主，我带着一身罪孽向您走来，满怀谦卑，祈求赎清我的罪。
我曾见过一个女人，她瘦小而模糊的身影透着不安，步履蹒跚地推开了那扇褪色的木门，走进了一座无名教堂。她自认为是个虔诚的人，这份信仰几经磨难，但是她并没有就此沉沦，从未动摇。怀疑与迷茫在她身旁撕扯着她，几乎要抹除掉她，失去信仰的负罪感，比她至今隐姓埋名的焦虑更加难受。
她的蹄尖与手杖轻叩着花岗岩地板，声响沉闷而细碎，仿佛连这些物件都在迟疑，不确定它们的主人是否有权踏入这片圣所。我透过交叉的栅栏看着她走过那盏吊香炉，嗅到残留的余香和尘烬的鼻尖微微皱起；凝视着那些画像，鼓起勇气，对着那些曾经只在经文中想象过的容貌低声耳语。最后，她在圣母像前跪下，掏出一串松散的念珠，紧攥在手中开始祈祷。
至于她向圣母1说了什么，我也无从得知；或许，在泪光中，她正为母亲献上一份祈祷，不过那位母亲死前想必也未曾料到自己为毁灭诞下了如此危险的她。或许，令她感到作呕的是，两个名字如此相近的人，却活得同样痛苦，又如此截然不同。但我可以确定：在那摇曳的烛火间，她察觉到了别的东西。她找到了“我”：角落里的那座告解室，以及其中那名替我向她吐露言辞的祭司。她向圣母告别，随后踏上了寻求解脱之路。
令她惊讶的是，这间告解室宽敞得住得下她。走进挂帘遮掩的入口时，她下意识低头好让她的鹿角过去，不过她忘了，那对鹿角在一周前便已脱落。她推迟了朝圣，不想引起更多无用的关注，因为她的出现已经很显眼了。即便如此，她仍然蒙上面纱，掩盖那对追踪着大厅回声、不断抖动转动的耳朵。她坐了一会儿，很紧张。她在想现在走是不是太晚了，并再次掂量着自己所犯的罪与承受的孤独。
我向她轻声致意。随后，那双耳朵转向了我。
“神父，请降福于我，我有罪。”她抚平裙摆，轻声说自己已经不记得上次告解的时候。“一次真正的忏悔，”她告解道，“除了上帝与我，无人可以访问我的档案。”她承认自己最近一直以来都告解“错”了；“我从未真正察觉到。现在，我知道为什么了。”
我敞开双臂欢迎她，并向她保证她所说的话仅有我们二人知道，远离那些想要伤害她的人。“孩子，你随时可以开始祷告。”
过了一会，她说：“神父，我很愤怒。”耶稣受难像上的油漆早已脱落，目光无神。她在这尊苦像下倾诉着那个为了洗脱自己罪孽，不惜抛弃她的父亲。她担心自己继承了他的愤怒，继承了成就他名声的阴暗。“我不希望变成像他那样的怪物，”她叹了口气，“但我的愤怒，不也是理所当然的吗？”接着她告诉我，她已经厌倦了那层虚伪的帷幕，和因那个人而招致的所有同情。只要她稍有不从，那个人同样会毫不犹豫地杀了她。对她而言，自己做什么都无济于事，她似乎总是因为那个罪孽的、冠以她“女儿”之名的人而存在。
她从手织的披肩口袋里掏出一叠信，上面贴好了邮票，也写好了地址。“是我写的，”她补充道，“他只给我写过一次信2。”当她把那些信掏出来时，包的重量肉眼可见地减轻了。她一直在等，等哪天自己能有足够的勇气把它们投进邮箱，好让自己摆脱这堆负担。这些信件有些年份了，写了好多遍，然后被塞进抽屉或鞋盒里，在这些避之不及的角落里尘封了太久，墨水都已经模糊、褪色。其中许多段落的文字充斥着未被回应的疑问，另一些则是愤怒的涂改，由于用力过猛，那些痕迹几乎要磨破泛黄的纸页。“如果笔真的比剑更锋利，”她唾弃道，“我想知道，我的这些话是否像他的缺席伤害我一样，也曾深深地伤害过他。”
有那么一瞬间，我能听到的只有喘息声。想必3她攥紧了拳头，紧抓着身下的丝绒垫子，或是把那叠信纸揉成一团，恨不得将它们碾回最初的纸浆。或许在她看来，这是她第一次有权在另一个人面前，如此理直气壮地展现出愤怒。我无法告诉你，仅仅被一个名字纠缠至今意味着什么；或是当你全心全意关怀着的那个幻影在一瞬间粉碎时，是怎样一种感受。她将一部分归咎于自己的好奇心 — 至于另一部分，则为当初去了解那个人而痛恨自己，就好像她曾经有过任何选择的余地一样。
然而，肾上腺素带来的能量终究在她体内耗尽，直到她的身体再也支撑不住。那股理直气壮的怒火已荡然无存，手链因颤抖而发出的细碎声响取而代之；她用还在颤抖的手举起一块手帕，擦拭着渗出汗珠的额头。她剧烈地咳嗽了几声，发出了某种古怪的声音 — 只能被形容为介于小羊的哀鸣与痛苦的呻吟之间。
“抱歉，神父，”她气喘吁吁地，“我已经不再是曾经的那个我了。”她发出了一声苦涩而沙哑的冷笑，最后化作了三声短促的干咳，被那块手帕闷在了掌心里。
她缓过气，说道：“神父，我曾羡慕得像嫉妒一样……”她告诉我：当她还小时，总会观察修道院外的一家人 — 那是林间漫步的鹿群。天气暖和的时候，它们总会在林缘寻觅浆果，躺在梣树的树荫下。有一年秋天，那个家族迎来了一只幼鹿。她曾看着它在成年的家族成员间欢快地跳跃、笨拙地穿行。她试着在某次晚餐后效仿这种举动，但修女们却并没怎么被她打动。
她说起这些时，言语中透着一种此前从未有过的轻盈，甚至在描述那场追逐如何终结时，大着胆子露出了一丝微笑 — 当时她一头撞在了桌子上，因为她的鹿角太高了，不再能像以前那样从桌下钻过去。为了这份回忆，即便后来因为惊扰了清静而被罚去削土豆皮，在她看来也是完全值得的。
在那场僵局间，她告诉我她曾做好了失去双腿的心理准备。尽管最终双腿得以保全，令她感激不尽，她在手杖的辅助下恢复了大部分行动能力，但她仍不禁觉得自己是个累赘。一个月里仅有的几次出门，采购杂货、去公园散步，最终换来的却只有旁人投来的异样目光。无论从哪个层面来说，这个世界都在快步抛离她；即便那些出于好心的协助，在她听来也无异于居高临下的施舍。她开始厌恶每一次体检，厌恶每一场进展停滞的物理治疗 — 在那里，事实明摆着：无论再怎么努力，她都无法恢复如初了。“我本不该活这么久的，”她说道，仿佛这话已在脑中排演了千百遍，“从某种意义上说，我觉得自己已经死了。”
我告诉她，正因为她现在还能向我倾诉，她便可以向自己证明她并未死去，且仍有余生尚待度过。经历了一切过后，她相信上帝为她另有安排，即便她觉得自己并未做过什么值得被如此眷顾的事。
从收容间搬到公寓并不容易，对她而言尤为如此。就算是今天，她也因为在收容间里长大，总是想要回到早已习惯的、一成不变的那种被收容的日子。她把自己从这个世界拆出来；尽管人们试图接纳过她，不过无论带有任何目的，她总是认为自己的生性变化无常，无法与他人共存。有些时候，她腿疼得厉害，整日躺在床上，昏昏沉沉。而在另一些时候，她会因为总是织不好东西几乎要哭出来，或者手抖得连针都穿不过去。也有些日子，她会平静下来，仿佛自己不再只是那块布满裂痕、随时会碎裂的玻璃。
在她看来，已有太多东西从她身边溜走，而她始终活在一种“为时已晚”的状态之中。她已经来不及回到自己长大的修道院——甚至连那些修女是否被允许记得她都无从得知。 也来不及追赶那个早已将她抛在身后的世界，反而让她在尝试新事物时显得可笑。更来不及让那些本可以帮助她的人相信，她不只是那只早已习惯了牢笼的鸟。
She was too late to visit the monastery she grew up in, if the nuns were even allowed to remember her in the first place. Too late to catch up on the world that left her behind, and made her feel foolish for trying something new. Too late to make the impression on those who could help her that she was anything more than a bird who had grown too accustomed to her cage.
"Things were much more bearable when I had somebody around to help. She tried to be patient with me, even though I knew seeing me like this frustrated her." I could hear her sniffle, followed by the sound of shuffling closer to the partition dividing the sinner and the saintly.
She moved her face as close to the slat as was comfortable and whispered, "Father, I have been lustful. I —" and she let her words hang in the air. Beyond the curtain, her eyes once more found the icon of Mary, and all the low-burning candles in the votive stand, and all she could do was shrivel up. She told me that she once fell in love with another woman when she was younger. The two found each other, seemingly, only out of coincidence of being the only ones around the same age, and in a similar situation — in that sea of weirdness, they thought they were the only ones who would truly understand each other. She said her lover was strong in ways she could never be, and she was patient in the ways her lover seldom was. Even with the world falling apart, they could put on the illusion that things were normal, for better or worse.
"I was too naive to see it was never going to last." she remarked with a cracking voice. She feared being alone again, especially in a world that was infinitely many times larger than the convent, then cell, she grew up in. She wanted so desperately to be wanted; "I thought I could make her want to stay with me. I did everything to make a place where the two of us could belong." And she began to sniffle as her words began to match the torrent of her tears.
She choked out that it was her that had invited her lover into her bed. "I cannot describe the ways that I wanted her, even now, but the moments our bodies were intertwined, and her lips were on mine, were some of the only times I truly felt I had her." It was one of the few times she could look at someone and think "there is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me." And then she told me her lover left without another word, and in the newly christened silence of her apartment, she tried to pray the embers of her love, and the guilt, away; she could not think to look at her body for weeks after, she added.
I could feel her press her weight to the side of the booth, allowing the sanctuary structure to cradle her. She whispered that she could not hate the sin, because in the act of committing sin she was reminded there was more to life than pain, and the isolation of her apartment. That there was more to her body than something to be experimented on or to be fixed. She said, too, that she was unable to love the sinner — and she paused for a moment, her hooved feet scraping against the wooden floor. "How can I love her, Father," she said, "if her greatest act of love towards me was leaving me behind?"
In the silence that followed, all she could say was "I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry." She said she believed that she was not worthy of confession, and with her sins laid bare, one of the few pillars in her life she could still cling to would cast her out too; this would be deserved, she thought. And she sat, waiting for a response, a punishment, a penance she would have to fulfill in order to return herself to the light after spending so much time in darkness. There was nothing this woman wouldn't have done to feel, for the first time ever, that she was worthy of being redeemed.
It was in the quiet of the church located nowhere in particular, that the uncertain woman heard for the first time, that she need only to give mercy to herself.