Page 18 of Borrowed

I stayed crouched over his body, fingers tangled in Father Elliot’s soaked hair, the scent of sanctified death blooming like lilies in my lungs.

Toby dipped his fingers in the water, then touched my forehead.

“Sanctus,” he whispered, voice like smoke curling from a pyre.

A blessing.

Or a claim.

Maybe both.

The priest’s body floated like a sin denied, bloated, still, eyes wide and glassy beneath the ripples. The cross had slipped from his neck, tangled in the hem of his soaked robes.

Toby stood behind me, his voice gentler now. “Take it.”

I leaned forward and pulled the collar from the priest’s throat. It came off easily, like skin.

I held it in my palm and looked down at the once-man who thought he could save me. “He wore it like it meant something.”

“It didn’t,” Toby said. “But it will on you.”

He guided me, reverent, peeling the wet cassock from Father Elliot’s corpse. It draped around my naked frame like a funeral veil.

Heavy.

Cold.

Intoxicating.

The collar snapped into place around my throat.

And something inside me…settled.

Not peace.

But purpose.

Toby’s lips brushed my temple. “How does it feel?”

“Like I’m ready to hear a confession.”

He chuckled. “And what will you tell them, sister? Will you forgive them…or damn them?”

“God’s dead,” I said. “And we buried Him in the font.”

Toby licked his thumb and dragged it across my cheekbone, smearing what little innocence might’ve remained.

“We should go before they realize mass has been canceled,” he murmured.

“But where?” I said, voice light now, dreamy.

“Anywhere,” he replied. “Where do you want to go? Mother is still waiting for us.”

I grinned, the collar biting deliciously into my throat. “Then let’s hear her sins.”

* * *

The rectory door opened with a whisper. It was always too quiet in this part of the church, like even the walls were afraid to speak.

She was sitting there.

Mother.

On a stiff pew beneath a faded portrait of Mary, clutching her purse like a Bible and wringing the handle with white-knuckled grace. The incense had long since gone cold, but she still breathed like she was choking on smoke.

She turned when she heard the door creak.

And froze.

I stood framed in the doorway, wet, naked, draped in his collar, dripping with the font’s failed salvation.

My hair clung to my shoulders in snarled ropes, blood from my nose painting a line down to my collarbone.

In my hand, the rosary twisted like a noose, and behind me, the iron cross on the fabric dragged along the floor with a scream.

“T—T—T,” she whispered.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to answer.

She didn’t ask what had happened.

She knew.

They always knew, didn’t they? The ones who looked away. The ones who smiled while their child burned behind their eyes.

I stepped inside.

Closer.

The cross scraped against the old tile like it was screaming, too.

“You took me to Him,” I said. My voice came from somewhere else. Somewhere lower. “But He never answered. You heard me scream, and you called it a test.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re sick, baby, you’re not—this isn’t who you?—”

“It’s always been me. Your eyes are closed. Mine are open.”

Toby was behind her now. His hands slid over the top of the pew, just inches from her skull. His eyes locked onto mine, a gleam of hunger peeking through the slits of the bandages.

Approval.

Stroking her face like a lover.

Like she did to him.

“Tell her,” he said softly. “Ask her if she feels the love now.”

I dropped the rosary.

Let the beads scatter like teeth on the floor.

Watched as my blood dripped down and made it red.

Then I smiled and stepped into the aisle. “Mother,” I said sweetly. “Your God couldn’t save me…can he save you?”

Toby handed me the metal, and I raised the cross like a blade.

She began to pray.

Mother didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

She just stared. At me. At the water dripping off my naked skin. At the thin stream of blood trickling from my nose. At the cross clutched tight in my hand, the cape dragging behind me like a corpse I refused to bury.

I stepped closer.

Tile groaning under bare, wet feet.

Her hands clutched her purse like it could shield her.

“No, please. Just stop this…”

She whispered my name like it might wake me from something or banish me back into it.

Toby’s voice purred beneath my ribs.

“Take her hands. Make her pray. She wanted a God? Give her one.”

I knelt in front of her. The cross settled between us.

Heavy.

Holy.

Pointless.

“You never loved me. Always hurt me. Your love is pain.” I said softly.

She flinched. Her lips moved. “I didn’t?—”

“You did. You took Toby away! Let me love you, Mother.”

Toby’s need curled in my gut.

Not rage.

That would’ve been mercy. This was colder.

Slower.

A crucifixion of her comfort.

I took her hands. Laced our fingers together. Pressed her knuckles to her chin.

“Pray with me. Pray for Toby’s forgiveness.”

She shook her head. Tears welled up. “Please…please, stop this. I can fix this! I can repent!”

I smiled. I could still feel Toby’s breath on the back of my neck.

“Let God hear you, Mother. See if he listens. Or maybe you should pray to the devil.”

“H-Hail Mary?—”

Her voice cracked.

“Full of grace…”

Her hands trembled in mine.

“Keep going,” I said.

She looked up at me like I was her savior. Nothing would save her. She would burn like me.

Toby laughed inside.

Then I leaned forward, our foreheads touching, my voice a whisper. “He’s not listening.”

She looked so small.

So human.

And I had never felt more like God.