I stood there in dead silence. I wanted to say something, but what were you supposed to say to someone who had just accused you of murder? I knew I needed to say something, anything to break this eerie silence, but any sort of lie only came out jumbled. I knew it was too late to deny it. My reaction was already enough proof of my crimes. 

Any sane person would have denied it on the spot, and would’ve been offended by his accusation. But at the same time, I guess a guilty person should have a similar response. Unless they had no desire to keep it a secret, of course.

At this point, I just wanted it to be over.

The guilt was something that hurt me more than any wound could’ve made. I knew there was no way I could talk to her family anymore, because the words that left my mouth were anything but the truth. Every time they asked me, “You loved her a lot didn’t you?” I knew that I had to lie and say I did, but it hurt because I knew it wasn't a complete lie. There was a point, I had ‘loved’ her, but now all I felt was guilt.

I used to miss her when she would leave. I would get scared that she wouldn’t come back. But now the only source of relief I had was knowing that she was gone for good.

My silence had gone on longer than I intended it to, but the old man continued to keep his hand on my shoulder. He knew I was a murderer so why was he still here?

“Let me start off by saying that this is all mere speculation,” the old man spoke with a low, cold tone, “So please correct me if I’m wrong, or don’t, it means all the same anyway.” 

“There are many ways the question I asked you could be taken. ‘You are the reason she died’ could mean a lot of different things. But anyway you spin it, you are somehow at fault.

"It could also be that you weren’t actually responsible for her death at all, but it’s that you felt responsible. But then again, I assume that your continued silence is an answer in itself. So let me rephrase my question, you killed her, didn’t you?”

I tried to open my mouth to deny it, but at this point I didn’t care if he knew. 

“The next obvious question would be ’why would you ever do such a thing’, but I think we both know the answer to that question is never a simple one.”

“How would you know anything about that?” I mumbled. 

“Because I killed my wife,” The old man patted me on the shoulder before walking away from me. “I know better than anyone that things aren’t just black and white. If you want to talk more, go to the confessional on Friday.”

“Why the confessional?” I asked in disbelief.

The old man looked over his shoulder and smiled, “Because I’m the priest on duty, of course.” I stood there trying to process what had just happened, as the old man walked away carefree.

He was about through the cemetery when he yelled back to me, “We are two sides of the same coin my friend. I’ll see you Friday.”