Page 16 of Crossed

But as long as we repent, He will forgive.

Nodding to myself, I drop my hands and straighten, my vertebrae slotting into place with purpose, the panic ebbing away. I reach down, unbuttoning my dress shirt, the thin layer of sweat coating my body making the fabric stick to my skin. My back stings, the raw and scabbed-over wounds from last night pulling with the motion.

I revel in the pain, using it as a reminder of how weak I truly am.

Once my shirt is off, I lay it down on the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles before I walk over to the wooden chest that’s pushed into the corner of the room. I open it, the brass hinges creaking, and I bend down and grip the discipline in my hand, running the coarse tassels of rope along my palm.

“It shall be a holy convocation unto you; and ye shall afflict your souls,” I murmur to myself as the knotted rope scratches against my skin.

With a deep breath, I stand, my body stiff and my muscles locked, my fingers tightening around the thick base of the whip. My nostrils flare as I pictureherface, a bolt of lust driving through me even now, even when I should be living for only Him.

I bring my arm up high and strike it down over my opposite shoulder, the multiple tassels with knotted ends slicing into the open wounds on my back. I repeat the motion, and my teeth grit against the burn.

For as much then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin.

My movements quicken, my cock shamefully hardening as my mind and body buzz from the pain. I beat myself harder until warm liquid drips down my spine and drops onto the floor in dots of red.

One strike for every impure thought, ten for every sinful stroke.

I continue until I can barely stand, my body wet with blood and my head dizzy from the punishment.

Usually, I feel relief afterward. As though my soul has been cleansed, my purpose brought back into view like a dirty window washed clean. But as I lie in my bed, taking in the sharp stabs of pain radiating through my back and down my limbs, I don’t feel as though I’ve suffered enough. Terror seizes my lungs and steals my breath because I’m unsure if I’ll ever feel cleansed again.

Because even now, she’s already creeping back in.

This stranger.

Ma petite pécheresse.

My little sinner.

Chapter6

Amaya

MY MOTHER WASN’T A GOOD PERSON, SO IT makes sense that she wasn’t a particularly good Catholic. Not that it ever stopped her from dragging me out of bed every Sunday morning for Mass.

I’d dress up in the nicest clothes I owned and we’d walk to whatever church was in the area. We moved around a lot, but no matter where we went, religion never seemed to change. Always the same stringent rules and regulations.

Do this. Don’t do that. He is forgiving, yet He will smite you down.

It was enough to convince me that we were committing sin just bybeingthere. Visions of a lightning bolt splitting apart the clouds and thundering down the center of the sanctuary filled my head. I was sure that seeking forgiveness for something we weren’t truly sorry for was blasphemous enough for hell. And I know my mom wasn’t remorseful over her actions because she continued to do them over and over again.

Still, every week, we went, and every week, nothing ever happened.

And nobody in the church ever seemed to catch on that my mother was a hypocrite. A fake. Or maybe they did, and they simply stayed quiet. After all, people often ignore traits in others that exist within themselves.

Perhaps we just didn’t stick around in a single place long enough for anyone to really care.

But when we showed up in Festivalé, all that changed.

Because somebodydidcare. Florence Gammond.

We’ve been in Festivalé for months now, and I think I can count on one hand the number of times my mom has stayed around for an entire day. She chugs coffee, her hair pulled back in a ponytail as she flits around the small kitchen in our apartment, humming to herself while she gets ready to leave.

“What time will you be home?” I ask, tapping my nails on the table. Irritation simmers deep in my gut as I watch her.

“Hmm?” She spins around, her eyes not even able to meet mine. “Oh, late probably. I have some errands to run, and then Parker’s taking me up into the Green Mountains for a weekend getaway. Isn’t that so romantic?”