Tangled hair, dirty, oily face and a smell that could wake up the dead. If you're into bad and clichéd metaphores. Just walked into town after being dropped off by Father John Quincy. He was driving towards the village anyway, and saw me on the side of the road. If I wasn't so young, maybe he wouldn't have bothered. I was dirty but so was he. It didn't seem to bother him none. I bet he had taken a shower that very morning too.

There are some people, you wonder why they take up the oath. And you can tell too, they wash their clothes too much. Their collars so white and thick from the starch.

He hadn't brushed his teeth and his breath smelled of old cabage. He let me sit up front in an old GMC truck that looked like it dated from 1949. As if the muffler didn't make enough smoke, the roads weren't paved in the area and the exhaust mixed with thick dust to create a wall behind the pickup.

I knew what he wanted. Everyone always know what these men want. That doesn't mean anyone'll just sit up front. But one more Father or another, reading from his book from Genesis 20. The Story of Abraham and Sarah. Always reading that book with the same contempt at certain passages...Leviticus 18 was largely ignored, but Genesis 20, remained a marvel in his heart. And he was a shepherd and like all pastoral stories, he led me like he would his sister, down the path of righteousness.

I did what I had to do to get out of town. Laws of man and book can't stop the laws of survival and I needed to get out of that dirty brown town, colours washed away. . . Confessionals always make me eerily scared, and I can no longer enter God's house, so much he has abandoned me.