Page 49 of Forgive Me Father

I fidget with the cross around my necklace, feeling the areas where my skin has begun to rash from the friction.

Pain is good.

It's a reminder I feel anything at all.

Watching the leaves blow across the road, I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out as I can, rolling my neck to try and ease the soreness from the long drive here. Everything I owned was packed in my 4Runner at the hotel.

Rolling my finger over the circular burn marks up my arm, I scoff at the look of them.

If my dad were alive, what would he say now?

Would he scold me for leaving the Army? For choosing a religious path instead of the one he forced on me?

It’s hard to say. Knowing him, he’d probably beat me either way.

That’s the sick part. A man like my father—vile to his core—could beat his son and his wife and still show up in church every Sunday, somehow convincing himself he’d make it to heaven because of God’s grace.

That’s the flaw in the system.

No matter how awful you are, I'm supposed to believe if you give your life to God, you deserve forgiveness.

Bullshit.

Evil people deserve to be punished.

Maybe that's why I chose to become His hand.

Staring into the bottom of my cup, I feel a surge of frustration. The drink’s empty, just like this moment. I toss the cup in the bin and decide a walk might clear my head.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I veer toward the park in the middle of town. I’m still lost in thought when I hear a whimper, faint but unmistakable. It stops me in my tracks.

The noise grows louder, a mix of gasping and sniffling that sets my senses on high alert. I glance around the empty park, trying to locate the source.

There, in a more isolated part of the park, I spot a figure on a bench, hood pulled up, back turned. The whimpering is high-pitched, the body too small to be male.

Walk away Roman.

I keep moving forward on the path, but the stifled cries escalate, causing the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

The sound pulls at something deep inside me—it's just like my mother’s voice when my father had gotten too rough withher. The pain in the woman’s sobs is unmistakable, her voice trembling as her body shakes.

Biting my cheek, I close my eyes, taking several deep breaths.

Just walk away Roman.

The cries get worse.

Just walk-

Before I know it, I’m veering off toward the bench, my feet carrying me across the dying grass. The sobs drown out the sound of my footsteps, and I find myself creeping closer, stopping just short of her. I lean against a nearby tree, keeping a safe distance, close enough to observe without intruding.

Observing is fine.

We’re in a public space after all.

"Ivy, that's not what I'm saying," The woman sobs, her phone pressed to her ear, her face angled away from me.

She’s wearing a dark hoodie, too thick for the warm weather, with a backpack slumped next to her. Her foot taps rapidly, a clear sign of her anxiety.