Peccavi
The truth is, it's only since the world ended that he feels Catholic again.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus Sanctis, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
It's only since the world ended and he has time to think of what he's done to get here that he thinks he'd like to see a priest.
Ignosce mihi, quia peccavi.
The language he knows by rote is the language of confession; he still believes in the sound of those lilting syllables, remembers there was a time when they made him feel clean, hollowed out. Tabula Rosa, waiting for instruction. For purpose.
Contra incendia pugnare, ora pro nobis peccatoribus.
When he was seven he'd realized it would stretch for him, that he could bend and twist flame like putty into shapes. His mother, horrified, had called a priest. She wanted an exorcism.
It's only since the world ended he hasn't wished - sometimes, just in the dark when he can't sleep because he's waiting for them to come, because he knows his time is short - that maybe she'd been right.
Dum spiro, incendo.
Since the world ended he's been thinking about the things he's done to people. What he can say, all his careful practice to keep them at arm's length. He's thinking of one night and a stream of words like glass.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
He thinks about this in the dark, and he wishes - just one more time - for the anonymous darkness of a confessional, for the absolution of a woman who's face he can't imagine (he believed once that she could love him).
Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam.