sniffs escalated into sobs. “He was asking for money, Father... and I didn't give him any. I couldn't. I didn't have any to give. I just paid for the rent. All I had was enough to last me a week, and I've already advanced my next paycheck.”

  Ah. Money. It is, indeed, the root of all evil.

  But I didn't expect it to affect their relationship in such a grave manner.

  There must be something more to what happened.r />
  I had to investigate.

  “Your father must be suffering a lot to have reacted the way he did,” I reasoned out. “Tell me, child, do you know of any problems that ail him?”

  “Yes,” he candidly answer in between his weeps. “He's behind on his alimony and he received a letter which said that if he won't be able to pay, he'd be cited for contempt and he'd be sent to jail.”

  “Oh. Wait,” I muttered, confused. “Alimony? So, you're not his only child? You have siblings?”

  “Siblings? As in real siblings? No, I don't.”

  “But your father owes alimony. So he has another kid? Children, perhaps? Which makes them your siblings... or half-siblings, if such were the case.”

  Even as he cried, he managed to snicker. “It doesn't work that way, Father,” he said.

  That made me even more confused, but I decided to focus on the more pressing aspect of what he was sharing.

  “Now that you've enlightened me a bit more about the situation,” I said, “your father did seem to go overboard when he slapped you because of that.”

  “He... He didn't just slap me,” the young man corrected. “He punched me. Many times. Then he placed his hands around my throat and he choked me.”

  “W-What?” I muttered, almost stupefied with shock.

  “I pleaded for my life. But my daddy, he was so mad... he wasn't listening. I felt like I was going to die but he kept squeezing my neck. I tried to fight back... but he was too strong... I couldn't do anything...” His sobs turned into uncontrollable wailing.

  “Hush. Hush now, child,” I attempted to pacify him. “You're safe now. You're safe here.”

  “He stopped, eventually,” he continued. “But he didn't even apologize for what he did. He was just quiet... still angry... he didn't talk to me after that, not even once...”

  “And all because you weren't able to give him the money he was requesting?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was an inexplicably savage response.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even for a father.... especially for a father...”

  He didn't reply. It was apparent that he didn't completely agree with my assessment. It made me wonder if he truly believed that what happened was his fault.

  “Child... how old are you?” I had to ask. Five months of hearing his confession gave me an idea about his age, but I wanted to be sure.

  “Twenty-six,” he answered as he blew his nose. I always thought that he was younger. It turned out that he was just eight years younger than I was.

  “Ah. Twenty-six. Old enough to live on your own. Can you just move out? I am certain your father will be able to survive without you. Perhaps he also needs the time alone to sort out his problems... problems that do not involve you.”

  “I... I don't want to lose my daddy, Father,” he blurted with sudden anxiety as if he never considered that option before, no matter how obvious it was.

  “He'll always be your father,” I assured him, “but maybe it's time... and some may even argue that it's long overdue... that you leave the home that you know to live the life you want to live.”

  “But the only life I want to live is a life with him,” he insisted rather spiritedly despite the tears he was shedding. “He takes care of me, and I’ll be all alone without him...”

  “I understand. Children are meant to love their parents, and parents are meant to love their children. Leaving the nest we've come to know as home is always difficult, but it is a necessary chapter in a person's existence. It's the first step in forging your own life... the first step in making your own mark in this world.”

  “B-But... But... I can't...” he countered, weakly, desperately, defeatedly.

  “You can and you have to,” I reiterated. “Even Jesus had to leave Mary and Joseph's stead to begin his journey to save mankind, correct?” I used that story to appeal to his faith. This young man seemed to be very religious and I prayed that by reminding him of that story, he'd realize what he really had to do.

  “My... My daddy... he takes care of me... and I... I need him...” he muttered.

  “And your bond with him will never fade, even when you embark on your own journey, child,” I explained.

  “I... I’m not so sure about that, Father...”

  “You are afraid and confused right now, but just stay strong. You are of age and you are of able body and mind. You will do well.”

  “I...” he still tried to contend but he couldn't find any words to convey his arguments.

  “Trust me, child,” I gently said, almost like a whisper. “I've come to know you well enough to be sure that you'll be okay.”

  A long pause followed before he spoke once more. “Okay, Father,” he said. “I believe you.”

  “And my words will not fail you, child,” I assured him.

  “Thank you.” He sniffed some more before continuing. “You know, Father, I really love these talks we have. They don't even seem like they're confessions.”

  I allowed myself to laugh at his comment, out of fondness more than anything else. “Maybe because they're not confessions,” I replied. “You always start by saying that you have sins that you want to atone for, but you never share any misgivings. You always end up telling me about how your day went or about your thoughts regarding certain matters or how you feel about things that you just experienced.”

  He laughed at my remark as well. “I guess I need a session with a shrink more than I need a confession, huh?”

  “Maybe,” I chuckled. “But don't get me wrong, child. I do appreciate these confessions, even though that term is quite a misnomer. I do appreciate you sharing your life with me. I will even dare say that these... discussions... help me more than they help you.”

  “How come?” he wondered. He wasn't crying anymore.

  “Let's just say that despite the robes I wear, despite the vows I've made, and despite the title I hold... I’m still human. I have my weaknesses. I have my failures. And I still need some company from time to time to remind me that what is, and whatever awaits, will be okay.”

  “Wow. Just like me,” he mumbled.

  “Very much like you... very much like everyone else,” I agreed.

  “Father?” he called my attention.

  “Yes, my child?”

  He began to giggle uncontrollably.

  “What's wrong?” I was forced to query.

  “Nothing,” he answered, still snickering. “It's just that... I love the way you call say my child. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel loved.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “But... I do love you,” I said without thinking, a statement that caused my heart to race. “I love you as God loves all his children,” I quickly added.

  “I guess so,” he responded with a tinge of what seemed like disappointment. “Father? Don't you think it's unfair that I know you but you don't know me?”

  “Such is the way of things, I'm afraid. Besides, do you really know me as you claim you do?”

  “Well, you're Father Joaquin Bernal,” he said. “Everyone knows you. You've been the parish's priest for quite some time now.”

  “Please... call me Joe,” I told him. “Father Joe would be fine.”

  “Father Joe it is then,” he acknowledged. “Do you want to know my name?”

  That made me stop breathing.

  I did want to know his name.

  I wanted to know more than just his name.

  But this screen that divided us, it wasn't just a physical barrier. It was a sacred veil that separated the holy from the sinful, the divine from what is mortal... rules that have been set since the dawn of the Catholic Church. It wasn't something that I could just violate.

  “I do,” I admitted. “But I cannot, child. You understand, right?”

  “Yes, Father, I do,” he sighed. “Very well, same time tomorrow then?” he began his farewell.

  “I'm looking forward to it,” I replied.

  “Enj
oy the rest of the your day, Father Joe.”

  “Be well, my child.”

  I stayed at the confessional and listened as he left his side of the box. My ears clung to his footsteps while they faded as he slowly walked away. I waited for a few more seconds of utter silence before leaving the booth, as was the procedure, as was the rule.

  As God's chosen servant, I wasn't supposed to lay my eyes on the face of the sinner who divulged his sins...

  Even if he never even declared any.

  That night, I thought about him.

  About how he was.

  About his relationship with his father.

  About what he'll do with the advice I gave him.

  About his voice.

  About tomorrow when I'd get to meet him again, behind the wooden surface of a perforated barrier.

  He has been the highlights of my days... days which would have been less meaningful if he wasn't around.

  I eagerly proceeded to the confessional the next afternoon, at exactly 4:15 P.M., my heart beating wildly for our next conversation.

  But he wasn't there.

  It was the first time he didn't come since he started confessing.

  He must've been sick, I thought. Or, perhaps, he heeded my advice and began to move out of the house he shared with his father. That would've taken some time and it prevented him from coming to my chapel.

  But he didn't come for confession the next afternoon, as well.

  Nor the afternoon after that.

  Nor the next five afternoons that followed.

  It was then when I began to worry.

  What if something bad has happened to him?

  What if his father was more violent than I thought he would be?

  What if he just got tired for visiting me?

  What if I'd never get to hear his voice again?

  Doubt.

  We have been taught that doubt is the enemy of faith. I wasn't supposed to feel the things I was feeling. I wasn't supposed to fear the things I was afraid of. I wasn't supposed to dwell on the thoughts that were plaguing my mind. But they were there. They were real. I couldn't deny them.