Page 51 of Forgive Me Father

I stoppedone of my future disciples from committing goddamn suicide.

"I call bullshit on that," I sigh, keeping her still. "There are far worse people than you deserving of a spot in Hell," I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah?" She questions. "You don't even know me."

"Why are you crying?" Her bottom lip starts to tremble.

"What is this, fucking confession?" She snaps, her anger flaring.

"Here’s how I see it: you’ve got two options. Tell me what happened and get it off your chest, or sit here and wallow in it, see where that lands you. If you really wanted to die, you would’ve started with the vertical cut." She scoffs when I call her out. She knows I’m right.

"How would you know-"

"Roll up my sleeve," I snap, cutting her off.

"What-"

"Roll up my sleeve," I demand again.

Reluctantly, she begins to roll up my sleeve, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. The jagged vertical scar running down my wrist is an ugly reminder of a past I can't escape.

She gulps, her fingers lightly grazing the scar, her touch surprisingly gentle.

"I know because I didn't go for the horizontal cut," I whisper. "And guess what? It didn’t make the pain go away. It changed nothing. My problems were still my own. So why don't you tell me what's wrong before you bleed out in the park-"

"I was raped," She sobs, my heart filling with pain. "He bruised my ribs, broke my collarbone, recorded all of it, and showed itto his fraternity." She moves her uninjured hand to her bleeding wrist. "I thought college would be my escape, and instead, I walked into a nightmare worse than the one I lived in here. I reported him, but his fraternity brothers destroyed the evidence, so all I could do was come back home to this hellhole. Everyone just thinks I’m psychotic and that I had some sort of mental breakdown.”

"What's your name?"

"Eden. Won't take you long to figure out my last name in this town."

Holding her still, I take a shaky breath.

"I'll be seeing you at church, Eden," I whisper, her name rolling off my tongue and stirring something inside of me.

"I'm not-"

"You want a solution? Go to the church and let God give you a guardian angel."

“God’s never helped me. I don’t know why he’d start now.”

I tighten my grip around her waist. "Then why am I here?" I ask, something about her pulling me in deeper that I can’t explain. I guide her free hand to her open wound. "Put pressure on your wrist," I urge.

"Now tell me you'll go home. And you won’t do that again.” Maybe it’s my calling to God, or just because I can feel her need to rebel against me, but having command over her choosing to live has me hanging on to her every word.

She shakes her head. "I'll go," she sobs. "But it won’t change anything.” I scoff, holding her steady.

"I promise you, Eden. This won’t be thelast time we meet."

Before she can get a good look at me, I release her and turn on my heels, lowering my head as I shove my bloodied hands into my pockets. I move quickly, slipping past the shrubbery to conceal myself from view. I make my way back to the streets, heading straight for my car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I lean back, watching through the window as she steps out onto the street, her arms hidden beneath her hoodie. She looks around, confused, but now wearing her cross again. A small sense of satisfaction settles in my chest.

I watch as she runs a hand through her hair, sighing in defeat. Even in her broken state, there’s a striking beauty to her, something raw and real that pulls at me. I glance down at my hands, still smeared with her blood. The bright red nags at me, a reminder of the deep pain she’s carrying.

Pain like that consumes you. It eats you alive.

Maybe another outlet could ease her suffering.

The thought slithers into my mind, and I tense my jaw, trying not to focus on the blood on my skin. But the need creeps in, unbidden—feral, insistent.