TITLE:  Act of Contrition





AUTHOR:  Leslie Sholly





E-MAIL:  PennySyc@aol.com





DISTRIBUTION:  Spookys, Ephemeral,


Xemplary and Gossamer, yes.  Anywhere else,


with my name and address attached.  And please


let me know so I can feel flattered! :)





SPOILER WARNING:  Irresistible, Orison





RATING:  PG





CLASSIFICATION:  VA





KEYWORDS:  ScullyAngst





SUMMARY:  What Scully does while Mulder


cleans up her apartment after the death of


Donnie Pfaster.





DISCLAIMER:   Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox


own these characters.  I mean no infringement or


disrespect.





AUTHOR'S NOTES:  The end of Orison


shocked me.  For Scully as I see her, what


follows is her only possible course of action after


the events of the episode.  Of course, they can't


do this on the show . . .





FEEDBACK:  Cherished and always answered. 


Please let me know what you thought. 


Pennysyc@aol.com (Leslie)








*****************


Act of Contrition


by Leslie Sholly


*****************








~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"Do not repay anyone evil for evil; be concerned


for what is noble in the sight of all . . . for it is


written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the


Lord.' . . . Do not be conquered by evil but


conquer evil with good."





--Romans 12:17-21 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~








    "Please bless me, Father, for I have sinned."





     Nearly 30 years ago, when we were


rehearsing for our first Confession, Sister


Georgeanna made us insert "please" into the


traditional formula.  It seemed so rude, she


said, to *demand* Father's blessing.  Although


I'm not an impressionable seven-year-old


Catholic schoolgirl any longer, the familiar


words are comfortable--and comforting--to me


now.





     I have sinned.  I have sinned, and yet one


thing I know:  God will forgive me.  The


question I cannot answer is:  Can I forgive


myself?





     The darkness and privacy of the confessional


are comforting, too.  The dusty velvet


curtain, the leather-covered kneeler with a pad


worn thin by generations of penitent knees,


the sliding screen that sticks a little--all echo the


many confessionals in which I have knelt


over the years.  





     I'm aware that face-to-face Reconciliation is


the norm for most adults--and even kids--


these days.  They enjoy the openness, the


equality, of discussing their sins with the priest,


accepting his encouragement and counsel. 


Intellectually, I understand this.





     But I cling to tradition.  The reforms of


Vatican II spread slowly, and face-to-face


Confession didn't make it to any parish to which


I belonged until high school.  By then my


personality was formed and it was simply too


late for me to lower my barriers before a


priest who knew me and to admit openly to any


failings.





     Fear of recognition is what brings me to


Georgetown this afternoon to confess.  Father


McCue is out of the question, and I go to Holy


Trinity frequently enough to be recognized


there as well.  So it's Georgetown's Dahlgren


Chapel and the Jesuits.  They, at least,


comprehend moral ambiguity.





     I left Mulder at my apartment, where he is


clearing away the blood and debris that


remain from my encounter with Donnie Pfaster. 


I lied, as I have lied too often in the past


24 hours, telling him I needed to get away for


awhile.  He nodded sympathetically and told


me to go ahead, he'd take care of everything.





     Finally, the priest slides back his side of the


screen.  That's my cue, and I begin.  "Please


bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It's been one


month since my last Confession, and these


are my sins."





     You're supposed to examine your conscience


before you go to Confession, so you know


what sins you need to confess.  I always do this,


and methodically order my transgressions


from least to most serious, and even rehearse in


my head so I can recite them briskly and


efficiently.  And I walked around the Jesuit


graveyard for an hour practicing what I was


going to say before I came to Dahlgren.





     But I find myself unable to speak--a sensation


I am not used to.  I must confess my sin in order


to be forgiven, but I can't seem to wrap my


tongue around the words.





     "Go ahead," a youngish voices prompts me,


encouragingly.





     "I . . . I . . . ."  Then it bursts forth, almost


incoherently, not at all the way I had planned. 


"I shot a man last night--"





     The young priest's breathing quickens.  I


imagine him silently cursing the Sacramental


Seal and wishing he could run and call the


DCPD on the psychopath in his confessional. 


Instead, he says, "Did you . . ."





     "Kill him?  Yes.  Yes, he's dead."  Then I


shock myself by starting to cry.  I'm falling


apart big time.  One loss of that control I prize so


highly, one brick knocked away, and


those walls are tumbling down.





     It's a struggle to pull myself back together but


I've had lots of practice and I manage it.  I


draw a long breath and begin again, more calmly


this time.





     "I'm sorry if I alarmed you, Father.  It's not


what it sounds like.  I'm a federal agent."





     "I see--then this was in the line of duty?  I can


understand your being upset the first time


your job required you to take a life--"





     "This wasn't the first time, Father.  I've killed


before.  It's part of my job.  Not a part I


enjoy, but sometimes a necessary part."





     I understand," he says, but he's clearly


puzzled.  After a moment he tries to draw me


out.  "But something was different about this


time?"





     "Yes.  I--I'd like to explain, if I could."





     "Take your time," he encourages me.





     So I briefly tell him about my first run-in with


Pfaster, progressing to his escape from jail


and our arrival on the case.  It's a "just the facts"


version I give him, glossing over the quasi-


paranormal aspects and Reverend Orison's role.





     As I begin to describe Pfaster's assault on me


in my apartment, I employ a trick I've used


in the past--I describe it all very clinically, as


though it happened to someone else.  It's


usually quite effective, but today I have to


struggle to push back the rage that builds inside


me as I tell how I dragged myself across the


jagged slivers of glass on my bedroom floor to


reach my weapon.





     I reached my gun right when I heard Mulder


at my door.  And now comes the part I


haven't told Mulder, will never tell Mulder.





     "Father, when I heard my partner at the door,


I should have been relieved, but I wasn't."





     "You weren't?"





     "No, I wasn't  I was--I was angry.  I didn't


want him to come to my rescue.  Well, I


mean, I did before, when I was in the closet,


helpless, but once I had my gun I wasn't. 


Because I'd planned it all out while I was


squirming through that glass.  It kept me going. 


When Pfaster came back, I was going to draw


my gun, but I know it wouldn't have stopped


him.  I was just another girly-girl to him, not a


federal agent.  He would have come after me


again, and I was going to blow him away. 


Self-defense and vengeance, all in one neat little


package."





     "I see," he says thoughtfully.





     "But now Mulder--that's my partner,


Father--Mulder had him covered and he


wouldn't try to fight us both.  And I was angry. 


Really, really angry.





     "So I went out into the living room and it was


all so strange--you know sometimes how


when something momentous is happening,


everything seems slower, more exaggerated,


larger than life?  It was like that.





     "Mulder had the gun on Pfaster.  Pfaster was


unarmed.  I aimed my gun at him. 


Mulder--I think Mulder wanted me to call for


back up and then cuff him--it's all kind of


foggy.  But I was so angry, Father."





     "That's understandable."





     "Well, for me, it's really not.  I've been


through a lot in the past six years, Father.  I


don't have time to tell you it all right now and I'd


be afraid you wouldn't believe me


anyway.  But a lot of bad things have happened


to me.  I've had plenty of people to hate and to


be angry at, but I've always managed to be


rational.  To stay in the box.  To follow the


rules."





     "But last night?" he asks gently.





     "Last night, Father, instead of falling into the


usual pattern, instead of doing my job, I


took my weapon, the weapon I carry by virtue of


my position and the oath I've taken to


uphold the law, and I blew the head off an


unarmed man."





     We are both silent for a space.  Finally, the


priest says, "So, what happens now?"





     "What do you mean?"





     "Professionally, for you?  It's not my field, but


I would assume there will be repercussions, yes? 


And investigation, sanctions, possible charges?"





     Uncomfortably, I stammer, "Well--I


mean--there *will* be an investigation, but no


one was there except my partner and me--"





     "And your partner will--"





     "Say it was self-defense."  My heart constricts


painfully as I recall the look of horrified


disbelief on Mulder's face when I fired at Pfaster. 


I am aware that I shattered more than


just Pfaster's head with those bullets.





     "Are you sorry for this sin?"  the priest asks


me.





     "Yes.  Yes, Father.  I must admit that I'm not


really sorry Pfaster's dead.  He was evil,


and he can never hurt anyone else now.  But that


wasn't my decision to make, and I realize


that, and I'm terribly, terribly sorry that I'm the


one who killed him."





     "You've confessed your sin to me, and I can


see that your repentance is sincere, but I'm


afraid there is another condition for absolution."





     "What do you mean?"  I ask fearfully.  When


Sister Georgeanna taught us about Confession all


those years ago, she told us that every sin we


committed left a black mark on our souls.  Right


now I felt that my soul was as black as night,


completely covered with the stain of the most


mortal of sins.  I had craved absolution and the


feeling it always brings that my soul is all white


and shiny and new again.  My heart sinks as I


realize what the priest is about to say.





      "The third condition is reparation.  You can't


bring this man to life again, but you can


confess to your superiors and the proper


authorities what really happened last night. 


Unless you are prepared to accept the


consequences of your sin, I won't be able to grant


absolution.  I'm sorry."  He truly sounds


sympathetic.





     "I know.  And I knew all along it was the


right thing to do.  I guess I needed a push."  I


sigh.





     "So you'll do it?"





     "Yes, Father.  As soon as I leave here." 


Mulder hasn't filed a report yet.  Skinner gave


us until Monday, ostensibly out of regard for my


ordeal but in reality I think to give us time


to get our stories straight.  When I leave the


chapel, I'll go straight to Skinner, and ask him


to go with me to the police.  I won't even give


Mulder a chance to further jeopardize his


own career by lying for me or trying to take part


of the blame.





     "Go ahead and make your Act of Contrition,"


the priest suggests.  "I believe you will do


what you say, and I'll absolve you when you are


finished."





     "Thank you, Father," I tell him.  "You've been


very kind."  And I begin, using the old-


fashioned version that Sister Georgeanna taught


us because it seems to fit my mood.





     "Oh, 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 pains


of Hell.  But most of all, because they


offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and


deserving of all my love.  I firmly resolve, with


the help of Thy Grace, to do my penance and to


amend my life.  Amen"





     I bow my head and wait for absolution.  





     Solemnly, and much more slowly than Father


McCue's brisk rote recital, the priest says:





     "God, the Father of Mercies,  through the


death and the resurrection of His Son, has


reconciled the world to Himself and sent the


Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of


sins;  through the ministry of the Church may


God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve


you from your sins in the name of the Father,


and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."





     And with a quick thank you to my confessor,


I leave the safety of the confessional and


the sanctuary of the chapel to face whatever


consequences the world may impose.








~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"No coward soul is mine,


No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:


I see Heaven's glories shine,


And faith shines equal, arming me from fear."





- Emily Bronte


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





END