Page 9 of Penance

Mercy

I hurry down the sidewalk, the evening air crisp and chilling my tear-streaked cheeks. After church and Sunday brunch—which I struggled to eat a single bite of—there is not much of the short fall day left to guide me home.

The weight of my guilt and fear presses down on my shoulders, and I feel like I’m going to collapse under the weight.

How long can I keep my secret?

Days?

Weeks, maybe.

Months?

No way, it will be too obvious by then.

The life I once knew now seems distorted, a painting smeared by an angry hand. Each step forward feels like a descent into the unknown, the familiar streets now alien and cold.

What did I do to deserve this?

Why do I deserve this pain? This uncertainty?

Once again, my hand falls to the bottom of my belly, pressing lightly.

Dr. Thompson called this morning. I have an appointment in a week, and they’ll do an ultrasound.

Maybe it’s not true.

Maybe it’s a tumor.

I can only hope.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, and my heart slams in my chest. I can hear footsteps behind me, following me. I strain my ears, listening as I slow my own stride.

Someone is following me , I think, my breath hitching in my throat. I can feel it, like a whispered touch along the nape of my neck.

There is someone there.

I quicken my pace, my feet moving swiftly over the uneven concrete slabs.

Lord, protect me, I pray silently.

Maybe it’s the man who has been breaking into my apartment at night, the man who raped me.

The thought brings a fresh wave of bile that climbs up my throat, and I fight to swallow it back.

I duck sharply into a narrow alley, the sudden shift in direction sending my heart lurching against my ribs and my breath catching in my throat. The cool brick wall meets my back, rough as I press myself against it. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, and I’m fighting to keep them soft, silent.

But I’m failing, and I know it.

I suck in a shaking breath, a hand pressed to my chest.

Mother raised me to be strong. She didn’t raise me to be a fawn. She raised me to stand up to evil, to stare it down with God’s light at my back.

The footsteps are louder now, their echo bouncing off the stone walls of the alley like mocking laughter. I brace myself, fingers digging into the brick behind me. A figure turns the corner, and I bite back a scream.

“Draco?!”

His tall frame is cloaked in a black coat, the hood drawn up, casting his face in shadow. But I know it’s him. I can see the ink on the back of his hands, even in the low light. I can feel the weight of those eyes.

“Why are you following me?” I spit, a little angrier than I had meant to.

Why am I angry?

I shouldn’t be.

I should be relieved.

It’s just Draco.

He pauses, his body tensing. He stares down at me, his dark eyes staring right through me, into my soul.

How does he do that?

He always has.

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he takes a step closer, his boots crunching on the gravel as he devours the space between us.

“Sorry,” he says finally, his voice a low rumble. It’s a sound that once brought comfort. Now, it sends a shiver down my spine. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone in the dark.”

The sound of my heartbeat thrashes against my eardrums, but I stand my ground, my breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

Draco’s eyes widen slightly. His brows furrow, and for a moment, I swear I see a glint of concern, but it’s swallowed almost instantly by annoyance, his jaw tightening as if I’ve interrupted some careful calculation.

How dare I protect myself?

He’s angry that I noticed him?

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me,” he says, looking away. His voice is a blend of gravel and silk, a tone that used to make me feel safe, now sends alarm bells ringing in my head. He tilts his head, the hood shifting to reveal more of his face.

I had been expecting someone else. I had been expecting the one who was hurting me.

Could Draco be behind it all? The thought sends a wave of nausea crashing through me. No, not Draco.

He had turned away from the church, but that didn’t make him evil.

He was good, deep down.

He would never hurt me.

I search his eyes, looking for the boy I once knew, the one who held my hand during thunderstorms and promised to keep the monsters away. But all I see is a stranger. It’s like I don’t know him anymore.

Is that my fault, or his?

I want to scream, to demand answers, to beg him to tell me it’s all a mistake.

But the words catch in my throat, trapped behind a barrier of fear and doubt.

My fingers press harder against the wall, the rough surface grounding me in reality.

I feel pain biting into my fingertips, the burn of fresh wounds.

I need the pain to keep me grounded.

“You’re scared,” Draco states, his voice void of emotion. “I just wanna help you. That’s all.”

Am I scared? Yes, but not of him.

But am I wrong not to be?

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Draco,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s a challenge, a plea, a desperate cry for him to prove me wrong.

Why do I want so badly to be proven wrong?

Because I want to be protected, and I know I can’t protect myself?

Draco’s expression shifts, a subtle softening that gives me a glimmer of hope, but it’s fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a cold detachment. He leans in, and I have to force myself not to shiver as our eyes meet.

“Dammit, Mercy, I was just trying to be nice.”

I flinch at his crude language, the word cutting through me like a shard of ice. This isn’t the Draco I knew, the boy who used to quote scripture with warmth in his eyes.

This Draco is cold, damaged.

This Draco has been broken.

His hands clench at his sides.

“Trying to be nice?” I echo, my voice barely audible.

His eyes flash, a storm of annoyance and something darker.

“Yes, Mercy,” he growls. I can see the muscles around his eyes tightening, pulling at the corners as he grinds the words out. “You think I fucking wanted this? To follow you around like some creep?”

I gasp. The old Draco never would have spoken like this, not to me. It’s like a physical blow, striking me with full force. I take a step back, my shoulders hitting the cold brick wall behind me.

“You don’t need to do this, Draco,” I tell him, my voice trembling. “I don’t need your help.”

He scoffs, a harsh sound that grates against my ears. His brown eyes roll.

“You don’t know what you need, Mercy,” he snaps. “You’re so wrapped up in your fucking faith, you can’t see the reality staring you in the face.”

“And you can’t see the good that’s left in you,” I quip back, anger rising in me. “The Draco I knew wouldn’t talk like this. He wouldn’t act like this, and sure wouldn’t question my faith, or his .”

His eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that cold detachment. He takes a step back, his jaw set in a hard line.

“You’re right, Mercy,” he says, his voice a low growl that shakes with bitterness.

“The old me wouldn’t have. The old me would be just as blind and stupid as you are.

But ya know what? The old me is dead and fucking buried.

The old me bled out in the back of that fuckin’ church, and you just stood there and watched. ”

He scoffs, looking down his nose at me as he turns away, into the shadows.

“I don’t know why I bothered. You’ve made your choice, and it’s not me.” His words are cold and cutting, sharpened to a point, designed to wound. He takes a step away, his boots grinding against the gravel.

Guilt surges through me, a hot, choking wave that constricts my throat.

“Draco, wait.”

The street stretches out before me, a yawning chasm that Draco’s retreating form disappears into. His shoulders are hunched, hands buried in his pockets. He shrugs, dismissively pushing me away.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I shouldn’t have expected anything different. Mercy Clarke is too fucking good for trash like me, even if I am just trying to protect you.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down.

The night air grows colder, or maybe it’s just the emptiness he leaves that sucks all the warmth that was left right out of me.

The first tendrils of fog curl around the street lamps, casting an eerie glow on the cobblestones.

The shadows dance at the edges of my vision, whispering accusations, bitterness.

Why did I push him away?

Why do I keep doing that?

My mind flashes back to simpler times, when Draco was just a boy with mischief in his eyes, and a smile on his lips. We used to laugh together, play together. We watched movies together. We had sleepovers.

But that was before—before the shadows claimed him, and my faith built walls between us.

My faith teaches forgiveness, compassion, yet I’ve shown him none.

Instead, I’ve met him with resistance, with judgment.

“Draco?”

He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps walking.

A cat darts out from a nearby alley, its eyes glowing like lanterns in the gloom. It pauses, watching me warily before disappearing into the shadows. I envy its freedom, its ability to hide from the world. If only I could do the same.

When Draco’s gone—out of sight—I hurry down the sidewalk, my eyes on the concrete and my mind far, far away, tangled with thoughts that stab and cut like thorns.

My apartment building looms ahead, its silhouette stark against the indigo sky. Each window is a blank, accusatory eye, reflecting the cold moonlight. The sight of it fills me with dread, a heavy weight settling in my chest.

As I reach the door, my keys jangle in my trembling hand, the metallic clink echoing with an odd merriment that feels eerie and out of place.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings inward, revealing the shadows of my apartment.

I step inside, the door closing behind me with a snap, a barrier sealing me off from the world.

Once again, I am alone, and I have no one to blame but myself.