Page 21 of Priestly Sins

He looks up, defiant. “Back off. I don’t owe you anything.”

I drop my elbow onto his temple and take his momentary disorientation to grab a knife from the knife block on the counter. He holds his swelling, red eye and tries to shout just as I plunge it into his thigh. Blood squirts out over both of us.

He screams in pain, grabbing his leg, his swelling eye holding mine.

“Okay then. I’ll try another tactic. Girls or boys?”

His snotty-nosed crying prefaces his one-word answer. “Both.”

“How old?”

“I don’t—”

I yank the knife out of his leg and kick the chair. He loses his balance and grabs for the gash in his thigh. A second plunge below his collarbone, right between the sternum and the rib, makes a wet sound. When I yank the blade back, blood blooms on his shirt and glugs out down his body.

“You fucking do.”

“I—”

Another stab, this time to the chest. It’s shallow, for pain’s sake, not meant to kill.

“I’m losing patience. Last chance.” I hold the knife aloft.

“Young.” He pauses, sucking deep to get his breath, holding up a hand for a moment. “Okay. I—”

For a split second, Clara’s smiling face flashes in my brain. And that’s it, I snap.

“You’ll never touch another kid again, you sick fuck.”

The knife punctures his throat and stands cocked there, the gurgling sound bringing peace to my angry, unsettled mind. I begin to recite that prayer and wonder if he’s even worth the wasted air. I’ve always felt it offers some measure of forgiveness for us both. God, I hope it does. By the time, I get to “Amen,” I watch as he fights for his last breath, I glare down at him.

“And fuck you!”

I wipe the knife of fingerprints with a tea towel I grab off Terry’s counter, careful not to step in his pooling blood. I’ve never had to consider that before, but I do in this case. It wouldn’t do to be found out due to bloody footprints. I use the towel to exit the back door, and stuff it into my back jeans pocket. A concrete sidewalk leads to an unlit street. Thank God because his blood is all over me. I care nothing of his life.

Any fucker who would touch a child doesn’t deserve to live, and the death I offered was too kind. Truly. But I’m pissed as fuck I have to trash my Cubs tee.

Twelve

My morning run doesn’t do what it usually does: clear my head, dissolve the angry hurricane of emotion that churns in my belly, and flatten what threatens to become a friar’s gut from all the cupcakes I’ve been eating.

I need the clarity. I need the time away.

Terry was a sick fuck and, even knowing what I’ve become, I wouldn’t change last night.

I pass Petites Fleurs and make my seven miles before the smell of urine and stale vomit turns my stomach and sends me back toward the rectory and to my shower. Rubbing one out will have to do for clearing my brain and setting the tone for my day.

Fuck. If this were a mouth around my cock, it would be a thousand times better. My fist is fine, better than fine, actually. We’re monogamous. Not by my own choice, but out of necessity. But the thought of her mouth…

* * *

Out of the blue,the following Tuesday, I get a call that changes everything. Evelyn buzzes me through the intercom that I have a personal call. Personal? I don’t have anybody “personal” and certainly none who call me at work.

Out of habit, I write down the number on my screen—in case we’re disconnected. Old habits die hard.

“Father O’Ryan? It’s Sirona Dugas.”

“Hi, Sirona. It’s Sean. This is a surprise.”