Ms. Emily Bukowski considered herself an Epicurean at heart. According to the English oxford dictionary, the philosophy of Epicureanism withheld three main core beliefs; tranquility, aponia which is the absence of bodily pain and ataraxia meaning freedom from fear, especially that of death as it is something far from evil.

Upon further analysis, anyone may come to the conclusion that Emily was nothing but the opposite of what she claimed to be. Comparing her beliefs and true being would be like trying to compare a polar bear to whales; completely no relation whatsoever aside from the fact that they both have teeth and perhaps mammary glands.

Either way, Emily was not to blame. Grief is a very uncomfortable emotion and the victims tend to grasp onto anything they can find to put their minds at ease. It was her own way of coming to terms with the fact that she was never going to see both her parents and beloved older brother ever again. As far as she was concerned, it seemed to have been working.

Given the recent events, Emily could feel her whole belief system crumbling around her. It was something that she had spent the better part of her young adult years carefully constructing, moulding it into something delectable to her meek brain.

Her mind was growing loud day by day with distorted voices and uncomfortable wetness and she was scared of loosing herself again. She felt her body shift every now and then with every movement within her surrounding. The fact that she had no will to patch things up in an attempt to hold on to her sanity made it worse.

"Is something wrong with the food?'' Mrs. Stuart questioned reaching for a plastic bowl of stir fried cabbages at the centre of the table. Emily shook her head no and took two spoonfuls of the plate of rice and stew in front of her. By the way Jordan was devouring his plate, Emily figured it was a well done meal, or maybe it was just the munchies. "How is therapy going?'' Emily could tell that her aunt was in desperate need of a conversation, and not just any conversation.

She was curious about last Sunday, about what was discussed, why Emily came home looking like a drenched puppy and like other days, what was asked about Mark, her dead brother.

"It's alright.'' Came Emily's response. She barely thought of it as therapy. To her, it was a bunch of people with a shared misfortune, (which was grief) that the church was forcing to meet and "talk it out" with an alcoholic seminarian who knew nothing about therapy but to quote John 3:16 and a bunch of other cliché Bible verses.

"We have church tomorrow.'' Mrs. Stuart spoke after a short pause. "Make sure you get enough sleep tonight.'' In other words, she was trying to convey a message that Emily understood all to well: I hope you slept enough throughout this week, we're not missing the morning Sunday service.

"I know.'' Emily nodded along.

"It's easter.'' Mrs. Stuart stretched out her palm to clasp Emily's hand. "Aren't you just excited?''

Jordan scowled at their hands and shook his head in disapproval.
  

***
   

The Catholic church in Sweetwater held three morning masses each and every day. One at six in the morning which was conducted by a boarding mission school under the church, the second one at eight a.m. and the last from half past ten.

Mrs. Stuart was fond of an Italian priest who conducted the second mass meaning Emily had to be up by six a.m. to ensure she was ready in time to not be on the receiving end of her aunt's anger like Jordan was every other Sunday.

"I swear I raised a demon.'' She would lament.

After mass, Emily felt a strong tug within her spirit to talk to God so she decided to stay behind.

"Isn't your support group meeting after lunch?'' Ever since that fateful night, Mrs. Stuart had taken a personal responsibility of keeping tabs on where Emily was at all times. It was suffocating, Emily felt contained. It did nothing but fuel her anxiety a little bit more.

"I know I'm just... I don't want to go back home then you have to drive me back, again...'' Emily pocketed and nodded towards the church entrance. "I'll wait.''

Mrs. Stuart's eyes wandered around the church compound. There didn't seem to be anything that would pose a threat. It was clear ground, nicely trimmed hedges and a practicing choir somewhere in the distance. A few of the younger kids were running around and the older kids were waiting for catechism classes. (Translation, enough witnesses.) Plus, God wouldn't dare miss to appoint His holy angel's around such a holy ground.

"I'll be here-''

"Four sharp. I know.'' Emily interjected. With that, Emily walked back towards the church's wooden doors, glad to finally have some space to herself.

The church benches were organized into about five rows; two of them next to the middle walkway and the other three facing the front in semi circles. The bright morning sun peered through the stained windows at strategic angles which made the altar blend into a mixture of blue and green hues in turn making it resemble an otherworldly space.

A woman was kneeling at the front next to the altar, head tilted up to face a wooden sculpture of crucified Jesus. The artistry was so great that Emily could note the supposed blood droplets from the crown of thorns and the forlorn look on the man's face. All that for us.

In the woman's palms were white glossy beads that she thumbed through in silence, with an occasional bow here and there. Emily had no Rosary but she hoped that He would be gracious enough to listen to her heart.

"Right this way.'' A new voice from Emily's left instructed, pointing to the East corner of the church. Emily gave the lanky altar boy a puzzled look. "You're here for confession, no?'' The boy raised his fist to stare at a tiny, light blue and white rimmed watch, the kind that are bound to be found at the end of a cereal box or as a cheap gift for buying a ridiculously expensive pack of biscuits. "Father Bernard only has a few minutes left.''

Emily didn't care about father Bernard, the scrawny altar boy with piercing grey eyes or anyone for that matter. She wanted to seat quietly at one of the benches and try speaking to God before the next mass. It was necessary that she did.

"Come on.'' He nudged forcing a loop sided smile. The boy then waved for motion. Emily found herself following the boy to the corner of the church where a closet like structure sat. "Here.'' He handed her a little card where a few words were printed. At the back, there was a drawing of Holy Mary with praying hands and a glowing heart. Emily thought it looked rather sad.

Before moving in with her aunt two years ago, Emily was never a keen member of the church. She was aware that her mother was spiritual but not the church kind of spiritual. She was the type to burn incense and lead a peaceful life, often incorporating elements from the earth rather than the holy book.

She walked to the doorway where a purple clothing obstructed the inside from prying eyes. Emily stepped in and sat down a hardwood bench. The tiny window separating her from the priest was pulled back in a single motion and a mesh wire window took place.

There was a moment of silence before Emily felt the weight of the confession card in her hands. "Oh,'' she muttered, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Bless me father for I have sinned...'' Emily paused to reflect upon the next set of words printed on the card. She couldn't remember the last time she had a confession. "It has been a while since my last confession. These are my sins...''

Emily let out a shaky breath, taking the moment to try and find the right words to articulate. Her eyes lifted from the white glossy card and wandered around the enclosed space.

There was another painting at the back, this time it was Christ Himself, ascending to heaven with a few mortals by his feet. His heart was also glowing like Mary's, only this time a colourful ray of light came from the glow too. Emily wondered how her heart would look like in a painting, being a sinner and all.

"I witnessed a sin.''

Father Bernard's garments rustled in movement from his side.

"Did you partake in this sin?''

"No.'' Emily whispered. "No, I didn't.''

"Hmm. I see.'' Emily bit her lip. It was the right thing to do, she encouraged herself. "Was it a grave sin?''

What is a grave sin? Emily wondered. Was it the kind of sin you'd place your own life on the line before confessing? Was it the kind of sin committed by a man who hit an innocent family, survived and proceeded to light the same family van on fire?

"Most of you children go to school and see someone cheat off a test, draw on a friend's face-''

"No it's not like that.'' Emily almost cursed.

"Well... did someone get hurt?'' Farther Bernard queried.

"Yes.'' Emily's response was weak. She felt her throat tighten. "And I couldn't do anything.''

"Were you hurt?''

"Not really.'' Emily took a deep breath. She placed the card aside and gripped the sides of her dress to keep them from trembling. What was so hard about saying something you witnessed? It was a good thing. She was helping. "I mean I ran so...''

"Do you want to confess because you feel deep in your heart that you have sinned or because you think doing it will absolve you?"

Emily audibly gasped. She did not remember signing up for Holy therapy. All she wanted was to speak to God, maybe get an explanation as to why she had to go through something as traumatic as that twice. "I'm not guilty, I wasn't even involved I...'' Her tone hiked up a notch. "I just watched!''

"Well could you have done something to help?''

"Maybe.'' At that point, Emily didn't even know. "Can I just be forgiven?''

"Yes, of course.'' Father Bernard chuckled. "We serve a very gracious and merciful Lord.'' He went on with the confession procedure. As he spoke, Emily watched particles of dust bounce off a ray of light that had penetrated through the little window.

She went through the following steps filled with practiced sorrow.

"God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace.'' To that, Emily uttered: Thanks be to God.

When Emily finally stepped out of the confession box, she felt twice as drowned in sin than she had before going through the whole Confession process.

Outside, the church's choir's own rendition of 'Hosanna in the highest' reverberated inside the cathedral walls. It sounded lovely, almost angelic.

The whisper at the back of her head had now turned into a full-blown guttural scream piercing the folds of her brain.

The voice reverberated inside her skull again and again, and again...

You are not freed!

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