Page 3 of Penance

“Mercy?” she says, and I can hear concern in her voice.

Dr. Thompson’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder, but the room still spins.

I want to jerk away, but I don’t have the energy.

“Mercy, we should run some more tests. I suggest an ultrasound. Okay? And if you’re open to it, I can refer you to a counselor, someone who specializes in situations like yours. ”

“Tests,” I repeat, nodding.

I feel numb.

There are no thoughts in my head, but it’s not quiet. It feels like static.

“Sometimes there are explanations to cases like this,” she says.

“Okay.”

I don’t know what else to do, so I just nod.

Dr. Thompson sighs, her blue eyes creasing at the edges as she smiles.

“But just in case,” she says, pulling out a pen and her prescription pad. “I’m gonna send you home with some prenatal vitamins and some anti-nausea medication until we can get some answers. Just run this across the street on your way home.”

She gives me a warm smile as she scribbles on the sheet, rips it off and hands it to me.

I nod, legs heavy and shaking as I stand, muttering thanks as I shuffle past her, stepping into the corridor. The click of the office door closing behind me feels final, like the period at the end of a sentence.

Pregnant.

I’m pregnant?

The clinic is quiet, as I drop my head and shuffle towards the door. My feet carry me forward automatically, while my mind runs in frantic circles like a caged bird, screaming and begging to be released.

Except there is no escape for me.

I’m trapped here, in my own head.

Outside, the wind is cold. The air bears down on me, heavy with the scent of coming rain. As soon as I step into the world, I can feel it on me like the air itself is clinging to my skin.

“Lord,” I whisper, looking up at the sky. Heaven looks heavy, weighing down on me like so much responsibility that I didn’t ask for. “Is this a test?”

No answer.

It’s just the muffled rumble of the city, cars rattling by on the road not twenty feet away.

“Guide me,” I beg, feeling the tears misting my eyes. “I need your guidance, Lord.”

I suck in a shaking breath and bite back a sob.

“I don’t know what to do.”

I stand there for a minute, waiting.

There’s nothing. No answer. Not even anything inside my head.

Sighing, I wrap my jacket just a little tighter around me as I move to the sidewalk, and then, when it’s clear, I cross the street and move towards the pharmacy. I feel like the eyes in the waiting cars are staring me down. I feel like they know, even if I know that there’s no way they could.

My heart is pounding.

I have gone to this pharmacy since I was a little kid, here on sundays to pick up a newspaper, some snacks, and my dad’s medication.

I know everyone here.

I step through the door, the familiar chime announcing my arrival.

The scent of an old building and hand sanitizer fills my nostrils, and my stomach twists again.

I clutch the prescription in my trembling hand, feeling each step I take echo in the small space.

My eyes flit around, trying to avoid any curious glances from the pharmacy staff.

Maybe no one here will recognize me today?

I can only hope.

The pharmacist behind the counter, Mrs. Jenkins, looks up from where she sits behind the computer, and her smile falters when she sees my face. I must look like a ghost, a shadow of the person she once knew.

She looks almost scared.

“Mercy. Dear, are you okay?” Mrs. Jenkins asks. I can see genuine concern in her eyes. She’s an older woman, my mom’s age, but shorter and rounder, with copper colored eyes behind coke-bottle glasses.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure.

I want to throw myself on the ground and start crying and screaming, but I can’t do that.

I have to be ladylike.

“I-I’m fine, Mrs. Jenkins. Not… feeling well.” I clear my throat, my middle finger shaking as I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Just here to pick up a prescription.”

She nods and retrieves the paper as I hold it out to her. As she reads it over, her brow furrows, and she looks down the end of her crooked nose at me.

She’s judging me.

“Prenatal vitamins and anti-nausea medication?”

I nod silently, dropping my eyes to the ground.

She knows now.

She knows, and she goes to church with my parents.

She plays bridge with my mom every Saturday night.

She’s going to tell them.

If she knows, they will too.

She hand’s the paper back to me with a raised eyebrow.

“Hmm,” Mrs Jenkins hums as she twists away from the counter and disappears into the rows of medications.

I suck in a shaking breath, feeling it unwind the tightening in my gullet, but it only lasts for a second.

“Mercy Clarke. Look at you.”

His voice slithers through the air, familiar yet somehow so foreign that it sends a shiver down my spine.

I stop, not daring to move or even breathe, my heart pounding against my rib cage. Swallowing hard, I turn to the left, in the direction the voice had come from and there he is.

Draco Killian stands there, leaning casually against the brick wall, hood drawn over his head, casting his face in shifting shadows.

His wide shoulders bulge with muscles beneath a simple black jacket.

I allow my eyes to follow the natural line of his body, stopping at his hands, dangling at his sides.

A tattoo of a red serpentine eye winks at me from the back of one hand.

It feels like a bad omen.

I dwell on it for only a second before my eyes shoot back up to his face. Those eyes—those intense brown eyes—they pierce through me, sharp as daggers. There’s a salacious glint in those eyes that seems to mock my distress, to relish it.

It’s like he knows I feel pain, and he likes it—feeds on it.

The world tilts for a moment, and I’m frozen, caught in the snare of his gaze.

“Draco,” I manage to say, my voice no more than a breathless whisper.

“What are you doin’ here? Trouble sleeping?”

His voice, smooth as silk but laced with malice, sends shivers through me.

His question isn’t a question, really. It’s an accusation wrapped up in a nice little velvet package and topped with a bow.

He knows way too much about me. He knows me possibly better than my own parents do, and after what he’s turned into, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I can’t help but feel like he knows something, something about me that I’m not even aware of yet. His ability to unravel me with just a glance is unnerving.

“I… I was just picking up a prescription,” I stammer, trying to sound composed despite the tremor in my voice.

Draco’s lips curl into a sly smile, revealing a glint of amusement in his eyes. He pushes himself off the wall and takes slow, deliberate steps towards me. Stepping up to the counter, he towers over my five-foot frame and reaches down, snatching the prescription out of my hand.

I gulp.

“Prenatal vitamins and anti-nausea pills,” he questions with a wicked grin. “How interesting. ”

I can feel myself blushing, and I clear my throat.

“I thought you had to have sex to get pregnant, little virgin.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

The way he says “little virgin” carries a sneer that makes my skin crawl, as if he’s tearing away at my decency with every syllable. It’s like he can see right through me, through the shield I’ve put up and all the way down to the marrow of my bones.

“It’s none of your business,” I retort.

I try to sound strong, like the women I’ve read about in scripture who faced down demons and kings and even the devil himself.

I fail.

I sound like a scared little girl, and he’s going to feed at my weakness right here in public.

Draco’s grin widens, like a predator reveling in the fear of its prey. He leans in closer, the scent of something dark and earthy wafting over me. I can feel his breath on my face, hot and intoxicating, and I shiver, yanking my eyes away.

I can’t look at him.

“Oh, but it is my business now, Mercy. I’ve made it my business.”

His words send a chill down my spine, and I take a step back, bumping into the counter behind me.

I’m stuck. I can’t get away.

I chance a glance at him.

Bad idea.

Draco’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes boring into my soul, searching for something I can’t comprehend.

The pentagram tattoo on his other hand seems to pulse as he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from my face.

I shiver when the back of his long fingers brush against my cheek and linger there for just a moment.

Mrs. Jenkins reappears with the medications in hand, her eyes flickering between Draco and me, no doubt sensing the tension that hangs in the air.

“Mr. Killian,” Mrs. Jenkins spits, her voice laced with a hint of unease. “Can I help you with something?”

Her gaze shifts between us, finally landing on me, and creeping down towards my stomach.

Draco straightens, his fingers slowly trailing away from my face as he turns to Mrs. Jenkins. A charming smile spreads across his lips, but it’s fake, and anyone who knows him will see it.

“Just making sure Mercy’s taken care of,” he replies smoothly. “She seemed a little distressed this morning, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

Biting down on my shivering lower lip, I reach out and snatch the paper bag from her hand, a little harder than I had meant to.

“Th-thank you,” I whisper, flashing her a tight smile. “I need to go.”

I flip around, clutching my coat tight around my chest as I hurry to the door. I barely place my hand on it when I hear Draco’s malicious drawl behind me.

“Looks like Little Miss Prim and Proper isn’t so proper now, is she?”

I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, sliding up my cheeks and disappearing into my hairline.

I turn and glare at him.

He’s grinning wildly, and it sends my heart rocketing down into the pit of my stomach.

“Are you a whore, Mercy?” he whispers, following after me.

He’s so tall. He closes the distance between us in no time, and then he’s towering over me, bearing down on me like a shadow.

“Or are you going to commit another sin and claim immaculate conception? We all know how babies are made, baby girl.”

I can’t think.

I can’t breathe.

I slip around him, push through the door and hurry out onto the street.

* * *

I slam the door behind me, my heart racing as the echo of Draco’s laughter lingers in my head. The paper bag crumples against the counter when I toss it, slamming against the fruit bowl and knocking it sideways. An apple rolls to the floor with a soft thud, and I come to a stop, staring at it.

Apples are a symbol of sin, a symbol of Adam and Eve and their fall from the garden.

This was a sign.

This was God speaking to me.

I kick off my shoes, and they thud against the hardwood, making me jump. Twisting around, I hurry down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom. Each step feels heavy, weighed down.

I can feel the panic.

The familiar sight of my sanctuary greets me—a small room decorated with soft colors and crosses that have always brought me comfort.

But today, they feel distant, almost mocking.

I race to the bedside table, nearly knocking over the lamp in my hurry.

My breath is quick, shallow; I need peace, something to drown out the thoughts of him, the way he leaned in so close that I could smell the hint of smoke and the tang of blood.

I needed to wash away his sin.

I push aside the clutter—the books, the rosary beads—and search for something tangible, something to anchor me in this chaos. My fingers graze the smooth surface of my Bible, its pages worn and frayed. Clutching it to my chest, I screw my eyes closed.

“Please, God,” I whisper, my voice shaking and raw. “Help me understand.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I bow my head. Darkness lingers at the edges of my mind, filled with memories of Draco’s eyes—those deep brown pools that seem to pin me down, like I’m a butterfly, and his eyes are collectors pins, nailing me down to be hung on display.

“Please, Lord,” I plead again. “Just give me guidance.”

As I kneel there, the shadows stretch around me, whispering doubts that claw at my thoughts.

I draw in a shaky breath and slowly open my eyes, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the small room.

My gaze lifts, landing on the crucifix that hangs above me—a stark silhouette against the wall.

For a moment, the sight pulls me from the whirlwind of chaos and uncertainty, wrapping me in a fragile cocoon of comfort.

“Help me,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips. They hang in the air around me, trembling with sincerity.

But there is nothing. No answer.

I’m alone.

There is no one to help me.