Page 38 of Penance

The bible states that all children are born innocent, so what do they have to be ashamed of? It’s a walking contradiction, and I know it pins them right where I want them.

He steps towards me, and I plant my feet.

Come on, hit me.

I’ll put you in the fucking hospital.

“Robert,” Mrs. Clarke says sharply, grabbing her husband’s arm. “Not here. Not now.”

He backs down, but the rage doesn’t leave his eyes.

“We should go inside,” Mrs. Clarke continues, her gaze finally sweeping over me with clinical detachment. She’s disgusted. Good. “Service starts in ten minutes.”

She turns without waiting for a response and walks through the doors, her spine straight as a ruler. Mr. Clarke follows, his shoulders rigid beneath his Sunday suit. Once they’re out of earshot, Mercy turns to me, her expression naked with hurt.

Her parents have shunned her, disowned her.

She has no one.

She wants to run, but she has nowhere to go.

I guide her forward again, up the steps toward the church entrance.

The rain is letting up slightly, transitioning from a downpour to a steady drizzle.

Other churchgoers hurry past, some with umbrellas, others with Bibles held over their heads as makeshift shields.

They cast curious glances our way, these good Christians who’ve heard the whispers, the rumors, the speculation.

How many of them know?

Who has her mother told?

Mercy shrinks under their scrutiny, her shoulders hunching forward as if she could disappear into herself. I, on the other hand, stand taller, meeting their stares and holding them until they fold and look away.

Let them look.

Soon they’ll have much more to talk about than vague suspicions.

I push the door open, feeling its weight, like I’m holding the lid to my very own coffin. As we cross the threshold, I’m acutely aware of the smell of incense.

That goddamn nightmare inducing smell.

Behind us, the door swings shut with a soft whisper. The sound of finality—of no return.

I glance at Mercy.

The perfect offering.

I straighten my shoulders, adjust my tie, and lead Mercy into the heart of the church, where judgment waits like a silent predator, ready to ambush her and rip out her throat.

I guide Mercy to a pew at the back of the church, my hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. The wooden bench creaks as we sit, the sound drawing several heads in our direction before they quickly turn away—too polite or too scared to stare.

Light filters through stained glass windows, casting muted halos across bent heads and folded hands. From our position at the back, I can see the entire congregation—rows of pressed suits and modest dresses, all facing forward like obedient sheep.

They don’t know that they are waiting for slaughter, but that it’s coming from the inside, from one of their own.

Mercy’s parents sit in the front pew. They haven’t looked back once since we entered. I wonder if they suspect what’s coming.

“Are you okay?” I whisper to Mercy.

She nods mechanically, eyes fixed on the altar. Her hands twist in her lap. I place my hand over hers, squeezing to stop her.

“Just breathe,” I tell her. “It will all be over soon. Then we’ll never have to come back.”

Her eyes flash open and she looks over at me, her mouth dropped open.

She hadn’t been expecting that.

The organ begins to play, and it vibrates through me like a second heartbeat. The congregation rises as one, and we follow, though Mercy stumbles and nearly falls forward as she does.

When he steps up onto the podium, I watch Pastor Williams. He’s older, in his 60s, with intense eyes and a carefully calculated exterior. He’s known Mercy since she was a child.

He baptized her.

Confirmed her.

He’s like a member of her extended family.

He hasn’t looked at her once today.

Pastor Williams approaches the pulpit with a measured smile on his face. He places his Bible down, adjusts the microphone, and sweeps his gaze across the congregation before speaking. He is careful not to look at me.

Bastard.

“Today,” he says, “I want to talk about penance.”

Beside me, Mercy stiffens. I resist the urge to smile. The topic couldn’t be more perfect if I’d chosen it myself.

All the pieces are falling into place.

“Penance is not merely saying ‘I’m sorry.’ It is not a quick prayer before bed or a hasty confession followed by the same sins committed again and again.

” Pastor Williams leans forward, his hands gripping the edges of the pulpit.

“True penance requires acknowledgment. Requires remorse. Requires change. It requires true belief, and regret for ones actions.”

I let my gaze drift from the pastor to the small table beside the pulpit, where a laptop and projector remote sit waiting.

“In the book of Luke, chapter fifteen, we find the tale of the Prodigal Son,” Pastor Williams continues. “A young man who squandered his inheritance on what the scripture calls ‘riotous living.’ On sin and self-indulgence. He thinks only of himself, and not of the people around him. ”

My thumb traces the outline of the flash drive in my pocket.

“When he returned home, did he make excuses? Did he blame others for his failures? No.” The pastor’s voice rises with conviction. “He realized his mistakes. He said, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’”

Mercy shifts beside me. She seems uncomfortable.

I wonder if she sees herself woven through the sermon, if she recognizes herself in the one who must beg forgiveness. If she understands that in the eyes of everyone here, she is the one who has fallen.

Not me.

Never me.

“This is true penance,” Pastor Williams says, his gaze sweeping across the congregation. “Taking responsibility for our actions. Acknowledging the harm we’ve caused. Only then can healing begin.”

Something hot races through my veins.

Not yet.

Soon.

“And yet,” the pastor continues, “how often do we see false penance in our world today? People who say the words without truly meaning them. Who seek forgiveness not because they are truly sorry, but because they wish to escape the consequences of their actions. God says that without the shedding of blood, there is no penance. He says this in Hebrews, Chapter 9, verse 22. And well, you may be saying to yourself that that’s pretty harsh.

I thought God was a loving God. Why would he want me to harm myself, or harm others? ”

I stand up suddenly, yanking on my coat to straighten it. Mercy looks up at me, confusion and fear clouding her eyes.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, reaching for my hand.

I step away from her, into the aisle.

“Excuse me,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the pastor’s voice.

Pastor Williams pauses, clearly startled.

“Yes,” he says, and he clears his throat. He knows me. He recognizes me. “Draco? Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I say, moving toward the pulpit. My heart pounds in my chest.

Am I nervous?

Excited?

I can’t quite say.

“But I think what you’re saying is too important to let pass without comment.”

The congregation stirs, adjusting their wings like a disturbed nest of hornets. This is not how things are done here. Not in this church. I am an outsider now, even if I was born here.

I have no right.

I reach the front of the aisle and turn to face them all. I can see Mercy clearly. I can see the confusion and dread painted on her face like war paint. Her parents wear matching expressions of outrage.

“Penance is an interesting term, really,” I say, my voice low and steady. “We talk about it as if it’s something sacred. Like it’s this big sacrifice. But isn’t it just another word for punishment? Time out, like you’d give to a toddler?”

Pastor Williams takes a step toward me, his hand extended as if to guide me back to my seat. I step away from him.

If he touches me, I’ll break his fucking wrist.

“Perhaps we could discuss this after the service—”

“I think we should discuss it now,” I interrupt, my fingers visibly shaking as I reach for the projector remote. The tremor isn’t from fear—it’s from something else, but I’m not sure what. “While we’re all here together. While we’re all thinking about sin and forgiveness and truth.”

I can see Mercy half-rising from her seat, her mouth forming words I can’t hear from this distance.

I can’t look at her.

I pull my eyes away.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about penance lately. About who deserves punishment and who deserves forgiveness. About the difference between what we say and what we do.”

I insert the flash drive into the laptop with a click, loud enough to carry through the silent church. The screen flickers to life, connecting to the projector mounted on the ceiling.

“Some of you may have heard rumors,” I say, addressing the congregation directly now.

“Whispers about me. About Mercy Clarke. What is she hiding? Why is she lowering herself to my level? Wouldn’t you like to know the truth?

Isn’t that what this community is built on?

Truth and light ? Isn’t Mercy Clarke a good, pure woman? Why is she with a sinner like me?”

Before anyone can respond, I press the button on the remote. The projector hums to life.

The video begins to play.

Mercy appears on screen, her face tear-streaked but earnest. She sits on the kitchen floor, hands clasped in her lap—a posture remarkably similar to the way she prays.

Except in the video, she prays only to me, because I am her God.

“Please, Draco,” she says, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please?”

My own voice responds from off-camera.

“Please what?”

“Please, Draco,” she says. “Please touch me?”

“I already touched you. Try again.”

On screen, she shakes her head violently.

“Please have sex with me?”

The congregation watches in stunned silence. Some of them gasp.

And then, as if the silence itself has become too heavy, it shatters.

“NO!”

Mercy is on her feet, her entire body trembling. I turn to look at her, and she points up at the screen, tears pouring down her face.

I can’t look at her.

It hurts.

Why is it so damn painful?

“That’s not—” She struggles to find words, her breath coming in harsh gasps. “That’s not how it happened!”

A dull hum ripples through the congregation.

Uncertainty.

Doubt.

They don’t believe her.

Exactly as I’d planned.

“He raped me!” Mercy shouts, her voice breaking on the accusation. The word echoes through the church, bouncing off stained glass and polished wood. “Draco raped me!”

On the screen, Mercy continues, her voice breaking.

“Please fuck me Draco! Please? PLEASE?! God, please, I’ll do anything. I’ll do whatever you want!”

I pause the video at this exact moment. The image looms over the church, ten feet tall and unmistakable. I turn to face the congregation, my expression carefully crafted to convey hurt and betrayal.

“I fucked Mercy Clarke,” I say softly, knowing they hang on my every word. “She begged for me, and now she’s saying I raped her.”

The church is silent.

No one moves.

No one speaks, but they all turn to look at her.

“She’s pregnant,” I say, my hands clasped in front of me. “And it’s mine. And Mercy hid it from all of you. Mercy lied about being pure, and now she’s lying about being a victim.”

Mercy stares at me. She’s shaking. She’s stopped breathing again, just like she does.

No one moves to comfort her.

No one speaks in her defense—not even her parents, who sit frozen in the front row, their faces drained of color.

With a half-sob, half-scream, Mercy turns and rushes down the aisle toward the exit.

She stumbles, her hands flying up to her mouth, and when she throws the double doors open, I hear her retch.

The doors slam shut behind her, and I feel a sense of pride knowing she’ll never be welcome through them again.

For a moment, no one moves. They look at me, at the frozen image of Mercy on the screen. The pastor stands with one hand braced against the pulpit, his expression unreadable.

Perfect.

The congregation erupts into whispers, heads bent together, hands gesturing, faces flushed with the excitement of scandal.

Scandalous.

Horrific.

Pastor Williams finally steps up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder and guiding me away from the pulpit as he pulls the projector remote out of my hand.

I let him.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says quietly, his eyes troubled. “We… we should all take time to pray on this matter before rushing to judgment.”

But judgment has already been passed.

I can see it in their faces, hear it in their whispers.

The seed of doubt has been planted. It doesn’t matter what Mercy says now, what evidence she might present. The image of her begging, pleading on that screen will override everything else.

She’ll never be welcome back.

I’ve taken the last piece of her puzzle.

I’ve taken the church.

As I walk down the aisle, I catch fragments of conversations on either side of me.

“Always seemed so pure!”

“Who would have thought?”

“Mercy? With Draco? I never would have guessed.”

I straighten my tie, smooth down my jacket, and fold my hands in front of me as I continue down the aisle.

My work is done.

Everything is perfect.

I never have to come back here again.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Sunlight breaks through the clouds, and in the distance, over the trees, I can see the arch of a rainbow. As I step out the double doors, the pastor’s voice resumes, continuing his sermon. Except his words are hollow now.

No one is listening.

They’re all thinking about Mercy.

About me.

About the video.

When the double doors slide shut behind me, I stand on the steps of the church looking out over the parking lot. I find my car, a low shadow that doesn’t fit with the others, way in the back of the lot.

Mercy isn’t there.

I look to my right, to a row of benches and tables.

Nothing.

Mercy is gone.