The Son

Excerpt from The Son (Andre Cornelis)
When I was a child, I used to go to confession. How often since then have I wished that I were still the little lad who came at five o'clock in the evening into the chapel belonging to our school, the cold and empty chapel, with its whitewashed walls, its benches on which our places were all numbered, its feeble harmonium, its crude Holy Family, its blue ceiling dotted with stars. We were taken to this chapel by a master, in batches of ten. When it came to my turn to kneel in one of the two narrow spaces on either side of the central seat of the priest, my heart would beat violently, and a strange oppression would come upon me, produced by the gloom and silence of the chapel, and the indistinct murmur of the confessor's voice as he questioned the boy on the opposite side, to whom I was to succeed.
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