Briony
Tarnishing my reputation. Destroying my hard work to establish myself in a male-dominated religion, only for him to brand me the slut of the Academy.
Tasteless. Classless. Everything a psychotic stalker should be.
Saint quickly wraps his arm around me, pulling me inside the building as the hushed crowd whispers their secrets. I know word is already traveling. The bees are buzzing away, and the town hive will know something is going on between Saint and I, naturally assuming the worst.
But this? This has the power to dismantle everything I’ve worked for.
“Listen, Saint,” I begin, pulling him down to the hallway beneath the stairs to talk before class. “About tonight…I think we should just forget—“
“No, Briony,” he interrupts me. “I’m not letting them win. Someone is seriously trying to mess with you, trying to run a smear campaign over your name, and I’m not going to allow it. It’s not going to make me fall back from you or from the ball for that matter.”
He leans against the wall with his shoulder, turning in towards me in a protective stance.
“But your father, and the diocese…everyone is already talking. How will we ever defend ourselves against this?” I ask, feeling that familiar anxiousness.
Our town is like a crooked court. You get charged first, then spend all of your time and effort defending yourself against the allegations. This is a steep hill to climb, and I can only imagine the rage that his father, Callum Westwood, will have over the fact that his son is now somehow tied into this. That man didn’t even want Saint to partake in the ceremony alongside me. Rumors of engaging in pre-marital sex? The damage, irreparable.
“It’s probably just some stupid kids from class looking to make a name for themselves by trying to get a rise out of us since we’re teaching together.”
I scoff. “Easy for you to say. Not so easy to wash the stain off this slut.”
Once they brand you with that, there’s no going back.
“I’ll do whatever I can to defend your honor, Briony. I mean that wholeheartedly,” he says, his face more serious and concerned than I’ve ever seen it. “You know that, right? I won’t put up with this.”
I take a deep breath and nod, feeling a sense of relief for his support in all of this. He could easily say he needs to take a step back from me with the eyes of the congregation on us. Knowing he has my back definitely takes some of the pressure off of me. His hand comes up as he rests it against my cheek, softly brushing his thumb back and forth comfortingly.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise,” he whispers.
All I can think is how different that sentence sounded coming from a different man. No one hurts you but me.
Yeah, he definitely hurt me with this one. Aero is toxic and entirely dysfunctional. I see it more clearly now that I’m not under his intoxicating spell.
Saint leans closer, peering at my lips, and just when I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, the warning bell for class rings, startling us both.
“C’mon Bri. Let’s show them all it doesn’t affect us,” he says, holding out his hand to me with an empathetic smile.
I take his hand, and he opens the door to the hallway for me. We walk hand in hand down the hallway as younger students giggle and point. Saint gives me a light, reassuring squeeze as we near our homeroom.
“Keep your chin up,” he whispers, noticing the shame and embarrassment keeping me cowered into myself.
Touching beneath my chin with two fingers, he tips my head up, and I feign confidence.
Parting through the flow of students, I lock eyes with the deacon at the other end of the hall, making his way towards us in his flowing white cassock. I gently tug on Saint’s arm, alerting him. He looks over at me, then down the hall towards the deacon, who’s now only yards from us.
His eyes travel the length of me, and I can see the disapproval in his condescending gaze as he finally approaches us.
“Miss Strait, Bishop Caldwell would like to speak with you after class.”
“We’d be glad to speak with him about this unfortunate display we walked into this morning,” Saint answers for me. “Tell me, does this school not own cameras to allow misdemeanors like this to continue?”
“Mr. Westwood—“
“I’m genuinely concerned for the safety of the teachers here at The Covenant Academy. Clearly there has been a direct attack on one of your own, and I’d love to see how the board is going to handle this one.”
“This isn’t about the graffiti, young man, and you would be well advised to lower your voice when speaking with me,” he says with a stern tone, letting Saint know that even if his father has pull within the church, it doesn’t give him the right to talk back to someone of the deacon’s rank.
“What?” Saint asks, looking appalled.
“What is it about, then?” I ask, drawing both their eyes back at me.
“Your lack of respect for this institution.” His eyes fall to my pants, and frustration floods through me. “Directly after class.”
Saint shakes his head in disgust as the deacon continues on his way. I stare at his departure; the wheels turning in my mind. His hand falls on my shoulder, guiding me towards the room. “Come on Briony. Let’s go.”
We finish up classes for the day, but my thoughts continue to cycle back to the recent events. My mind is tirelessly working to solve this puzzle. Everything Aero does is calculated. I’ve come to realize that. The cryptic notes, the fire in the church, the knife to protect myself. Everything he does is for a reason. A specific reason I’ve yet to figure out. Could this be the same? What purpose would destroying all of my underwear serve other than to guarantee me a trip to the bishop’s office? How could branding me a slut benefit me?
He’s continuously testing me; wanting me to fight, pushing my limits, needing to see if I have what it takes. But why? For what? Is there more to the games of a sick and twisted man?
I take one last deep breath in, letting it out before wiping my palms down the infamous pants that were a complete slap in the face to this institution.
Twisting the knob on the door, I walk into the main office for my meeting with the bishop. The hallway is dark and eerie, leading towards the doors of the elected officials. Silence rings in my ears as I take a few steps forward. Approaching Bishop Caldwell’s door, I raise my hand to knock, attempting to shake off my nerves, when I hear someone sniff.
“It’s the Lord’s will,” I hear Bishop Caldwell’s voice in a hushed tone.
Someone is already in there.
“You don’t want to disappoint him, do you, Brady?” he continues.
I turn to go sit in the chair near the door, waiting for this meeting before me to finish when I hear crying ensue. Curiosity has me leaning against the door to listen. Intuition has my feet planted in place.
“I-I don’t want to disappoint him. But I’m scared. I-I’m confused.”
“There, there, son,” Bishop Caldwell says as I hear the boy whose name I now know to be Brady, crying. “You know what the Bible says, don’t you? Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. This is God’s will. Accept the Holy Spirit into your life.”
More crying comes from the boy.
Something isn’t right.
I grab the door handle, twisting the old knob, and push through the door with my shoulder.
Stumbling into the room, I gasp as my feet become rooted in place. Breathing feels like an idea I’ve yet to discover at the sight of Bishop Caldwell standing over top of a young boy. His black cassock is lifted to his waist, his belt buckle to his pants beneath, hanging open.
But it’s the terror plastered all over his guilt-ridden face, the vexation in his dark, displeased gaze, that screams its obscenities.
