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The notes echo all around me, consuming every thought—every doubt—twirling in my mind. Every shred of regret in my stomach eases the moment my fingers touch the keys. Every self-deprecating thought and every reserved restriction melts off of me.

Mother says it’s the worshiping, that God is embracing me with his love, and that’s why I feel so good when I play. But I know it’s not that. I know, because I feel it even when I don’t play for Him. It’s the only time I don’t feel so different, so broken, so ugly and damaged and foul. It’s the only time I don’t care what my mother thinks or who’s looking at me or if my breasts still look too large in the frumpy sweaters I wear.

The music I create is all that matters, the notes that come from my fingertips.

I play and play, hitting pistons and keys in time for the music, until the hymn comes to an end, and once the final note vibrates around the room, only then does my spirit reenter my body.

Only then does everything flood back into me, like a weight pressed firmly against my chest in the middle of the ocean, drowning me under the waves.

I pull my hands back from the keys, stretching and cracking them. I’m in the cathedral, on my normal balcony above the sanctuary, hidden behind the railing. I can hear Father Callum continue morning Mass, but I can’t see him from my bench, as he stands directly under me. So unless I stand at the railing and peer over, I don’t see anyone. It is such a nice reprieve. I’m sure Mother will scold me. She always does if she doesn’t see me watching Mass, but after last night, I can’t stomach standing just to please her.

Not when her words are still ringing through my mind, clawing at the walls till they’re ingrained into me.

I skipped breakfast, taking Mother’s advice. I guess I’ll skip lunch, too.

After I snuck into my room, Mother went to her women’s meetings held at the church three times a week, and the entire time, I heard Daren prowling the house, back and forth.

Once, he even came up to my door, but after a few minutes, his heavy presence returned to the living room.

It wasn’t always this way. Well, it was with Daren . But some of my mom’s past fiancés were fine. Normal. Kind, even. But Daren just makes me uncomfortable. Like waiting for a jump scare when you know it’s about to happen.

The memory of his eyes on me last night and his “discomforts” make me cringe.

I sigh, and slump my shoulders, my lower back grazing the cold keys on the organ. My posture hasn’t been good since the fifth grade, when these boobs grew into my short body. I still remember the pain of wearing the binding bras the first few years, when Mother started saying it was improper to show them off. Something she hasn’t stopped saying, even though I only wear sweaters three times too large, and two sports bras at all times.

Which, of course, pushes down on my tummy. Maybe Mother was right about me gaining weight. Skirts have been tighter. Bras dig into my skin more. And . . . I guess my stomach is a little squishier.

Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . that’s all I seem to say these days.

Below, I hear Father Callum starting the final prayer of Mass—which is my cue to start winding through the cathedral to meet everyone downstairs to take Communion.

I stand in my little mezzanine and stretch out my fingers one more time. Mornings in which I get to be the organist fills my utterly dull life with purpose. At twenty-five, I thought I’d be out of the house already. I thought I’d have graduated college, with friends, have an apartment somewhere far from here, and spending time creating something for myself. But then Mother threw the college acceptance letter into the trash.

“ You don’t play for fame, Junia. You play for God, and that’s it. ”

There went my full ride to Tisch School of the Arts, my one ticket out of here. Mother likes to say we’re broke, but she also insists I don’t get myself a job. I’ve offered countless times, to help pay rent, with bills, to buy us gas, but . . . she always refuses. She says I have to be devoted to my time at the church. So, I don’t have even a penny to my name.

Not like I can do anything without her. I don’t even truly know if I could wash a load of laundry without her guidance.

So instead, I’m here. Stuck. In St. Mary’s of Belmouth. Playing the organ four times a week for a God I’m not even totally sure I believe in.

If he were real, why would life be this hard? I know the Bible is all about suffering, but . . . haven’t we had enough?

Father Callum likes to say we are paying for the sins of our brothers. Jesus’s sacrifice was good. For a time. But the sins of man have raged rampant once more. He likes to comment on the younger generation— my generation —being too obsessed with self image and having physical attachments to phones and the internet.

The first time he said that years ago, Mother took the hand-me-down phone she’d given me. The one with so few minutes, I couldn’t access the internet even if I wanted to.

We’ve been coming to St. Mary’s for as long as I can remember, and Father Callum has always been the lead priest. Others have come and gone; sometimes there’s up to three secondary priests besides Callum to lead the daily Masses and take confessions. But Callum has been the only constant, and takes pride that we are his parish.

He’s a tall, attractive, older man, and for as long as I’ve known him, all twenty-something years, he has seemed perpetually in his mid-fifties. Mother is just a little bit obsessed with him—as obsessed as any woman could be with a priest. But his holy virtues and her devotion to the Lord—nor her devotion to whomever she’s dating at the time—doesn’t stop her from curling her finger in her hair or biting her lip whenever they speak to each other.

To Father Callum’s credit, he seems blissfully unaware of every advance. And Mother seems fine with it. As if she just enjoys fighting for his attention.

After another organ player for the church switches off with me, I wind down the dark wooden staircase that leads from my tiny mezzanine to the room just behind the sanctuary. The room holds the vestments for Mass and I wait here a moment until Father Callum calls for Communion and finally walk through the small door leading into the sanctuary.

Mass is sparse today, a weekday morning, but families are getting up, shuffling out from between the pews to join the line of Communion as Father Callum stands at the front, the host in hand. The second organ player begins a new hymn and the parish make their way to the front, one at a time. We do Communion three times a week, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.

I see Mother and Daren in line and quicken my step to join them.

“Junia, there you are,” Mother says. “I didn’t see you watching homily.” She pops her hip out and leans on it. “Where were you?”

There are only a few people in front of us. Daren hasn’t even turned around to look at me.

“I—I listened,” I stutter. Heck, she hates when I stutter.

On cue, Mother raises a blond brow. “Listening isn’t the same as watching. It isn’t the same as worshiping .” She huffs a breath, and another two people leave the line. “We’ll talk about this when we get home, young lady.”

She turns, and I immediately pick at the flesh around my thumbs, digging at them with the nails of my index fingers.

It hurts, but I don’t think about it. All I can think about is, “We’ll talk about this when we get home. ”

Daren looks over his shoulder at me, a small smirk on his lips. I want to believe it is meant to be comforting, but my brain tells me it isn’t. It’s . . . enjoyment.

Mother drops down on her knees before Father Callum, opening her mouth wide. I watch her, noting the stare down she has with the priest, noting the . . . something in her eyes. Just as the host is placed on her tongue, she makes an O -shape with her lips, closing them around the Father’s thumb.

Once again, Father Callum doesn’t react, and Daren’s eyes are still locked on me. When I meet them again, they dart up into mine before he raises a singular brow and turns to take his own Communion.

“June,” Father Callum says with a smile as Daren steps away, and I drop to my knees. The dark red carpet fuzz presses into the skin, and I can already feel them embed marks on me. “Excellent playing today. I really felt your love for the Lord in each note.”

I smile, then open my mouth.

As he places the host on my tongue, I use it to stop from admitting the truth. It’s not my love for the Lord that fuels my music. It’s my desire to escape from here.

The host feels thick, like cardboard, in my throat as I swallow it down, and not even the small sip of wine helps. I rise to my feet and join my mother on the side. She’s conversing with some of the other women of the church, boasting about the dress she’s wearing, but it all drowns out through one ear. Daren is standing next to her, smiling and nodding. The women ogle at him as though he’s anything to look at. Others are busy ogling at Father Callum.

No one ogles their own husbands.

St. Mary’s didn’t always seem so foreign. I don’t know when or what changed, but suddenly the men grew nicer and the women grew crueler. Maybe it has always been this way, and I’m just finally old enough to see it.

After Father Callum says the closing prayer, many families are exiting the church—not ours, we’re almost always the last to leave—and the room quiets, save for the chatter of my mother and her friends.

But suddenly, even the undecipherable noise of the women evades my senses. My head swims, and my cheeks heat. Not now, I think to myself. I squeeze my thighs together, begging for the sensation to go away. I can already feel a slick dampness building in my panties, and my core clenches tight.

These . . . spells of . . . whatever this is, happens more and more often. Sudden attacks. It doesn’t stop until I submit to them.

Breathe. It’s okay, I remind myself. A shaky exhale escapes me, and I quickly excuse myself, not expecting anyone to actually hear me.

When Mother stays locked in her conversation, I turn and nearly bump right into Father Callum. The closeness and warmth of another human makes my entire body feel wound tight. I’m almost ready to hump his leg like a feral dog, when I look up to see him smiling.

“June, I was thinking tomorrow we can change up the order of the hymns. I’ll leave the sheets up on the stand for you in the new order.”

My cheeks are flushed, and I know if Callum looks down right now, he’ll see my nipples poking through my sweater’s material. Curse the eternally pointy nips.

“S—Sounds good,” I nearly moan.

I feel slickness drip onto my inner thighs, dampening the hot area under my skirt, as I clear my throat—trying desperately to compose myself.

Hell .

Father Callum smiles warmly. “I’m going to go say hi to your parents. I’ll see you in a bit!”

I nod, cringing slightly at the word parents , and sidestep him before he can say another word.

Normally, in times of crisis, I run to the organ. It’s safe and private, and the height of the console is perfect to rub against.

But it isn’t close enough. Not when I feel this building at the level it currently is.

As I hurry across the pews, I can feel Jesus’s eyes on me from the crucifix, judging me for the sinner I am. But until I touch myself, this won’t stop. I’ve tried. I’ve waited. I’ve fallen asleep with it and woke up the next morning with a pool of wetness on my sheets. I’ve ignored it and moaned in the middle of Mass. Thankfully, I was also in the middle of playing, so no one heard.

It always hits so, so suddenly, as if someone snapped their fingers.

I ignore everything around me and hurry into the small confession booth on the left side of the church. I know no one is on the other side, because Father Callum—the only priest here today—is speaking to my mother.

As soon as the dark wooden door is shut, the church on the other side disappears, silencing the noise all around me.

Now, it’s just my breath, shaky and hot.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

It may feel fantastic. It may set every nerve in my body on fire. It may even make me feel more alive than I ever do.

But masturbation—carnal pleasure—is a sin. And I know if Mother ever found out, I would be strung up and crucified. She would say I’m touched by the Devil. She’d say I’m a slut, a whore.

And, I guess, I am. Because as I fall onto the wooden bench in the small confessional, I feel the pressure so blissfully pressed against that wonderful spot between my thighs. The warmth coating my blood, making my toes curl, and stomach flip—it is as though I live for this right now.

“ You’re going to Hell, slut. ” I hear my mother’s voice. But my body and brain aren’t lining up. My body doesn’t care about the absolute disgust I feel for myself right now, the turmoil making me want to vomit as my hand drifts up my milky thigh, pulling my calf-length skirt up, up, up .

I throw my head back as my fingers graze the already-wet spot on my panties. There . That’s where it feels best.

“Slut, slut, fat slut.”

My middle finger presses firmly against there , and my entire body shudders. It feels so good, and not for the first time, I wonder how it’d feel if it were someone else’s hand pressing on me, grabbing my panties, tasting me.

Squeezing my thighs together, I suck my lips into my mouth to hold back a moan, but a small whimper escapes me as the pressure builds.

“Oh God .” I breathe, unable to help myself, and I have never heard my voice like this before. I have no idea what’s prompting me to do this, what’s guiding my hand. Surely not the Devil, right? Not something that feels this damned good ?

Immediately, I know I’m lying to myself. Mother would say it’s the Devil’s hand that’s touching me, and I’m letting him.

My free hand lets go of the edge of my skirt and I lift it, toying with my pebbled nipple, slamming my head back again.

It feels too good, and being in the house of God, sinning, touching myself here —it makes me coil even tighter. My legs spread as much as they can in the tiny room, and I feel myself building, building, building, as I press the flat of my fingers against myself, moving it back and forth. My movements jerk and get more aggressive as I feel a wave rushing through me.

“Oh, God!” I moan again, rubbing myself faster and faster. I buck my hips against my hand, making love to myself.

“Fat, stupid slut. You’re going to Hell.”

“Oh Father,” I say through gasps, “forgive me for my sins.” I’m so close, I can feel myself just on the precipice of complete and total pleasure.

And through the heat and absolute bliss in my body, I feel a hot tear drip onto my cheek. I am so utterly disgusted with myself. So disturbed and . . . and . . .

Broken. Damaged. Tainted .

But I can’t stop. Not if I want to walk out of here. If I stop now, my body will stay this high. Will stay this wet, this needy, this demanding. I’ll be a moaning, flustered, horny mess—in front of the parish, in front of creepy Daren. In front of Mother.

And it’ll stay, torturing me, dragging me to Hell.

The only way out is through damnation.

I grind against the wood of the bench, my hand digging against me, and with another whimper through bitten lips, I give myself over to sin.