Page 8 of Penance

Draco

I n the shadows beneath a sleeping oak tree, I’m watching.

She glides down the sidewalk like a ghost, a ghost of who she used to be. The sunlight catches the chestnut waves of her hair, tied in a modest braid, swaying with every step she takes.

I wanna put my fingers through that hair.

I wanna pull it. Hard. Until she’s crying.

She steps past the tree I’m hiding behind, so close I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. I could grab her around the throat, pull her into the shadows, choke her until she passes out, and fuck her right here.

I could, but I won’t.

She’s my prey, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

But the hunt is a waiting game, and I am nothing if not a patient man.

Mercy looks both ways before she crosses the street, hurrying across the blacktop, and then turning into the church parking lot, her steps slowing as she approaches her parents’ black Toyota.

Their sedan is polished to a gleam, reflecting the clear blue sky and the towering steeple of the church.

Her father steps out first, his graying hair neatly combed and harshly parted, his suit pressed with military precision.

Her mother follows, her floral dress and sweet smile painted perfectly.

They are a masterpiece of small town piousness.

“Mercy, dear,” her mother scolds her, reaching out and pulling her into a deep hug. Mercy looks pained—uncomfortable. “We’ve been waiting for you. What kept you?”

Mercy’s smile is soft, genuine, but I see the way her shoulders roll and her jaw tightens just a little bit.

Did she take her medication this morning?

It would be a shame if she puked right here in the church parking lot.

It would be a shame if everyone saw the sin I planted deep in her womb.

I barely bite back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I lost track of time.”

Mother.

Not mom.

Just as it always has been.

“No excuse,” her father gripes, fixing her with an angry stare.

She swallows hard.

I want to break his neck.

The only one who’s allowed to make her look like that is me.

The only one who is allowed to make her hate herself is me.

I watch Mercy nod and mumble something I can’t hear. An apology, probably.

She’s a pro at this, wearing the mask of a devoted daughter. But I see the cracks in her reflection. I can see the mask slipping, even if no one else can. I know her better than they do. I know how she feels from the inside.

I know what she wants in her heart.

She’s caged, but begging for freedom.

I will give it to her. I’ll give her the freedom she craves, but in my own way.

“You look tired, dear,” her mom says. “Have you been getting enough rest?”

Mercy’s laugh is light, but it’s hiding something at the same time.

“Oh, you know how it is, Mother. It’s always a struggle.”

Her parents exchange a glance. They think they know her. But they don’t know shit about her. They don’t fucking know her, and they never have. They don’t see the fear that flickers in her eyes when she thinks no one is looking. They can’t see how filthy her soul is.

But I see it.

I look past her to the sharp steeple, stark white and reaching to the heavy grey sky overhead.

This building is so familiar, but so different from what I remembered, now that I have uncovered my eyes.

I can feel the weight of regret pressing down on me, dragging me down, my own proverbial cross to bear.

I was past this, wasn’t I?

Now that I knew the truth about the world, and the darkness that lived in it.

So why did I still feel so damn bad?

Why was I still so fucking scared when I saw this place?

I can still smell the incense, the mold clinging to the sides of the confessional, splashed so much with holy water over the years that it was beginning to rot from the inside out.

Just like all the other liars who filed into that limestone building today.

Not a single one of them was free of sin, I just had the balls to be honest about it.

I remembered it, still.

I remembered it all.

The buzz of Sunday sermons, like a shaken hornet’s nest. I could feel the hard wooden pews that made my back ache, and the splinters that dug into my palm if I touched beneath the seat.

I could still feel the endless recitations of scripture—all of it designed to keep people in line, to keep them small and manageable. I see it all for what it is now.

A lie.

It’s all a lie to keep them complacent—to keep us caged.

Not me.

Not anymore.

I shake away the memories of pain, of blood smeared across my palm, and my eyes dart over to the parking lot, searching for her.

It only takes a moment, and I see her.

She’s walking with her parents now, her arm linked through her mother’s. Her laugh is bright, musical, the closest thing to real magic that I’ve ever seen, but I see the way it catches in her throat.

She’s pretending, playing a role like an actress.

She’s lying .

And I can see the weight of it, and the way it presses down on her. She’s a coiled spring, ready to snap.

She’s going to collapse, and when she does, I will be there. I will be the one to pick up her pieces.

As they ascend up the carved limestone steps to enter the church, Mercy pauses, her gaze sweeping over the parking lot as if sensing a presence.

Can she feel me, the way I feel her?

Is her soul reaching for me like mine reaches for hers?

I hold my breath, melting further into the shadows. For a moment, our eyes almost meet, but she turns away, her smile fading just a fraction. I let out my breath in a low, steady exhale.

This is just the beginning, Mercy.

Soon, the shadows will consume you, and you will be as black as I am on the inside.

She steps through the doors, and she’s gone.

I remember the last time I stepped into a church.

I still remember the pain, the tears. I remember the judgment in her eyes.

I remember the way I begged her, silently, to help me, but she didn’t.

I remember how she turned away—ran away.

The way she shrank away from me like I was some disgusting thing. The way she left me there to suffer.

More than anything, I remember how much it hurt. I remember the blood and the way I screamed.

So much blood, and I couldn’t get it to stop. I remember panicking and watching crimson smear across my flesh as I tried to wipe it away.

I remember it all.

I wonder if Mercy remembers?

I’ll make sure she does.

I step out from behind the tree and into the late October chill.

I move across the street, just like she did, but instead of turning into the church parking lot like she did, I move past it, past the Parsons Bakery, and then alongside it, in the alley that leads behind the storefronts—and behind the church.

I find the back entrance cracked open, the dim light seeping through the open doorway, and falling on the old, broken cobblestone path that runs behind the building.

I step up to the door and push it open. The musty scent of old books and incense fills my nostrils, triggering memories of a time when this place offered comfort—before it was the place where my nightmares had come to life.

I step inside, the wooden floor creaking under my weight as I navigate the dimly lit hallway, passing by flickering candles casting dancing shadows on the walls.

The sound of distant murmurs and organ music echoes through the corridors, guiding me forward.

As I reach the end of the hallway, the grand entrance looms in front of me, and I stop, sliding behind the door, peering through the crack.

It doesn’t take me long to find her.

She’s sitting in one of the nearest pews, her parents seated on either side of her like silent guardians. Her smile is a fragile thing, a glass ornament hanging on a thin thread, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

Her eyes, though—they tell a different story.

They tell the story of our child, nestled in her womb, growing steadily. The gift I gave her that she has yet to thank me for.

She will, one day.

The creak of the huge, ornate doors draws her attention.

She turns, just as the door swings open, and Mrs. Jenkins steps into the room, the town pharmacist, her heels clicking against the polished hardwood like a ticking clock.

Her sister and husband follow, flanking her much like Mercy’s parents do.

Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes, sharp and discerning, scan the crowd, lingering on Mercy for a moment.

A little too long.

Mercy sees it too.

Her smile drops. Her eyes roll to the ground, her lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks. Her shoulders hunch forward, a futile attempt to make herself smaller, invisible. Shame radiates from her like heat from a furnace, and fear—oh, the fear is a living thing, writhing beneath her skin.

I can almost taste it.

Fuck, I wish I could taste it.

“Mercy, dear,” Mrs. Jenkins calls out. “How lovely to see you. How have you been?”

Mercy tries to force a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

Will her parents notice?

“Good morning, Mrs. Jenkins. It’s good to see you too.”

Her voice is tiny, terrified. It’s the squeak of a newborn mouse.

My gorgeous little church mouse.

So fragile.

Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes narrow, her gaze sweeping over Mercy. Her smile falters. I can see the questions lurking behind her practiced smile, the suspicion that creases her neatly plucked eyebrows.

She knows something.

Or she thinks she does.

But I know.

I know the secret that Mercy keeps, the one that eats away at her like a cancer. I know the shame that lives inside her, that has its own heartbeat.

Her pregnancy is a noose around her neck, tightening with each day that passes.

I watch Mercy’s hands flit to her stomach, almost protectively.

She’s gonna be such a good mommy.

Her parents’ exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Jenkins, oblivious to the silent battle raging in their daughter’s heart. They are blind to their daughters’ suffering, sleeping through her pain.

But Mercy… she is awake.

Her mother forces a loud, high-pitched laugh.

I wrinkle my nose.

I hate that woman.

I hate her fakeness.

Maybe I’ll kill the old bat in her sleep, and pin it on her stupid husband, sitting behind her and picking his nose in his Sunday best.

That would sure rock this town, wouldn’t it?

After a moment, Mrs. Jenkins moves on, her heels clicking against the polished hardwood as she makes her way towards the front of the pews. Mercy’s shoulders sag in relief, her breath escaping in a rush.

She’s relieved.

Her secret is still hers.

Hers and mine, but she doesn’t know I’m here.

My eyes are locked onto Mercy, my little lamb, as she shifts uncomfortably in her virginal white dress. Her growing belly, still small and flat, but not for long, is a mark of my ownership, a brand that she cannot hide for much longer.

Look at you, Mercy, the voice in my head sneers, my lips curling into a smirk. You are a lamb among wolves, and they will turn on you soon enough. They will eat you alive—tear out your throat—and I will stand here and watch.

Her hands flutter to her stomach again, a nervous tic that she can’t control. She thinks she’s hiding it, but I see the way her parents look at her, their brows furrowed in concern. I see the way Mrs. Jenkins eyeballs her. I see the way she leans over and whispers to her husband.

They’ll cast you out, Mercy, my inner voice purrs. They’ll see your swollen belly and turn their backs, whispering prayers and casting stones. And when they do, you’ll have no one but me, and you’ll run right into my arms. Right where you belong.

I take a step back, melting further into the shadows as her father glances my way. But he sees nothing. I’m not here. It’s a trick of the light, one more ghost that haunts this church. I’ve practiced this dance too many times to be caught by a fucking idiot like him.

“Mother, I need to use the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”

Her mother smiles, pats her knee.

“Hurry now, dear. The service is about to start.”

I watch as Mercy gets to her feet. I watch as her hand falls to her stomach, and I see the lurch in her shoulders that tells me everything I need to know.

She did not take her medication this morning.

Stubborn girl.

I’ll have to change that.

As she passes by my hiding place, once again I could reach out, grab her, claim her right here, right now. But that’s not the game we’re playing. No, my little lamb needs to be isolated, cut off from the herd.

She needs to be alone to need me.