I THROW THE PEN DOWN AND RUN MY HAND through my hair, tugging on the roots. I’ve been trying to write Sunday’s homily for the past two hours, but my mind keeps wandering back to Amaya like a nightmare that lingers in the daytime.
I’m not somebody who believes in love at first sight, and I’m under no illusion that what I feel for her is anything close to the emotion, but clearly lust has dug its talons deep. Just a moment in her presence and she’s become the biggest temptation of my life.
Glancing down at my words on the paper, I curl my lip, hating the red lines marked through the passages.
It needs to be perfect, but I can tell with every swipe of my pen that my personal demons are slipping into the teachings.
For the first time, I wonder if I need the reminder as much as everyone else. I shake my head to dispel the ridiculous notion. I just need to kill Amaya, that’s all. As long as she’s around, she’ll be a distraction, and I’ve never needed focus and clarity more than I do right now. Maybe she’s a test sent from God.
Clicking my tongue against the back of my teeth, I flick my gaze between the clock on the wall and the papers on my desk, debating what I should do. It’s already the evening, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m unprepared for the morning’s Holy Mass, but the need for preparation dulls like sunshine on an overcast day when my mind clouds with thoughts of Amaya. Where she is. What she’s doing.
Before I can stop myself, I’m leaving the church entirely, and when I end up nearing the bus stop at the end of the block— having memorized the schedule that runs to Coddington Heights, the town where Amaya works—I slip off the collar from around my neck, shoving it deep in my jacket’s pocket.
Because I’ve memorized the schedule, I know there’s twenty minutes before the next bus, and in that time, I’ve halfway convinced myself to turn around, but my feet are rooted to the ground like they’re covered in cement.
I’m going to kill her tonight.
The thought is quite erotic, actually. There’s something so deeply satisfying about hunting my prey. A heady rush of capturing them and holding their life in my hands.
Large round headlights cut through the crisp December evening, blinding me to reason as the bus rolls down the street, brakes whirring and screeching as it pulls to a stop, the accordion door opening, a large plume of smoke emitting from the back. I move onto the steps, glancing over the empty seats before tucking my chin into my neck and sitting at the very front so I can get off quickly if I need.
It’s mostly empty.
There’s an older man with a pot belly in the middle row, his eyes closed and arms crossed as he leans against the window, and a young woman in the very back, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. Giant headphones cover the sides of her face like earmuffs. I don’t pay any more attention to them, and they completely ignore me, which is just as well. So far at least, anonymity still has its grip on me. But I know that after Holy Mass tomorrow, that won’t be the case.
The bus lurches forward, and then we’re on our way out of Festivalé. Just like that, there’s no turning back, not that I would even if there was. Adrenaline percolates through my veins in a steady drip, nerves dancing beneath my skin like sparks of fire, that dark feeling I keep locked up in the daytime eager to come out and play.
It takes over an hour to get to Coddington Heights, and before I can blink, I’m at the Chapel, paying the twenty-dollar entry fee and hiding in the shadows, the same way I did last time.
It’s busy tonight, but it’s no matter. I find her almost immediately, her aura like a lighthouse, blinding me with its dangerous glow.
She’s chatting with a man at the end of the bar, her head flying back with her tinkling laughter while she weaves her magic like a spiderweb, luring another poor sap into her clutches. He leans in and whispers something in her ear, and she grins before nodding, the fake red hair whispering against the small of her back, making me jealous of synthetic strands.
And then they’re off, maneuvering between tables and the plush sofas along the walls before they disappear into a hallway, where I assume the private rooms are.
A wave of possessiveness pours down my spine, thick and hot.
There’s a split second where I consider my choices. Where I try to be a decent man. But that’s all it is: a second.
I stride across the floor with purpose, retracing their steps until I’m hovering in front of a closed- off room, separated by a heavy purple curtain instead of a wooden door. I glance around, looking for staff, for a bouncer or somebody who will see what I’m doing and rip me away, but there’s just an empty chair in the far corner of the hall and the thump of the bass that’s so loud it rattles my insides. My fingers glide along the velvety material of the curtain, and I slide it open just enough to peer inside, my heart pounding so fast it makes my chest cramp.
My throat dries, a violent current of…something rushing through me at the sight that greets me. It’s different from what I’m used to, but it rains down on me like a monsoon, the sickness inside me making me ache and throb for pleasure instead of pain.
The two of them are near the far wall of the small room, catty- corner to where I am, just her side profile visible. Amaya’s on the man’s lap, her heavy breasts kissing the open air, and it’s enough to drive me mad, quick flashes of her pebbled nipples torturing me like a storm cloud that never rains as she twists and grinds on someone who isn’t me.
He’s completely consumed by her.
I can relate.
For the first time since I was a child, I grow angry with God.
How easy this would all be if I didn’t have morals separating what I crave from what I know is right. Why would you put her in my path?
The gold of the man’s wedding band shimmers as his hands rise from his sides and he digs meaty fingers into the flesh of her gyrating ass, a deep groan rumbling from him as he thrusts his hips up, simulating sinking himself inside her.
I grit my teeth, my cock aching and hard and my chest burning with envy.
“No touching,” Amaya snaps, reaching back and removing his touch. “You know the rules, Andrew.”
“Esmeralda,” he rumbles, his hands dropping back down onto the couch. “Such a fucking tease.”
There’s a stack of bills lying next to them on the couch, and he moves to grab a bill from the pile, slipping it into the band of her G- string. I imagine breaking off his fingers one by one, reveling in the screams that would accompany the snap.
He smirks and she giggles, light and airy and fake as hell.
My monster rears its head like it smells fresh meat.
I soak in every detail of Amaya’s bare back, the indent in her waist that flares out to perfect wide hips, the small glimpses of pebbled dark areolas silhouetted by the curve of her breast.
My cock leaks as arousal makes my balls heavy with want.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” A deep voice cuts through the moment, and I straighten, irritated that I got so lost in the moment that I stopped paying attention to my surroundings.
I don’t reply, stepping away from the curtain and letting it drop back in place before twisting to face whoever’s caught me red- handed.
“Hey,” the bulky man repeats, walking closer. “I asked you a question.”
I smile when he gets close, dwarfing the man in the shadow of my height.
His brows furrow, nostrils flaring. “You can’t be back here.”
“I was just leaving,” I reply, walking backward slowly with my hands held up high.
He doesn’t do anything, although I’m not sure why. He just crosses his arms and nods toward the exit, and I take the opportunity, slipping out the door into the alley behind the club.
But I don’t leave.
The hours pass and my fingers grow numb and stiff, even while wearing my gloves, and my legs scream in exhaustion as I perch near the employee parking lot, watching and waiting.
I tell myself that it’s just to follow her home, to finish what I came here to do in the first place.
Kill her and be done with this sorcery.
But when she makes it back to her apartment, I don’t leave then either.
Instead, I stand by the side window off the alley, the poor excuse for shrubbery digging into my side as I stare through the smudged glass, watching her sway her hips as she undresses in what she believes is the privacy of her bedroom.
I should go in and murder her. My body is humming at the chance to take her life in my hands, to see the spark dim from her eyes and feel my obsession drain away with it.
But I don’t. I leave her in her bed, safe and alone, while I go back to the rectory and whip myself for my weakness.
“GIVE, Lord, strength to my hands to wipe out all stain so that, without pollution of mind or body, I may dare to serve You.”
The water is cool as it runs over my fingers, and I continue with my prayers as I grab my amice, a white cloth that I wrap around my shoulder and neck.
Today, the fabric feels like it’s choking me.
After that comes the alb, and I slip it on, the robe dusting the floor. “Wash me clean, Lord, and cleanse me from my sin that I may rejoice and be glad unendingly with them that have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.”
My back is raw and tender, making me hiss as the vestments scratch against my skin, the guilt and self- loathing running through me like rotting trash, rancid and strong.
Then comes the cincture. The ropelike texture rubs against my palms as I tie it around my waist, and I’m reminded of how I atoned with similar material last night. Every move I make is painful from the lashes.
“Gird me, Lord, with the belt of faith, my loins with the virtue of chastity, and extinguish in them the humor of lust that the strength of all chastity may ever abide in me.”
My chest tightens in regret as I speak the words, hating myself for the way Amaya makes me feel, the things she makes me do.
Next, I grip the purple silk of the stole tightly, lying it over my shoulders, letting the material drape down the front of my body. “Restore to me, Lord, I beseech Thee, the stole of immortality, which I lost in the transgression of the first father, and though unworthy I presume to approach Thy sacred mystery with this garment, grant that I may merit to rejoice in it forever.”
Breathing in deeply, I exhale my mortality, allowing His word to flow through my veins and into my heart, because it is He who celebrates the Mass. And even while I’m in turmoil, today isn’t about me.
Then, finally, I reach for the chasuble. The sleeveless, ornate outer vestment slips over my head with ease, dropping over the length of me like a waterfall that pools on the floor.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, sneaking its way beneath the layers of clothes and stinging the whippings on my back. I use the pain as fuel, a sense of rightness clicking into place as I prepare to face the people of Festivalé for the first time as Father Cade Frédéric.
But during the homily, my gaze scans the pews, and then I’m spiraling, wondering where she is and how she’s doing. If she would scream louder when she comes or when she dies. How once I do the latter, I’ll never get the chance to hear the former.
My chest tightens at the thought.
My mind is still in a fog as I give Communion, and I glance down at the woman kneeling before me and murmur softly, “Corpus Domini nostri Iesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam, amen.” I place the body of Christ on her tongue, the motions monotonous in a way they’ve never been, because I’m mentally so far away from where I’m meant to be.
The line for Communion continues, one by one, bits of bread and sips from the chalice until everyone is in silent prayer back in their pews.
It’s a heavy atmosphere, and my voice booms, echoing off the arches and stained glass. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
I say the words, and I mean what I say, but at night, as I make my way back to a run- down apartment, staring in that same bedroom window as before, unable to rid myself of this sick obsession, it’s not the Lord I’m serving.
And I feel nothing close to peace.
