As far as I know, no one in my immediate family has suffered from mental illness, but perhaps I’m the first.
It’s her. She’s the cause.
Athaliah, the woman who sells herself to whoever is willing to pay.
How do I know this?
I continued to follow her. Not just one night. I found excuses to leave the church four more times in the last week.
The priest has become a stalker.
Like a psychopath in the night, I trailed her back to her apartment and watched as she welcomed different men inside.
Caught enough of their conversations to pick up on the transactional nature of their business together.
Saw them practically forming at the mouth, their hands all over her as they went inside.
Her clientele.
Fools, just like me
I’m worse. I’m a man of God, sworn to a life of purity and service, and I haven’t touched her as they have.
I wish that didn’t burn me as much as it does.
Another shiver racks me and drops of sweat leak down the sides of my face. Distracted, I forget what they are and I swipe at my face.
My hand comes away streaked by red. A wretched sound gets stuck in my throat, only the fear of being overheard and found like this keeping it at bay.
I grew up in a modern world, believed myself more logical than superstitious. Of course, then I became devout to my calling, to the teachings of our Lord.
There’s an internal struggle within me, and it isn’t only because of my desire to have Athaliah’s hands all over me, easing this destructive ache.
The old-me refuses to believe that what’s happening to me is real.
The priest in me can only admit that what’s happening is unholy.
She is unholy.
Something about this entire experience just isn’t right. I’m not just a mortal man being shoved up against the blade of lust and desire. What’s happening to my body goes beyond that.
My Lord has condemned me.
Only one affliction that’s been studied by Catholic scholars and the Vatican alike comes close to this, and that happens to be Stigmata.
I’m not bleeding from the sites of Christ’s wounds, though. It’s my entire skin sweating blood. Is the information I have on Stigmata incorrect?
Lightning flashes, brightening the room, and suddenly I don’t care. I’m brutally exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.
Yet sleeping leaves me vulnerable to the dreams. The ones where creatures from the pits of hell come to me and start whispering about how wrong my life is.
Last night, it was a woman on a throne surrounded by death. She kept insisting it was time to leave this path. Time to serve her. Time to admit that this sacrifice was born out of grief, not conviction.
Then, there were the visions of Athaliah in some ancient time, fighting among an army of men.
She repeated the same message, yet she’d seemed actually heartbroken about it.
Two different women.
A specter of death and a living representation of lust.
Both claim to own a part of me.
Both want to see me fail.
“Christ, I really am going mad.” I press my hands against my face, praying for the millionth time.
Praying. Praying. That’s all I do nowadays.
And fucking ache.
My cock is constantly hard, the kind of erection that boggles the mind. I’m aware that it’s been years since I stopped seeking physical pleasure. Years since I came.
Perhaps this is what happens when a body awakens after years of deprivation.
It throbs, desperate. The only thing I can claim to my credit is that I haven’t given in.
Not to her.
Not to the urge to pleasure myself.
But I want to.
God, I do.
A fleeting thought goes through my mind. Maybe if I do, I can purge this from my body.
Idiot. It’s a slippery slope. Once I start down that path, it’ll be impossible to get back off.
I know that now. I’ve missed sex too much. Didn’t think about it before, yet it’s brutally obvious now.
The need to come is savage.
Soon, I won’t have a choice in the matter.
Every inch of my skin is hypersensitive. Just feeling the covers gliding over my slick flesh leaves me dangling on the edge.
It’s wrong. I won’t give in. Not here. Not in this sacred place. Not with the cross above my head.
“Whatever I did to deserve this, forgive me,” I mumble to God, throwing the covers off. My plan is to wash off the blood. Pray for however many hours is necessary. Mental fortitude and humility of soul are going to have to be enough to get this under control.
My feet touch the cool, wooden floor. One heavy step at a time, I drag myself toward my small, private bathroom.
I should’ve stayed in bed.
I still don’t know where she’s coming from, but every night, like clockwork, she walks past the farmer’s market and toward her place.
Like every night for a fucking week, I’m trailing after her.
I snuck out of the rectory instead of heading to mass.
If anyone checks my room to see how I’m doing, they’ll find me gone.
One step closer to ruining my life.
All for a woman I haven’t even tasted.
My dick throbs within my black dress pants as the thought threatens to consume me with every step I take.
Today, I’m more cautious than I’ve ever been. I found an old hoodie of mine deep in my dresser. I only kept it because it was a gift from my mom.
Pulling on the draw strings, I tighten the hood over my head. It’s as much an attempt at hiding as a necessity at this point.
An hour in freezing water tamed some of the sweating, but not all.
Drops of blood kept appearing in said sweat.
And, yet, instead of being in the hospital, like any sane person would, I’m trailing after Athaliah.
Watching men once again lose their minds for her.
Knowing that she’ll once again be meeting another “customer” at her front door.
My mind flashes to the first one I saw. He’d been sick. He’d blamed her for it.
Now I’m sick.
I
