Page 37 of Penance

Draco

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles drain white, the damp chill of the morning seeping all the way through my flesh and into my bones.

Beside me, Mercy stares out the passenger window, her reflection fractured by raindrops that race across the glass.

Her cheeks glisten with tears she hasn’t bothered to wipe away.

The space between us stretches wider than the few inches of center console.

I can feel her pulling away from me.

I can feel her hating me.

No.

No, this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.

I have to fix this.

“Its getting cold,” I say.

Why did I say that?

Do I really have nothing better to say to her?

Mercy doesn’t respond. Her hands are clenched in her lap, fingers intertwined so tightly I can see the pressure points where flesh meets bone, turning her knuckles the same shade as mine.

Her chestnut hair falls in damp strands around her face, no longer in the neat braid she typically wears to church.

I ease off the gas as we approach a red light. The car slows, and in the stillness, I hear her breathing—shallow, quick inhales followed by shuddering exhales. She’s trying not to cry, and she’s failing.

My gaze drifts to her face, and I just look at her.

Why did it have to be like this?

Why did she have to do this to me and make me like this?

Why did I have to break her to have her the way I wanted?

The light turns green. I press down on the accelerator gently, not wanting to disturb her—funny, really, considering what I’m planning.

The car moves forward, tires hissing against wet pavement.

Droplets of water streak across my side window, distorting the world outside into abstract smears of color and shape, like the ghosts of buildings that loom over me.

I let my right hand fall from the steering wheel, reaching slowly across the center console.

When my fingers brush against hers, I feel her flinch, but she doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she grabs my hand with surprising strength, her nails digging crescents into my skin.

It’s like she’s clinging to me, desperately.

Will she do the same after I destroy her?

My thoughts stop, and I shake my head.

That’s the first time I’ve second guessed myself.

Why did I do that?

The rain intensifies, tapping against the roof of the car like impatient fingers.

The windshield wipers struggle to keep pace, and I lean forward slightly, squinting through the glass.

The church is still ten minutes away, but I can feel it pulling me forward like a black hole, inevitable and consuming.

It still makes my heart speed up to see it.

It still makes me want to run, but I don’t.

Mercy’s grip on my hand tightens. A tear splashes onto our intertwined fingers. I watch it travel down the ridge of my knuckle before disappearing into the fabric of my sleeve.

Her head leans against the passenger door, temple pressed to the cool glass. I study the curve of her neck, the way her pulse jumps beneath her skin. I just drink in her face, her lips, the light in her eyes. I look at everything like it’s the last time I will ever see her.

What if it is?

It can’t be.

I won’t let that happen.

I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, where headlights from oncoming cars reflect off the wet asphalt in long, distorted streaks.

I release her hand and return mine to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly as we round a curve.

The church spire appears in the distance, a dark spike against the gray sky, and I feel it like a stake through the heart.

Mercy turns away from me again, retreating into herself.

I watch from the corner of my eye as she presses her forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass in expanding and contracting clouds.

Her left hand moves unconsciously to her stomach, resting there briefly before dropping back to her lap.

The gesture isn’t lost on me. Neither is its significance.

I feel it pressing down on my chest, restricting my breathing. Not out of guilt, but out of anticipation.

I don’t feel guilty.

Guilt implies regret, and I regret nothing.

Everything is falling into place, piece by careful piece.

This feeling in the pit of my stomach?

This nagging?

It’s just a momentary lapse in judgment.

We pull into the parking lot and pass a sign welcoming us to holy grounds. The parking lot rises ahead of us, already half-filled with cars.

The perfect audience.

Mercy straightens in her seat, wiping quickly at her face with both hands.

Her fingers tremble as she tucks stray hairs behind her ears, trying to gain some sense of order, at least with her appearance.

The hazy grey glow from the rain swollen sky overhead catches on the dampness on her cheeks, and she looks so ghostly I have to look away.

But I’m too late.

She looks over at me, and if I had been standing, I think I would have dropped to my knees right then and there.

For a moment, I think she sees through me—through the facade. For a moment, I think she glimpses what lurks beneath.

Can she see the monster that lives inside me?

The monster that was born, screaming and bloody, in one of the back rooms of this church.

But then she nods, slow and resigned, and I know my secret is safe.

For now, but not much longer.

I guide the car into a space near the back of the lot, away from the main entrance, where fewer eyes will witness our arrival. The engine dies with a shudder when I turn the key, leaving only the sound of rain on metal and Mercy’s uneven breathing.

I glance at the church building looming before us, at the stained glass windows depicting saints and martyrs, at the cross mounted high above the entrance.

“Ready?” I ask, knowing full well she isn’t.

She nods anyway, not wanting me to see the truth. I push my door open, and the rain immediately assaults me, cold drops finding their way down the collar of my shirt as I push my door closed. The smell of wet asphalt rises from the ground as I circle around to her side.

I open her door with a flourish that feels both gentlemanly and theatrical. The audience is gathering—I can see them now. Two figures standing beneath the overhang of the church entrance, their posture rigid even from this distance.

I can feel their eyes on me.

Mercy’s parents.

Good, let them look.

They’ll have a lot more to look at very soon.

Mercy hesitates for a fraction of a second before placing her trembling fingers in mine. Her skin is cool and damp, either from tears or nervous sweat, I can’t tell which. She steps out of the car, her legs unsteady beneath her.

“They’re watching,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on her parents.

“Let them,” I reply, squeezing her hand with a perfectly measured amount of reassurance. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

The lie tastes sweet, like communion wine on my tongue.

I shut the car door behind her and pull her forward, one arm protectively around her shoulders. She’s stiff in my arms. The parking lot stretches before us, a patchwork of aging asphalt and faded yellow lines.

Mercy’s parents don’t move from their position, forcing us to come face to face with them in order to enter the church. They’re trying to scare me off.

Don’t they know I’ve dealt with things a whole hell of a lot bigger than either of them?

“They hate me,” she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it beneath the patter of rain.

“They don’t. They’re confused,” I tell her. “They don’t understand.”

Her fingers dig into my hand, clinging as if I’m a lifeline rather than the undertow that will drag her under. The irony doesn’t escape me. I allow myself a small smile, quickly concealed as we draw near enough for her parents to see our expressions clearly.

Mrs. Clarke’s face is a map of disapproval, lines etched deeply around her down-turned mouth and between her over plucked brows.

She’s aged a decade in the week since Mercy told her what happened.

Her hair, usually arranged in a neat bun, seems hastily pinned today, strands escaping to frame her face and stick up like ten horns upon her head.

Where are her crowns?

Mr. Clarke stands slightly behind his wife, his large frame somehow diminished by the circumstances.

His eyes, so like Mercy’s in shape and color, fix on me with an anger that I can feel, even at a distance.

His right hand rests at his side, fingers curling and uncurling as if he’s imagining them around my throat.

I hope he is.

I hope he wants me dead.

And after today, I hope he fuckin’ does something about it.

Give me a reason to draw blood, old man, and I’ll take it.

“Mercy,” Mrs. Clarke says as we approach, her voice as cold as the rain that falls around us. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

“Hi mom,” Mercy replies, but she doesn’t look up.

I strengthen my grip on her waist, and I make sure her parents can see me do it.

Let them see.

Let them wonder.

Let them hate.

“We saved seats in the front,” Mr. Clarke says, addressing his daughter while glaring at me. “Next to Pastor Williams.”

He isn’t subtle.

Front row.

Visible to everyone.

It’s a challenge.

“We’ll sit near the back,” I counter, my voice pleasant but firm. I turn to her, my expression softening. “Closest to the bathroom, in case Mercy needs it.”

Mrs. Clarke’s mouth tightens into a line so thin that I’m not sure she has lips anymore.

“The back. Where no one can see you. To hide your shame?”

“She has nothing to be ashamed of,” I spit back. “Do you?”

The question hangs between us. Mercy’s hand goes slack in mine, and I know without looking that fresh tears are welling in her eyes. Her father’s face flushes deep red, blood vessels standing out along his temples.

He wants to hit me.

He wants to fucking hit me.

I’ve asked the perfect question, after all.

Are they ashamed of their grandchild?