Home Stories Poems Site Reviews Writing Tips Charlie Fish
FICTION on the WEB short stories by Charlie Fish

Sister Sin
Sister Sin
by Charles Sundt 1995

View or add comments on this story

God is nature. Machines are not natural. They are therefoer

She cursed. She reached across to the white-out for the hundredth time. Stupid typewriter. She leaned over the machine, correcting fluid poised, and delicately painted over her mistake. As she straightened up, she hit the typewriter by accident and a light x was printed on the page. She quietly seethed, realigning the paper so she could continue.

They are therefore x

Now she was getting angry. She was too impatient to let the white-out dry. She repeatedly pressed the 'E' key followed by backspace until the letter became clearer. Then she missed the backspace. Now it read:

thereforeex

In a fit of Luddism, she rashly picked up the typewriter and threw it out of the open window. She immediately regretted it when she heard the crash below. That typewriter had cost her twelve pounds. Now she would have to buy a new one. She leaned out of the window. There were bits of metal strewn everywhere, but the actual machine was hidden from view. She leaned further forward to try and see it.

Oh my God, she thought. Just in her line of sight was a pair of feet. Each foot wore a sandal, one wore a white sock as well. She watched in horror as the single white sock stained red. Someone was down there. She had just killed somebody.

She looked away. She stood up in the middle of the room, holding her hands to her mouth. Her face was reddening, and her eyes misting. She rocked back and forth in anguish and confusion, mumbling to herself.

She did not know what to do! She bit her lip and sat down on her bed, making the sign of the cross on her chest with a shaking hand. She tried to clear her mind. Was it a dream? She knew she should go down and check if the poor man was really dead. She would have to go to the police. But she was a murderer! She had just killed somebody!

Images flashed through her mind at frightening speeds. All of her options acted themselves out in her head. All of them lead to her imprisonment, or death. She had to tell somebody. Wait - there was another option.

She slowly, but with purpose, lifted herself from the bed. She shakily walked to the kitchen. She imagined the poor man's body bleeding below. It would be discovered soon. The typewriter would be identified as hers, and she would be sentenced to death for murder. Or worse. She opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. It had blood on it! Now she was scared. She was imagining things. She lifted the knife to her wrist...

She slumped to the floor, dropping the knife, crying. She could not do it. It was a sin to commit suicide. One sin could not be cancelled out with another.

Of course, she had to repent! That was the only way she would ever get God's forgiveness when she was sentenced to death. She might still stay out of hell...

She crawled to her front door, sobbing. She was red-faced and her eyes were fountains. Her mouth was stretched open, whimpering. She pulled herself upright and staggered through the door. She did not want to be seen by anyone. She furtively pressed the button for the lift and hid behind an artificial tree.

What seemed like minutes later, the lift arrived and the doors opened. She waited before peeking into the lift. It was empty. She walked into it, rubbing her face, trying not to look suspicious. If only she had a mirror! Her face would not have looked out of place in a horror movie: it was so red and guilty, and it was obvious she had been crying her heart out. She was shaking all over too.

The lift eventually reached its destination and she walked hastily outside, not turning her head or even moving her eyes. She kept walking, keeping her sanctuary in sight. The church. It was not long before she reached the grand stone building, crying again. She could not look at any of the multitudinous crosses directly.

She walked straight up to the confessional without slowing down, and burst in without hesitation. She knelt down, hung her head low and let her story flow.

By the end of her tale, she was in tears, full of apologies, always asking for forgiveness. It felt good to share her grief, but now she felt like she wanted to be caught. She was so guilty, she wanted to be punished. The poor priest would not be able to tell anyone of her crime - she would have to tell someone herself. She cried, awaiting her penance.

But it did not come.

She stopped crying, and breathing heavily she sat up. She sniffled and leaned forward. She squinted, trying to see through the small grill that separated her from the priest. He was not there. Just his chair, a bible and...

A single white sock.

View or add comments on this story

Back to top
Back to list of stories
Home

Google
 
Web www.fictionontheweb.co.uk

www.fictionontheweb.co.uk

Home Stories Poems Site Reviews Writing Tips Charlie Fish