This part of the rectory is empty at this hour. I almost thank God for the small mercies, but it would be blasphemous to do so with the current direction of my thoughts.
There’s an old part of me, the beast stirring to life, that trembles with anger at my circumstances.
I remember him, who he once was. While Charlie was forever faithful to the Lord, as mom taught us, I was a rebellious bastard. For every moment Charlie exalted God, our true father, and claimed everything happened for a reason—the just and unjust alike—I was the faithless cynic that questioned everything.
With all the turbulence of my soul, I railed against the force that runs the universe, demanding to know why the innocent must suffer and the cruel go unpunished.
By my own belief system, both the old and the new, what I’m encountering now must be a punishment.
Perhaps even a test, as I imagined before.
But what in the hell did I ever do to deserve it?
The door to my bedroom closes behind me with a loud clap. Through the small, open window, a ray of sunlight beams into the room and illuminates the spartan space. The upper part of the walls are white; dark wood, nearly black, accentuates the lower half. In the corner, where two walls meet, is my twin sized bed, the sheets perfect and orderly.
Not just because I’m a priest. It was a habit drilled into me at boot camp, too.
Straight ahead of me, nailed to the wall, is another crucifix in the same dark color.
I can’t even stare at it. A sinner like me shouldn’t be allowed.
Yes, it’s an opinion that shouldn’t apply. All of God’s children sin. We are all worthy of his forgiveness. Yet I took a sacred oath. I am entrusted with guiding lost souls back to our father’s loving light.
And here I stand, my heartbeat between my legs, consumed by a hunger I haven’t felt in ages.
It’s every bit of restrained lust I didn’t even know I had bottled up inside me, unleashed in a single wave. I’m shaking from it. Sweating.
It’s powerful enough to almost make me feel sick to my stomach.
I slide my hand through my blond hair. It’s long again, perhaps longer than it should be for my vocation, the ends brushing the bottom of my neck.
It’s an oversight, one that would normally distract me.
All I can think about is “Thali’s” nails sinking into my back as I punish her with my body.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I grumble, walking toward the bed. The last thing I need is to start using her nickname while thinking about her.
Why did she give it to me?
Why do I care?
I’ve seen the woman twice, spoken to her only once, and she’s devolved me into this.
Sitting on my bed, I grip the edges and dip my head. My breaths are too hard to contain, no matter how much I try. Seconds tick by, blood rushing in my ears. Eyes closed, I battle the aching madness.
Command the animal back into submission.
But closing my eyes only serves to engrain the vision of her in my head. Her dark eyes. Her red-stained lips.
It’s been so long I don’t even remember what a woman’s lips feel like on my own.
On my skin.
On my . . .
I snap my eyes open before I can go there.
Clearly, my body is failing me. Perhaps my spirit’s begun to show signs of frailty, as well. Either way, what willpower alone can’t conquer, one must place in the hands of prayer.
I fall to my knees, directly below the crucifix on the wall, and bow my head in subservience to the master I pledged to serve.
Hands clutched together, I give into a sense of burgeoning despair. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.”
It’s supposed to be a prayer of devotion to the faith. And, yet, it doesn’t help me forget my predicament. The absolute insanity of this.
I’ve barely exchanged a handful of words with her, and here she has me, begging for salvation on my knees before my God.
My slick palms slide against each other. I pause to rub them against my thighs. Once they’re as dry as they’re going to get, I clasp them in prayer once more. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”
On and on it goes. For an incalculable amount of time. In the back of my mind, I’m aware that day time is starting to dim as the sun begins to set.
Not a single thing I do makes any of this easier.
There doesn’t seem to be a force in existence that can ease my confusion.
Frustration.
A wild need to rut that makes me feel like nothing more than an animal, far removed from the devout, in control man I’m supposed to be.
“ . . . forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” That last word leaves my mouth and I’m overcome by a harrowing vision behind my closed eyelids.
Blood.
So much blood.
Rivers and rivers of it.
It covers the walls of my church, leaking from the arches bisecting the ceiling. A grotesque, dark red sludge that trickles down in rivulets toward the black floor.
Choking on a gasp, I reel backward, eyes wide. I land in a sitting position on the floor, head jerking from side to side.
Looking for evidence of the blood tide.
There’s none. Just the clean, austere lines of my bedroom.
What in the name of the Lord . . .
I won’t claim that I wasn’t a believer growing up. Clearly, I was, or I wouldn’t have spent so much time railing against God for what I perceived as
