Idle thoughts, fit for one to think when sitting on a throne such as this. A thinker's throne. The search begins. The search to clear my mind!
A voice came through the wire mesh again, yet it was not his voice - it was that of her confessor, "When was your last confession?"
"Your Holiness, I seem to be hallucinating."
"As we speak?"
She frowned, tone uncertain, "Yes, I believe so. The door does swing open ever so slightly though I know with my touch that it is firmly shut."
"And when was your last confession?"
I can't remember. "Three months ago, Your Holiness. Yes, three months ago."
"Your Holiness is what we call the Pope, my dear. Please, address me as Your Excellency. Are you among my flock?"
"Your congregations? No, Your Excellency. I am not. And yet, I have sinned." I am a stray. I have no flock.
"Tell me of your sin." Monotone, almost without interest.
"Fornication, Your Excellency."
The wire mesh slid open, and the clown on the other side looked at her. His eyebrows met at an odd angle, and he slowly cocked his head to one side. The red rubber ball on the end of his nose shone in the dim light. And the clown's neck clenched, his face scrunching up. He looked painfully and utterly constipated.
And she laughed, hysterically and uncontrollably, knowing full well that what she saw was hopefully not real.
The clown's eyes narrowed, and his twisted face - which she thought could not twist any further - assumed a grin. And then he began to recite,
"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son," the clown began to recite.
She looked at the clown in silence, trying not to crack up.
"--has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins;" The red ball on his nose twitched, as if it were on the nose of a large rabbit.
"Heh," she giggled, stopping herself.
"--through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son," the clown recited, in a high-pitched voice, nearing the end of the bishop's words.
Still struggling not to laugh, she let her mind wander, Why did I think it was necessary to confess to a Bishop?
"--and of the Holy Spirit," he finished.
She turned, and once again, the clown looked constipated.
And once again, he grinned, "Bran flakes would help, next time."
She blinked, and suddenly the wire mesh was closed.
"Are you done?" The impatient voice, however, sounded as if it was coming through a door rather than the wire mesh of a confession stall. "Almost?"
She tried to clear her mind, and did not answer.
"Are you coming back to bed?" he asked, with a charmingly horny undertone.
And as she reached an arm behind her seat, pressing a lever, a flushing sound echoed through the room from the tank of water behind her and the bowl beneath her legs. She took on a cheery tone, "Yes, dear."
Standing from the toilet, she walked over to sink. And she washed her hands of it. No, it was not from her excretions and exertions. It was something sticky that clung between her fingers, imperceptibly. It was from his exertions. The man with the golden hair.
The soap rubbed between her wet hands, and was rinsed off. And, upon the hand towels, she felt it again. It was as sticky as her situation. And it all had to come clean. Again, she wet and soaped her hands, rubbing vigorously. And as she dried, she dared not check to see if things were clean.
And then she realized, she had not told the bishop the nature of her sins. And a moment later, as her right hand met the inner doorknob of the en suite bathroom, she realized that there had been no confessor. No bishop. Only a clown from some dark corner of her mind, attempting to take her away from it all for a moment. The clown was not real. Feces. That's what he was. Some feces her brain had made up. A figment of her imagination.
Walking back to the bed, through the bathroom doorway to where he lay attending to himself with that same narcissistic silence, another stray thought occurred to her, Damn, that brownie was delicious!