A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [192]
A Priest sits behind a desk. He is wearing black he is wearing a white collar. He is old, in his seventies, he has gray hair and dark brown eyes. A Crucifix hangs on the wall behind him, a worn leather Bible sits on top of a stack of papers. It is the first time since that night that I have been in the presence of a Priest. As I stare at him, the Fury rises. He stands and he looks at me and he speaks.
Hello, my Son. My name is Father David.
All due respect Sir, but I’m not your Son. My name is James.
Hello, James.
Hello.
Would you like to sit down?
He motions to a chair on the far side of his desk. It is across from him. I sit down.
Thank you.
He sits in his chair.
You’re here for your Fifth Step.
I don’t believe in the Steps. I’m here to make a Confession.
Are you a Catholic?
No.
I can’t take a Confession unless you are a Catholic.
Would you like me to leave?
Are you comfortable calling this a conversation?
Yes.
Why don’t we do that.
Thank you.
Do you have any questions before you start?
No.
Do you have any concerns?
No.
You should be reassured that whatever you have to say this morning will never leave this room. It is between you and me and God.
I don’t believe in God, sir.
Then it will be between you and me.
Thank you.
Would you like to begin?
Yes.
Take as much time as you need.
I take a deep breath. I pull the twenty-two pages of yellow paper out of my pocket and I set them in my lap. I look at them. They contain everything I can remember except for one thing.
I start reading. I read slowly and methodically. I read every word and I recount every incident. Each page seems as if it takes an hour. As I move through them, I feel better and I feel worse. Better because I am finally admitting my sins and I am finally taking some form of responsibility for them. Worse because as I speak of them, I relive them in my mind. Each and every one of them. I relive them in my mind.
When I am done reading I take another deep breath. I look at the pages and I fold them and I put them back in my pocket. The Priest speaks.
Are you finished?
I shake my head.
No.
It looks like you have read all that you have written.
There was one thing I didn’t write about.
Would you like to tell me about it?
Yes.
Take as much time as you need.
I look down. I look at my hands they are shaking. I feel my heart it is beating hard it is scared. I am scared. I take another deep breath I take another. Another. I am scared of speaking scared of the memory. I am scared.
I look up. Into the eyes of Father David. They are deep and dark and in them I do not see what I saw that night. In the eyes of this Priest there is only peace and serenity and the security of his belief. Not what I saw that night. I take another breath, one last breath. I exhale. I speak.
Eighteen months ago in Paris, I beat a man so badly that he may have died. The man was a Priest.
I take another breath.
Right after my arrest in Ohio, while I was sitting in Jail, I started thinking about my life. I was twenty-two years old. I had been an Alcoholic and drug Addict for a decade. I hated myself. I didn’t see a future and the only thing in my past was wreckage and disaster. I decided that I wanted to die.
When I got out, and jumped Bail, I flew back to Paris. When I got to my Apartment, I drank a bottle of whiskey and wrote a note. All it said was Don’t Mourn Me. I left it on top of my bed and I went out and I started walking toward the nearest Bridge. A lot of Parisians kill themselves that way, by throwing themselves into the Seine. You jump, hit the water, and you either die on impact or you drown.
As I was walking, I started crying. Crying because I had wasted my life and made such a mess of it, and crying because I was happy it was finally going to end. I also started getting