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The overwhelming smell of pine-scented aftershave comes next, and each action is a prompt, a reminder that I’m not in Oran.
This isn’t Algeria.
I’m no longer helpless.
Icanact.
Shivers run down my spine, not helped by the fact I’m bleeding again. I’m always weaker after I’ve taken the lash, but with last night’s events, I suppose it makes sense that I’m feeling it more than usual.
Normally, I just sleep. Yesterday, I didn’t do enough of that.
I’m not about to complain, but still, it explains why I’m shaky. Purging my sins to Andrea, and dealing with the emotional volcano that erupted in the aftermath, probably didn’t help much either.
I run my finger over my upper lip, hating that sweat’s beading there.
The hatred for this booth, this act, this man, and this life overwhelms me. It’s such a stark contrast to how free I felt earlier this morning when I was flying in Andrea’s arms...
She’s the only slice of paradise I’ll ever feel in my miserable existence, and the desire to act, to make a change bombards me.
Today is my last as a priest.
I knew that was coming. I’m no hypocrite. I’ve broken my vows, and I have to resign my post—news that will likely come as a relief to the Church. But I’d intended on sticking around, letting my replacement take over the parish while showing him the ropes.
There’ll be none of that now.
Ineedout.
And I want Andrea.
At my side.
Glued to me.
Making the sudden decision after not even twenty-four hours of knowing her?
Insanity.
Perhaps shehasinfected me with her delusions, but I can deal with it as long as she’s there to fill in the tears in my heart and soul. As long as she knows who and what I am and wants me anyway.
What I can’t deal with is this man.
This life.
This world.
“Father,” Corelli greets when I remain silent. “The roof looks like it might need patching up.”
“It doesn’t,” I tell him abruptly, well aware of his game. “The food bank needs filling though.”
Silence falls, and I know he’s still surprised about my lack of ass-kissing. There’ll be none of that from me.
“I’ll make sure the shelves are filled then. Nice and tight.”
“That donation will be appreciated. You may begin your confession.”
He clears his throat. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fifty weeks since my last confession.”
A regular priest might chide him for that. But, as I’d ascertained last night, I’m not a regular priest.