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THREE

FATHER BLACKWOOD

I watch her flee, frozen in place. Not by my legs, but by my fucking collar. By the eyes I feel on both of us. More churchgoers have arrived for the coffee hour between services, murmuring, sipping from Styrofoam cups, and absolutely oblivious to the war raging inside me.

I grip the wood of the doorframe, watching her already small figure shrink into the distance, my chest locked in a vise.

She didn’t come here because she followed me. She didn’t know who the fuck I was. She was a lost, tortured soul looking for something— anything —to hold on to. And yet, I can’t shake the gut-deep certainty that this is my fault. That I did this to her or at least contributed to it.

I was the one who let temptation draw too close to my doorstep. I was the one who broke his own goddamn rules and played with fire three blocks from my own church.

And now, here she was.

Seeking God. Seeking absolution. And I, his so-called messenger, failed her. Again.

I wanted to reach out and catch her before she ran, to say something real that might have met her where she needed to be met. But I didn’t trust myself.

Not here. Not with her looking up at me like that, so broken.

She doesn’t see her own light, the fire that burns in her even when she’s breaking. Even as she bowed her head before me, exposing her vulnerabilities to a man she thought could absolve her in God’s name.

A man she didn’t realize had already had her on her knees, begging, pleading—not for salvation but for?—

I breathe out hard.

Then she looked up at me with hope in those tortured, tear-filled eyes. For a moment, I thought I could say something to keep that hope alive.

And then I watched it die.

Before I could stop her, she was gone.

Far older memories have me leaning against the doorframe, my grip tightening more as dizziness lurches through me.

I’m dragged back to my childhood in England. Back to that house. Back to the screams, the sobs, and all the rest a child never should have witnessed.

I’m dragged back to the day I saw desperate tears in another tortured woman’s eyes.

“Please, Charles. Just let me take him with me!” My mother’s voice. “This is no house for a boy to grow up in.” Her hands clutched together, knuckles white as she begged my father. “Then you can fuck your whores in peace!” She flung a hand out toward the stairs.

Behind the doorway where I crouched, I saw them—the other women sprawled along the grand staircase, tangled together in lazy amusement. They hardly paid attention to the fight happening only feet away. One of them laughed, sipping from a crystal glass.

My father barely looked at my mother as he unbuckled his belt.

“How much do you want it?” he asked, voice cruel. He pulled out his willy and held it out in challenge.

I didn’t understand. Not yet. But I understood the way my mother recoiled. The way her hands clenched. The way fresh tears welled in her eyes before she did something I never thought I’d see her do.

She got on her knees, bent her head and opened her mouth.

I didn’t understand then. But I do now.

My father was a goddamn monster.

“You.” His voice lashed out to one of the women on the staircase. “Join her. Teach my wife how I like to be pleasured.”

Mom jerked back from him. “Why do you have to be so vicious?”

“You’re free to leave anytime you wish.” My father sneered down at her, motioning to the grand doors. “But you’ll never take him with you.”

My mother started to crawl away from him, toward the door, sobbing.

“And know this,” he called after her, voice thick with cruel satisfaction. “If you leave today, I’ll never let you back in.”

She paused and looked back, not at him but at the staircase and the second floor, where my bedroom was. She thought I was up there, reading my books, tucked safely away.

But I wasn’t. I had snuck down the back staircase like I sometimes did, wanting to hear why there was so much loud laughter downstairs.

Dad always said it was good to be naughty.

“I’ll fight you,” my mother swore, voice shaking with fury. “He’s my son as much as yours. Courts care about a mother’s rights.”

My father yanked the other woman onto him, his hand twisted in her hair, his head tilting back in pleasure.

“You’re a nobody .” His voice was thick with arrogance. “You have nothing without me. I’ll bury you in court fees.”

And then?—

“I hope you took a good look at his face this morning because you’ll never see him again.”

She flinched like he had struck her.

Then, without another word, she climbed to her feet, turned, and walked out.

And I never saw her again.

My fingers dig into the wood, breath ragged. My father was a monster. And the first rule I’ve sworn by since the day I left his estate and never looked back was this: In every situation, do the opposite of what he would do.

I release my grip on the doorframe, pulse roaring in my ears.

Fuck what anyone in my congregation thinks. Fuck the whispers. Fuck if it gets back to the bishop.

She ran out in tortured tears.

And I let her go.

I will not let that be the end of it.

I take off running after her, ashamed of how long it’s taken me to move.

But no matter how many alleyways and streets I sprint down, I can’t find her.

I’m too fucking late.

Another sin to add to the infinite list.

I laugh bitterly as I walk, defeated, back to the church. Let’s be honest.

I was damned the moment I spurted out of that bastard’s cock.