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Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of
Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

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The air was close in the confessional, the familiar smells of aged wood and lemon Pledge and the faintest background hint of incense. (Or maybe that was imagination, even in the main church incense was used rarely these days, surely it wouldn’t linger in this out-of-the-way corner.) Mary Claire’s knees protested as she knelt at the partitioning screen; not from the position itself, she was supple with the careless flexibility of the young, but they ached from cuts and a bad scrape, and one had been wrenched worse than she’d been free enough to notice at the time. She drew a steadying breath, waiting for the first words from beyond the screen, because it would make a profound difference who was there —

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” she heard from the other side, and the air went out of her in a whoosh of relief that stabbed her with embarrassment an instant later. Father Nolan, thank God. Father Kinsolving was good-hearted but gruff and vinegary, serving out his retirement years in this last posting in Sunnydale; and the rector, Father Heywood, was so cheerfully, blandly forgiving that you sometimes wondered if he took the concept of sin seriously. He’d be gone soon, because rectors seldom stayed beyond the two-year mark at St. John of the Cross. The associate rector, however, Father Nolan, had been a constant, reassuring presence for nearly seven, and while his recommendations and observations could be discomforting, they were never inaccurate. And there was no way of doubting that he believed, deeply and earnestly and with every moment of his attention.

That totality of conviction had sometimes made her impatient, and occasionally resentful, because she herself had no such certainty. Right now, though, she needed it. That, and so much more.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She said the old words, instead of following any of the newer, trendier versions. “It has been …” She had to stop and think; she couldn’t remember, she wasn’t even sure when was the last time she had come to Mass. “… at least six months since my last confession. That’s, I guess that’s one of the things I have to count as sins, I haven’t been attending Mass, haven’t honored the days of obligation …” She drew another breath; she had never liked this part, never, but what was the point of confession if you hid anything? “I also, um, I lied to my mother, I told her I needed extra money for student activity fees at college, but I really spent it on an iPod.” (Lying and dishonoring her mother, she thought with self-scathing irony. Bonus points for the combination.) “And, it’s been over for awhile now but I, since my last confession I was in a, a sexual relationship with one of my classmates. And, and we used contraception even though I know that’s also a sin.” (Another bonus combo. Really, why not have an affair with a married man and rack up some major points?) “And that wasn’t —”

“How many times did you engage in non-marital intercourse?” Father Nolan gently interrupted. “And was contraception part of every such instance?”

It wasn’t salacious interest, she knew, or even intended to rub her nose in her failings. If you were going to confess, Father Nolan would help you to clarify your sins, to type and extent. Though it had taken her some time to reach that conclusion, she now saw it as a kind of respect. “Maybe … maybe ten, maybe fifteen times,” she admitted. “We were intimate for a little less than a month. And the, the first time was spontaneous but after that he always used condoms. And drugs aren’t really big at UC-Sunnydale, not like at some places, but I was at a party where someone passed a joint and I took a puff even though I didn’t really want to, just so I wouldn’t be the, the odd one out …”

She stopped. She hadn’t been avoiding this, she’d been building up. You were supposed to address the worst sins first, but when time allowed she preferred to confess in small-to-larger-to-largest order (though the joint was an afterthought, she’d thrown that in because she’d suddenly remembered) … She wasn’t trying to dodge, this was why she was here, but now that it was time to say the words, they seemed to stick in her throat.

“Yes, my child?” Steady, encouraging. Father Nolan always knew when and what to say, no mind-reader could have done it better. He knew somehow that there was more, she knew he knew, and that was all it took to free her.

“I think … I think people are going to die because of me, Father.” She clenched her hands into fists, the torn nails biting into her palms. “In fact, it’s practically a guarantee. And I don’t know how I can live with being responsible for those deaths.”

*               *               *

The air is foul in the alley, an awful amalgamation of spilled garbage, old grease from the hole-in-the-wall burger joint out front, urine and vomit from occasional drunks … and terror, and pain, and a desperate disbelief crumbling under the siege of onrushing reality. Her knees sting and throb, she was flung to the alley floor with a force she couldn’t have anticipated even if she’d been able to resist, but the greatest pain is in her shoulder, twisted to the point of dislocation, and her throat, where those horrible teeth were just beginning to close before the unexpected interruption.

“What we need here,” her momentary savior is saying calmly, “is a cost-benefit analysis.”

“Really?” The single word is followed by a sharp laugh, nasty and somehow sneering. “What I need is a bunch of my buddies to help me take down the Slayer, or maybe a machine gun so I can do it myself.” A sharp jerk of the twisted arm draws a strangled whimper from Mary Claire, and her captor goes on sardonically. “Don’t have any of those, though, and I know your rep so I know I won’t walk away from here still unbreathing. That means I just have to get what kicks I can in the time I have left … and, right now, the biggest kick I’ve got is the look on your face when I rip her throat open and guzzle her down like a party keg.”

“You don’t want to do that.” The tone is still casual, not even a warning note. It’s … matter-of-fact, as if she were watching someone change a tire, and offering advice. And — not that there had ever been any doubt — it’s Buffy Summers’ voice. Mary Claire hasn’t seen her since the Prom (she decided to skip the graduation ceremony, and duly got her diploma by mail a month later), but she isn’t about to forget that effortless, unassailable confidence. It’s almost enough to make her hope … but the savage grip on her arm, the other hand wound through her hair to keep her neck exposed, serves an icy reminder as to the limits of hope.

“Oh, I do want to do this.” Jerri’s smile can be heard even if Mary Claire can’t see her face. “I’ve wanted to since I first saw her tonight, and if this is the last fun I’ll ever have, I intend to make it count.”

Mary Claire knows Jerri — knew her, from the freshman orientation tour at UCSunD — and was surprised to run into her at the little out-of-the-way bar, Jerri had vanished from her dorm and been a no-show in all her classes and been written off as just one more who’d found the college transition too overwhelming. But then, tonight, she was back again and greeting Mary Claire happily and eagerly, and the two of them fell effortlessly into a rollicking girls’-night-out. Jerri was different somehow, assured and amused and centered, and if the suggestive smiles and subtle, constant innuendoes made Mary Claire suspect her old friend had developed new appetites … well, she wasn’t interested, but it was kind of flattering to be regarded with desire from an unexpected direction. She could enjoy that without being caught up in it, she knew where to draw the line …

Except Jerri’s new appetite isn’t what Mary Claire thought, and she’s clearly not taking No for an answer.

“It doesn’t have to be the last,” Buffy is saying. “That’s my point here. I don’t want her dead. You don’t want to be dust. You do want to kill her, and I do want to dust you, but neither one of us can get what she wants without losing something she’d rather keep. It’s a classic lose-lose scenario. Only, we can lose big, or we can lose not-so-big.”

“Nope, don’t see it,” Jerri shoots back. “You’re not letting me go, I know that, and I’m not letting her go just so you can kill me without feeling guilty. Well, I want you to feel guilty. I want you to be hearing her screams in your nightmares for the rest of your life.” She laughs gaily. “Hey, everybody wants to make a mark on the world, right?”

“Look, just listen for a minute, okay?” Now Buffy sounds a little impatient, a little annoyed. Nothing like the mortal terror Mary Claire is feeling, but at least she’s involved, a change from the nonchalant detachment she’s shown so far. “I’ve been doing this for awhile, and it’s not the first time I’ve run into this particular situation, and we can deal.” A minor alteration in the voice, what might come with a tilt of the head. “Yeah, I’d rather she stay alive, but I’ve seen a lot of death by now … and, sorry, my nightmares are still the standard naked-in-class stuff.

“Now, what I mean by cost-benefit analysis? I worked that out a long time ago. Basically, you let her go, I let you go. She gets to live another day, you get to die some other night … except, if you take the deal and honor it, you might even survive the next time I catch you at dinner. Because you’ll have shown that your word is good, and because you’ll spread the news amongst the other evil undead that I’ll keep my word, too.

“You called it right: the way it would normally play, both of you would die in the next few minutes. If we can reach an agreement, though, you can both go on living … or, in your case, unliving but still peppy.

“So: can we negotiate here?”

*               *               *

It was a delicate question, but it had to be asked, because the answer would reveal just how well she could explain, or if it was hopeless. “Father, how much do you know about … about the way things are in Sunnydale?”

On the other side of the partition, Father Nolan sighed. “I know much more than most. When you hear people confess the things they wouldn’t dare admit to anyone else, you get a picture very different from surface appearance.” Another sigh, and then he went on more briskly. “I know what happened at high school graduation wasn’t a gas explosion. I know not to invite anyone into my home unless they’re standing in clear daylight. I know that a lot of people take holy water from this church, and most of them keep coming back for more. I know that … some graves call for extra prayers, consecrations that aren’t exactly public knowledge. The odds are, my child, that if you know of anything unusual in Sunnydale, I know it, too, or something very similar. Does that help you?”

It did. Somehow, Mary Claire had been sure Father Nolan would know the truth here (even though she hadn’t, not really, not deep down, until last night). “So if I tell you something that sounds crazy, you’ll know that maybe it isn’t. Right?”

“At the very least I’ll know that, in this town, ‘crazy’ and ‘true’ aren’t mutually exclusive,” he assured her. “Does that set your mind at rest?”

“It helps a lot.” Then Mary Claire began describing the events in the alley. Since this was an actual, formal confession, she had to admit her initial suspicion that Jerri might be coming on to her, and that she had done nothing immediate to discourage it even if she’d never intended to let that go anywhere. (Yes, knowingly exciting lust in someone was an offense. If this was going to mean anything, she had to be honest.) Even though her self-revelation was heartfelt and genuine, another part of herself recognized that she was stalling, putting off the moment when she would have to reveal the deepest shame. Yet the very effort of evasion and delay served to paint a more detailed picture, so she kept on, making it more and more complex and vivid, until at last she faltered to a halt.

“Your friend was gone,” Father Nolan observed as her silence lengthened. “What you saw was a demon wearing her body, using her appearance and mannerisms to seek prey. And the other girl, her … exploits … are also familiar to me. You needn’t be concerned that I won’t believe, or understand.”

Any such concern had been settled some time back. Mary Claire drew a breath and said, “What I’ve told you so far, that was just … groundwork. So you could see what I mean when I tell you what … what came next.”

Yes.

What came next.

*               *               *

Still keeping that excruciating pressure on Mary Claire’s arm, and still maintaining that sadistic gaiety, Jerri says, “It doesn’t matter what kind of story you spin, I won’t believe you. You’re the Slayer. You don’t bargain with me and my kind, you just don’t. I may have risen at night, but it wasn’t last night. I’d have to be a total idiot to believe any promise you made, and I’m not.”

“You haven’t thought it through,” Buffy replies, still matter-of-fact, and for the first time Mary Claire feels a spark of anger at her would-be rescuer. Even though this business is all about her, she’s being utterly ignored here, by the heroine as well as the villainess: they’re negotiating about her, but both of them are talking past her, as if she were a puppy or a pound of hamburger. Mary Claire’s position has shifted slightly, she can see Buffy now, and “Like I said before,” the other girl continues, “I’ve had time to go all over situations like this. And —” She pauses, for a moment. “I used to watch a lot of cheap TV,” she says in seeming total non sequitur. “B-movies and old black-and-white ‘historical’ dramas, stuff like that, and after awhile I realized this one scene kept popping up. Some bad guy double-crosses somebody, and his victim or henchman or somebody goes, ‘But you gave your word!’, and Bad Guy du jour sneers, ‘My word? To a —?’ ” She stops, shrugs. “From there on, you can fill in your own blank. To a Jew, heretic, infidel, slave, rebel, peasant, barbarian … basically, not-really-people-so-the-rules-don’t-apply-here.” She leans forward, and her tone sharpens. “But they do. Doesn’t matter who you’re giving it to, either your word is good or it isn’t. If it isn’t, if you break a promise like that, people learn you’re a lying weasel and then you’re S.O.L. if you ever need to make a deal. Me, I’ve been doing this business for nearly seven years now, I can’t afford that kind of short-term thinking. If you and I reach an agreement, I’ll follow out on my part of it just because I can’t afford to be known as someone who won’t honor a bargain.”

For the first time, the strain on Mary Claire’s shoulder seems to slacken perhaps the tiniest bit. “You know, there was something a while back,” Jerri muses. “I mean, nothing direct, more ‘I knew a guy who knew a guy’ … but according to that, the guy forced you into the deal.”

“Maybe that’s the way he actually saw it,” Buffy says, shrugging again. “What matters is, you heard about it. Like I said, I need the word to get around that I’ll let you go if you let your —” She motions toward Mary Claire. “— your catch go. And, I don’t know if you remember this part, it isn’t just for now. Play it right, keep your promise, and there’s a future payout for you.”

“Yeah, you said something about that,” Jerri agrees. “Wasn’t sure I understood it. Not saying I believe you, but tell me how that’s supposed to work.”

Buffy nods brisk satisfaction. “Okay. I only do this once in a while, but it does keep coming up, so I worked it into a system.” She fiddles with something on her wrist, makes a tossing motion. “Catch.”

Mary Claire can’t see what it is — too small, and the streetlamps don’t really penetrate this far into the alley — but Jerri releases her arm to snatch the unknown object from the air, still maintaining the iron clutch in Mary Claire’s hair. “So what’s this?” Jerri asks. “We exchanging love tokens now?”

“One of the charms from my bracelet,” Buffy explains. “Something personal, something I’ll recognize. Put a string through it and wear it around your neck. I run into you again when you’ve got somebody ready to bite into, our little haggling session will go a lot easier: you’ll know by then that I will keep a promise, and you pull that out and show it to me — because I may have forgotten, I really do go through a lot of you bloodsuckers — and I’ll know your word is solid.” She smiles suddenly, hard and dangerous. “Only, here’s the good part, the little bonus I use to seal the deal: if I catch you out on your own, no helpless victim to use as a bargaining chip? you yell ‘Pax’, haul out the charm, and I’ll let you hand it over — that time, that one time, can’t redeem it but the once — for a free walk.”

Through the hand clenched in her hair, Mary Claire feels Jerri go completely still. “You’re not serious.”

“You don’t think so? I’ll say it again, I’ve gone through this before, and I’ve learned that I usually can’t make a straight trade. Throw in something to sweeten the deal, though, and all of a sudden you carnivore types start thinking about how this could really work out for you. Remember I said we were in a lose-lose here? Take the offer and you win, I win —” A nod toward Mary Claire. “— and she wins.”

“And I get to use your little trinket as a get-out-of-dusting card,” Jerri says. Trying to sound skeptical, even contemptuous, but Mary Claire can hear the sudden raw hope surging underneath the controlled words.

“Once,” Buffy replies sharply. “Only the one time, I’m not about to write a blank check, but that one time is better than the pointy end of a stake, which is the only thing you’ll get from me otherwise. And I get a live civilian, and you tell your blood-gulping buddies about the kind of deal they can make, which means more people wind up alive … this way, we all come out ahead.”

“No,” Mary Claire says.

It startles them both; she’s made no sound other than a whimper since Buffy’s initial appearance. Jerri jerks at her hair. “Quiet, you, the grown-ups are talking.”

“No,” Mary Claire says again. The first time, she could barely manage a croak, but this one sounds like it might actually have come from a human throat. She swallows, moistens her lips, then goes on. “If you let her go,” she says to Buffy, “she’ll kill other people. You know it. You can’t let that happen. I can’t be part of something like that.”

This yank is hard enough to pop neck muscles, wrenching a hard cry of pain from Mary Claire. “I said be quiet,” Jerri snarls. “Nobody gives a damn what you want or don’t want. Open your mouth again and —”

“Remember, you’ve got nothing to trade if you kill her,” Buffy points out. To Mary Claire she adds, “She’s right, though. It really isn’t your decision, so if you can just stay still and let us reach an agreement here —”

“No!” Mary Claire shouts, and throws all her strength into sudden total effort, trying to push to her feet. No success, she’s instantly slammed back down to the alley floor with an impact that drives the air from her lungs, and Jerri’s heel is on her throat, weight poised to crush her windpipe. She lies back, momentarily exhausted with pain and lack of breath. Buffy, she sees, hasn’t moved.

“How about that?” Jerri laughs. “The blood-bag actually wants me to chow down on her? Boy, talk about too dumb to live …”

Mary Claire can hear it in her former friend’s voice: the gloating, the greedy hunger for more and worse, and through all her despair she feels a flare of scorn for a creature so bent on perpetrating pain and death that it’s ready to throw away its own survival just to dispense a little more. That shallowness, that one-dimensionality, is a weakness, the only one at which Mary Claire can take aim. Her hand is bleeding, it fell on a broken beer bottle, and her fingers close imperceptibly on the neck. Jerri is wearing a short skirt, Mary Claire can slash at the bare legs and the vampire won’t be able to stop itself from murderous reaction …

… all she has to do is slash …

… all she has to do …

… all she …

She lies without moving, tensed for action but unable to make herself commit. “Still up to you,” Buffy is saying casually to Jerri. “You’ve got my best offer, so what’s it gonna be? Kill her and go poof half a second later, or take the deal and die another day?”

Jerri stands tense, too, uncertain but wanting to believe. “I’ve got your word?” she asks.

“You have my word,” Buffy says firmly. “Remember, I want the news to get around that I’m willing to make this trade. For me to get what I want, my word has to be good.”

Mary Claire feels the moment stretch out, and by now she’s too torn to even know what to hope for. Then, “I’ll take your deal,” Jerri says, and slowly moves her foot from Mary Claire’s throat. “Now what?”

And Buffy takes a step back: away from Jerri, away from Mary Claire. “Now you walk away,” she tells Jerri. “You hold onto my token, and I get this one to a hospital.”

It still isn’t too late for Mary Claire to act. She does nothing, lying where she is while a wave of blackness sweeps over her. “See you around,” she hears Jerri call jeeringly from the end of the alley, with a sharp little snickering sound at the end, and then quiet falls around them and Buffy is kneeling next to her.

“You were determined not to make that easy, weren’t you?” she asks archly. She pulls Mary Claire up to a sitting position, turns her head to inspect the exposed neck. “Okay, good, she didn’t rip through anything important. She broke the skin, though, you should probably get shotgun antibiotics ’cause the tanless crowd is not big on dental hygiene. So, ready to get up now? On three: one, two —”

Buffy hauls her upright, but Mary Claire pushes the other girl away as soon as she’s on her feet. “Why did you let her go?” she demands, hoarse and tremulous. “Why did you let her go? You should have taken her down, no matter what it cost. Instead, she’ll kill and kill and kill, and it’ll be because of me. WHY DID YOU LET HER GO?”

Buffy’s eyes are steady, and for all the gentleness of her hands as she was helping Mary Claire up, there is no sympathy in that voice. “I do this for a living,” she tells Mary Claire evenly. “It’s a judgment call and, nothing personal, I’m the only one here qualified to make those. Go through a few thousand of these things yourself, or garrote a Hakklusch with your own pantyhose, and then you can start telling me what to do.”

“You should have killed her,” Mary Claire whispers again, strength and will draining from her as abruptly as if Jerri had opened up her throat after all.

“Don’t worry about her,” Buffy answers cheerfully. “Any vamp willing to make a deal like that is too cocky to zip out of Sunnydale on the night express … and if they stay here, I’ll run into ’em again sooner or later, count on it.”

And then you’ll just let her go again, Mary Claire thinks with something very like grief. She doesn’t say it, though, because a few seconds later she simply passes out, like some swooning damsel in a silent movie.

When she looks back on it later, she’ll recognize that she would be embarrassed about that, if there weren’t so many other reasons for so much greater shame.

*               *               *

“Did the hospital confirm there was no permanent damage?” Father Nolan asked, soft-voiced with concern.

“Yes,” Mary Claire told him. “Buffy advised me to say it was a random mugging … and when they looked at her, she just smiled, and they didn’t even call in the police.” Apparently Father Nolan wasn’t the only one who knew some of the truth about Buffy Summers.

“Good,” he said. “You’ve been very, very lucky. I hope you can appreciate that.”

“I wasn’t lucky,” Mary Claire protested. “I made a choice. I chose to let other people die instead of me. It was right there, I could have forced it, I could have, but instead I just — I just —”

“You lived,” Father Nolan said, completing the sentence she couldn’t. “You lived, and I can’t mourn that. You were in a harrowing situation, for which you had no preparation, and you did the best you could, and you lived. There is cause for regret here, but not self-condemnation.”

“It wasn’t my best,” she corrected him again, the pain inside her making her tone harsh. “I should have done more. I knew what to do, but I just lay there like a coward.”

Father Nolan sighed, and for several seconds there was silence. “What I am about to say is not merely for your comfort,” he began at last. “You brought this into the confessional, so my first obligation is to the good of your soul. I must help you reconcile your sins … and in this thing that causes you the most pain, there is no sin. If you had sacrificed yourself to save others — as you were prepared to do, as you tried to do — that would have been heroism. If you had sacrificed others to save yourself, that would have been cowardice and more besides. To do as you did, to bring yourself to the point of giving your own life, but then find yourself unable to take the crucial step that would have made it happen … that was simply human, and your efforts till then trend more toward the heroic.

“Besides that are some, well, some less definite issues. Your death then would have been an immediate fact, dreadful and irrevocable. The deaths that may come about because you were —” She could hear the momentary smile in his voice. “— not quite completely heroic, are contingent, theoretical. They may happen, or may not. If you had died to save others, and I knew of it, I would honor you and grieve. Instead, I rejoice, and see no cause to chastise you for not having done better.

“You have been delivered, my child. As one whose responsibility is to speak with Christ’s voice on earth, my advice is that you give thanks and praise for your deliverance, with full gratitude and no reservation.”

Mary Claire shook her head, though of course that wouldn’t be visible through the screen. “I … I still feel …” She stopped, swallowed. Then she asked, “What do I do now?”

The silence was longer this time. “This is my own opinion,” he said finally. “Not a matter of doctrine. But I believe you should leave Sunnydale, make a life for yourself elsewhere. This town is … not a good place to be.”

Leave Sunnydale. It felt like exile and escape at the same time. “Do you give this advice to many people?” she found herself asking.

Another sigh. “Not many. Not often. Too few would understand, or believe, and …” His voice firmed. “The forces of Hell filter into this town, but here also God has sent a warrior of Heaven. I can see that His plan is at work here, even if I don’t come close to understanding it. Perhaps I should try to persuade more to leave; I wonder often if I am failing in this regard. But in your case I feel more confidence. I say again, this is my own advice rather than a moral obligation, but I believe you should go. I hope you will give it serious consideration.”

“Yes, Father,” Mary Claire said.

“Good. Now, it sounds as if you have reached the end of your confession. Was there any more?”

She shook her head. “No, Father.”

“Then I will assign your penance. For deceiving your mother, three Our Fathers, to represent the respect our earthly parents are due. For non-marital intercourse and the use of contraception, ten Hail Marys, while you meditate on the proper living of a virtuous life. For the marijuana use and your absences at Mass, five Glory Bes, and ask that the Holy Spirit support you in meeting your obligations and overcoming your weaknesses.

“Finally, not as penance but in thanksgiving for your deliverance, I ask you to recite an entire Rosary, and dedicate it to the welfare and souls of all who live in Sunnydale. Including me. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, Father. Uh, do you mean a full Rosary? All four sets of mysteries?”

“You can if you wish. But, if you do only one, I would suggest the Sorrowful Mysteries. There’s more than ample sorrow here, I think.” His voice had gone somber on that last, but it was back to normal as he added, “You may say your Act of Contrition now.”

Mary Claire folded her hands and began the recitation: “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pain of Hell —”

*               *               *

The unconscious girl is an awkward burden, not because of her weight — the Slayer could maintain a light jog while carrying a motorcycle — but simply because limp bodies are cumbersome. All the same, Buffy gets her into a fairly steady position and begins the walk to Sunnydale General, already thinking ahead to the other things she has to take care of tonight.

At the end of the alley she stops and bends down, balancing her load with one hand while the other sifts through the small heap of dust at the beginning of the sidewalk, and finally finds the metal charm from her bracelet. The thrown stake caught the she-vamp right at the end of her parting taunt, she probably never knew till the instant the hardened wooden point lanced through her heart.

No, the Slayer can’t be known to break her word … which means there can’t ever be any surviving witness when she does. Buffy took a chance here, saw the injured girl’s eyes roll back and put the stake into the air in the same moment. A chance, but she’s used to making split-second decisions and confident in her skills and judgment.

Too bad she can’t tell the girl that her life hasn’t been bought at the cost of anyone else’s, but she might get vamped herself someday, and then there would be one who knew, and that’s not a risk worth taking. It’s a shame, she seems like the type who’ll agonize over something like that … but at the end of the day, you can only hurt if you’re still alive.

She straightens again, readjusts her load, and continues on her way to the hospital.

*               *               *

Mary Claire had completed her penance, and wound up reciting all four sets of the Rosary after all: the Joyful Mysteries, the Sorrowful, the Luminous, and the Glorious. She remained kneeling at the pew closest to the altar, though, weeping for the faceless unknowns whose lives would pay for hers, while she whispered over and over the words from the communal confession at Mass: “Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault …”

 
– end –
 

[ A supplementary drabble for this story can be seen HERE. ]