The Merciful
I pull my cardigan closed around me and duck my head against the wet, chilly wind as I hurry across campus toward the chapel. A twinge of pain pierces between my thighs with each step, as if my body is reminding me of last night’s sin.
It’s not nearly punishment enough.
Images flash through my mind as I increase my pace along the path through the manicured lawns, now a tawny brown for the winter.
The pain when they pushed their fingers inside me, piercing my chastity.
The sight of them standing over me, licking my virgin blood from each other.
The fear and shame and pleasure when the doctor stood over me and pushed a sleek statue of the Virgin Mary inside me.
My pulse pounds harder the nearer I get to Father Salvatore’s confession booth.
I can’t tell him. What will he think of me?
But how can I not tell him?
I have to tell some, to get it out if I have any hope of absolution, and I don’t have any friends, thanks to the three boys who made it their mission to ostracize me from the rest of the student body at Thorncrown University. Three boys who have made my life hell, who sacrificed me for their sins, who devoured my purity like hungry demons. Three boys who killed my best friend.
Probably.
The fact that I’m doubting it unsettles me. If they didn’t do it, then I got them sent away for nothing. If they didn’t do it, their anger—and by extension, my punishment—is justified. Because if they’re innocent, then they’re not the bad guys. I am.
I wish I knew what the police found, what evidence. My testimony al couldn’t have sent them away. But since it was a juvenile case, it was never released to the public. I’ve devoured details of other juvenile cases online—a girl who took her life after being bullied, whose parents and friends posted details and kept her memory alive as they added to the fire of outrage, taking shots at the bullies until their parents got involved and posted more details in defense and retaliation. A boy who was beaten at school and every witness posted a video of themselves recounting what happened, but conveniently no had thought to video the actual event.
But Eternity’s parents never posted anything. They were quiet, retreating to their private grief. No shots were fired at the boys who took the blame, and in turn, n of their parents posted anything that could be called a clue. No even took to the internet to drag me. The only shots fired at me were bricks through the windows.
No really knows what happened except her killers.
Having let those thoughts to distract me, I’m calmer by the time I reach the small Catholic church on the edge of campus where mass is held, and where, last night, I was strapped to a cross and violated until pleasure overcame me. My cheeks burn with shame at the thought, and I duck my head and hurry through the quiet sanctuary, my footsteps echoing in the high ceilings, the comforting, familiar scent of incense lingering in the air along with faint traces of that smell that all old buildings earn over time.
In daylight, in this holy place, last night’s earthly debauchery feels far away, more like a dream than an experience. I couldn’t possibly have come here and been defiled by a statue, a man in a plague mask. I couldn’t have been touched, my purity erased, by my own brother, a brother I’ve loved for so long I can’t pinpoint the moment that love changed into something less than innocent. I couldn’t have watched him taste my blood off the fingers of my childhood friend, who violated me in a different way six years ago.
If it really happened, I certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed it.
A throb squeezes at the sinful place between my thighs, and I close my eyes and take a breath to collect myself before stepping into the confessional.
I pull up short, a gasp clogging my throat.
My brother is sitting there already.
I start to back out, but he grabs my hand and yanks me inside and down onto his lap. The breath I was holding escapes me, and I open my mouth, but he clamps a hand over it before I can make a sound.
“Do what I say, or I can’t protect you from what will happen.”
My mind is spinning, and it settles on the most terrible image from last night—not what happened here, but what was waiting when I got back to my room. A human tongue, nailed to my door, along with a warning to keep my mouth shut.
Is that what will happen if I disobey?
If Saint didn’t put it there, who did? Who wants me to keep quiet if not my brother? It must be the boys from the Quint, but what do they want me to keep quiet about, exactly? I already spoke the truth that got them sent to a juvenile detention center. Are they scared I’ll tell what they did to me last night?
I nod mutely, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Saint is so near, so warm and animal and alive, bringing back the primal, visceral sensations of last night, reminding me it wasn’t a dream. In this place of high ideas and ritual and sanctity, they desecrated my flesh like savage beasts.
“Good girl,” Saint says. “Now take off your panties.”
I tense, and he scoffs quietly in my ear. “I’m not going to touch you. You’re the pervert who wants to fuck her own brother.”
My cheeks burn, and I reach down and hike up my ankle-length jean skirt. I have to lift up from Saint’s lap, but I manage to work my underwear down over my thighs, my knees, my clumsy clogs. At last, I pull them off and hand them to my brother.
He leans away. “Put those away, you sicko. You think I want your used panties?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, stung by his harsh words, the hate in his t. I ball up the panties and shove them into the pocket of the cardigan I crocheted for myself last winter while sitting under a blanket with my aunt, marathon watching Gilmore Girls and sipping hot cocoa from of her old, chipped mugs.
The thought of that simpler time stabs deep into my heart. Everything was easy then—easy and lly and filled with a sadness so deep and cold I’m not sure I can bring myself to miss it, even now.
Saint releases my mouth and roots around in the pocket of his wool peacoat that probably cost as much as Aunt Lucy’s entire house, old and falling apart as it was. It was home, though, and every wobbly chair and creaking door added to the charm.
He pulls out a crumpled wad of fabric. “Put these on.”
I take it tentatively, only recognizing my own panties when they unfurl from my fingers. It’s the pair I was wearing on HAVOC night, the pair he took off me as I was held in place by the plague doctor, dragged into sin while all twelve of the Hellhounds watched, apostles to the evil prophet who forced pleasure into my body until I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I bend to put them on, only then pulling them open to see that the gusset is filled with a sticky, whitish substance that resembles glue.
“What is that?” I whisper, recoiling.
Saint’s arm tightens around my midsection, where he’s holding me to him. “What do you think, little sister?”
I swallow hard. “I—I don’t know.”
“What do you think three men would do with a pair of smelly panties? Use your imagination, little lamb.”
I shake my head in silent embarrassment.
When I don’t produce a further answer, he makes a quiet scoff of derision. “You don’t have to say it. But you do have to put them on.”
Gritting my teeth, I gingerly draw them to my knees, then stare into the pool of stringy, half-dried cream. “I can’t.”
“Oh, I think you can,” Saint croons. “I believe in you, little sister. Now pull them all the way up, so your dirty pussy is buried in the filth, where it belongs.”
On the other side of the screen, I hear a priest arrive. For second, my heart stops, and I’m afraid it’s some else. I made the appointment with Father Salvatore because he knows about my sins already, but maybe it’s too much for him. Maybe he sent another priest, and a stranger will sit on the other side of the screen and ask for my confession. I can only see motion through the tiny holes, and then he settles in, and his familiar, enticing scent of sandalwood and leather wraps around me.
I shiver with both relief and dread as his warm, velvet voice pours through the screen, wrapping around my body, gripping my trembling thighs.
“Are you there, lamb?”
“Yes,” I say, and I pull the panties up in swift motion, lifting my hips at the same time. I suck in a breath when the cold moisture hits my warm skin, and Saint drags me back down onto his lap, his other hand wrapping around my throat.
“Don’t say a word,” he breathes into my ear. “I want to hear you lie to a man of God who thinks you’re an innocent little lamb while you sit in my cum. We both know what you really are.”
“Forgive me, Father,” I choke out, my words a rush. “It’s been—I don’t know—it’s been a few days since my last confession, I—I think. I really don’t remember. The sins are so many, it feels like weeks. How can I do so much to stray from God in a single day?”
“Take a deep breath, lamb,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened since we last spoke?”
So, I do. The words pour out of me like a dam broke, unstoppable and chaotic. I don’t even falter in my embarrassment—maybe the hard heat of Saint’s body under mine provides enough distraction that I don’t stumble the way I did in my first confession, or maybe I’ve gotten used to unburdening myself this way. For years, I held it all bottled up inside, but now, I have some to listen, to hear me and support me. Some who at least tries not to judge and condemn me to hell for the weakness of my flesh and the wantonness of my mind.
“I just want it to go away,” I beg the priest, my voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Father. I sacrificed myself to them, but it didn’t cleanse me of my sins or rid me of my desires. Tell me how to get this wickedness out.”
“Did it help?” he asks, his t gentle and even.
“Help with what?”
“When you found your release, did it help, even for a short time? Or did your desire remain constant even then?”
“I—It did help,” I admit, remembering my determination when I was al in my room again. For once, I wasn’t tempted to slide my hand between my thighs, to ease the ache. They left me with a different kind of ache, from being well used and spent. My mind was clear for the moment, a clarity I find so seldom.
“And you enjoyed it?” he asks, his voice a seductive rumble, as if it would lead me down a path of temptation I can never unfollow.
“Yes,” I whisper, a tear of pure, hot shame rolling down my cheek.
“And what would you do for penance?” he asks. “God put this desire in you, lamb. I cannot rid you of it. I can only offer a suggestion.”
“Please,” I cry, the tears coming faster. “I’ll do anything. Help me, Father.”
“Do you trust me?” the father asks, and I hear his robes rustle as he shifts, across the partition and out of sight.
“Of course,” I say without hesitation. Pathetic as it makes me, the priest is the closest thing to a friend I have here, the closest thing the Hellhounds will allow. I am their sacrifice, here for purpose only—in their eyes, at least.
I know my true purpose, why I won’t leave this holy place and its unholy inhabitants. I need the truth. I won’t leave until I know what happened to Eternity that day, why I lost not only my best friend but all my friends. She was murdered, and if they did it, then they were no more my friends than hers. Friends can’t be counted on, but maybe Fathers can.
But if I can’t tell him the deepest truth, can I really be absolved? If I’m not ridding myself of the sin, maybe it’s because some part of me doesn’t want to let it go. Some part of me likes it. Not just what they did to me, but the pleasure of my own body. That’s the addiction. That’s the disease. Saying a thousand Hail Marys can only stifle it, like a painkiller can soothe a toothache. But the root is still festering, and without digging down into the darkest, dirtiest, most rotten core of it, it will never go away.
I tell myself that the reason I don’t do it is because my brother is here, and it was shameful enough to admit I enjoyed his fingers inside me last night. I can’t say that I enjoyed more than that, that I enjoyed being bound, unable to escape, so I was powerless to live out the fantasy I’ve had of him all along.
“I want you to try something for me,” Father Salvatore says, his voice as dark and sultry as sin itself. “I want you to put your hand on the place from which your perceived sin stems.”
I take a shallow breath, then close my eyes, a tremor running through me. Slowly, I slide a hand under my skirt.
“Yes, Father,” I whisper, my lips cold and stiff, barely moving.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
“Good.” My fingers brush the damp fabric of the panties I’m wearing, and instead of being disgusted by the knowledge of what’s inside them, a hot throb of hot desire ripples through me.
Saint grips my hair, pulling my head back on his shoulder, his other arm still banded around my middle. “Don’t be shy, little sister,” he whispers into my ear, so softly only I can hear it. “Finger your cunt the way you do at home when you think about your big brother watching.”
I shudder against him, desire pooling heavy in my center.
“Are you touching yourself?” the father asks, his voice soft and deep as a caress to my hungry flesh.
“Forgive me, Father,” I say, my voice trembling as I move my fingers harder, working the grimy, slick fabric into my slit.
“I want you to continue until you find the same relief you did last night,” he says.
My breath catches, and my chest heaves. It’s too good to be true. I must be dreaming, that he’s allowing me this sin, telling me it’s permitted. Slowly, I begin to knead my flesh.
Saint’s breath becomes shallower, and his fingers tighten in the sides of my skirt, drawing it up my thighs. The brush of fabric over my fevered skin makes me shiver with longing, my mind racing ahead, to when he’ll slide his hand between my legs, help me. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering as I picture his long, thick fingers tugging aside my panties, pushing into me slow and deep, like they did last night.
“Oh,” I gasp, feeling my panties grow suddenly wet.
“What is it, lamb?” Father Salvatore asks, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I think his voice sounds a little rougher than usual.
“It’s—it’s nothing,” I whisper, my cheeks flushing. I drop my gaze just in time to see Saint pause with my skirt just at the apex of my thighs. His fingers clench again, knotting in the fabric, and my skirt slides up to reveal my small hand between. He sucks in a slow breath, and I feel something hard move under me. I gasp, somehow knowing what it is without having to be told. My shame heightens to an unbearable level, and I want to get up from him, to run from the booth and never stop running.
“Go on,” Saint whispers against my neck. “Show your big brother how you finger your tight little cunt for him.”
“I—I don’t know how,” I admit. “I’ve never d this before.”
I realize a second too late that I spoke aloud, that Father Salvatore doesn’t know I have company. If I could die of humiliation, I would.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” he commands.
“I’m—I’m touching myself.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“My fingers,” I say breathlessly. “Rubbing my panties.”
“Are they wet?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Does it feel like last night?”
“No,” I admit.
“Better?”
“Not as good,” I say, closing my eyes and praying I’ll expire before I have to see my brother’s face again.
“Find the spot where your pleasure is highest,” Father Salvatore. “Work your fingers around it.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you ready to slip your fingers inside your panties?” he asks, his rich, sinful voice strained.
An erotic charge shudders through me, and I picture him watching me do what he said, look at my throbbing, sinful flesh. I picture him on his knees the way we kneel for him at communion, tasting me the way the boys did last night. I’m panting so hard I feel lightheaded.
But then Saint shifts under me, and I can feel the hard ridge of his desire, impossibly thick. I feel the grimy fabric I’m rubbing into myself, the slickness I’ve revived in the dirty panties by drenching them with my own wetness. My shame is unbearable.
I close my eyes and draw a shaky breath. “No, Father.”
“Very well,” he says. “Work on that, lamb. I want you to do it again until you have found the relief you had last night. Then come back and see me.”
I hear a rustle, see movement through the screen, and then the sound of him exiting the booth echoes through the empty space around us.
“Good ,” Saint says, chuckling and shifting his hips again. “You’re so disgusting even a priest couldn’t stick around to hear your confession. Now rub your brother’s cum into that dirty cunt like the whore you are and squirt like you did for us last time. I’m getting bored.”
Tears fill my eyes unbidden, and my breaths become ragged with sobs.
“I can’t,” I choke out. “I don’t know how.”
“You think I’m going to show you?” He scoffs and then dumps me into the seat, standing at the same time. I fall back on the bench, my head striking the wall, my skirt around my hips, my fingers still lodged between my thighs.
Saint shakes his head, his lip curling in disgust. “At least you’re pretty when you cry,” he says. “But know this, little sister. I’ll never stop finding reasons to make you shed those pretty tears until you leave this campus for good.”
With that, he turns and leaves the confessional, leaving me sobbing and al. In the depths of my shame, I cling to the small seeds of hope he left.
He thinks I’m pretty.
He isn’t ready to replace me as the Hellhounds’ sacrifice just yet.
I still have a chance.