The church doesn’t know what to do with me, so they’re bringing me back to the Capital.
I’m not about to complain.
I haven’t been brought here because someone has discovered my habit of punishing sinners the way they deserve, but because the bloodstains on my cassock had become noticeable.
I understood why a small town a few hours away from Geneva would be disconcerted at the sight of blood oozing through their priest’s cassock, but self-flagellation isn’t something the church technically approves of anymore either.
Neither is killing parishioners who aren’t adequately penitent...
Doesn’t put a stop to my behavior.
It’s not like I do it every damn day of the week. Just here and there to those who truly deserve being delivered into the Devil’s embrace.
They commit the gravest sin imaginable— taking a life. So I take theirs as payment. Put their soul into Satan’s hands. And each time?
Mine feels lighter.
Not light enough to whitewash the past—I wish—but enough to keep me going, to stop me from doing something stupid.
The pain of my past is something I live with every day. Night terrors, flashbacks. They call it PTSD, but I call it an endless nightmare.
They say I’m borderline suicidal, I say I’m past the border, but only my cause keeps me going.
Only knowing that I make a difference, a true difference, keeps me away from the point of no return.
I still hope, foolish though it may seem, that God will embrace me in his open arms upon my ascent to heaven. I work in his name, to honor him, but I’m well aware that, to Ishmael and his men, they, too, had been working under that guise.
That I’m as evil as them disturbs me. I would never do what they did, but still, I’ve committed grievous sins, and some day, I’ll have to pay for them. Judgment will come, and I know that, no matter how hard I work to atone in other ways, my fate is with the Devil too.
Finally, the jostling from behind me grows to be too much and an attendant shoves her way forward. “Father? Is everything okay?” she inquires politely, even though I see the strain on her face as the grumbling passengers at her back begin to grow restless.
I shoot her a kind smile, and apologize, “Forgive me, my child.”
I don’t wait for a reply, and instead, begin my descent.
As I step onto Italian soil, something fizzles inside me. Like this is where I’m supposed to be.
I hold no vain hopes that Rome is going to cure me. That being this close to the Vatican is going to ease my issues, but there’s the vague anticipation that here, things will be different.
I will be among my own kind.
Crossing the tarmac, I head for the bus that will take us to the terminal, and I seat myself and wait for it to fill. When a woman hobbles on, her hand shaking as she maneuvers a walking cane, I climb to my feet and let her take my place. She smiles at me, her eyes tired, and murmurs, “Grazi, Padre.”
I hear the American accent and smile back at her. “You’re more than welcome.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re American?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m French.”
“Your accent—”
“I spent a few years in the States.” My smile grows tight. I’ve been all over the world as the Church tries to find a place to fit me in—thus far, I’m surprised they’ve tried so hard.
But I know they’re attempting to save face. If they force me out, then I could only imagine the press.
For some reason, the media is interested in me and my past. I’ve had several articles written about me, and someone is even writing a book on the subject. I’ve had film offers, for goodness sake! It boggles my mind.
So, yes, the Church trying to shuffle me out wouldn’t look good, and call me a cynic, but I know their patience has more to do with that than anything else.
I turn my focus onto the runway where planes are taxiing to park, and even though it’s the antithesis of holy, I feel good being back here.
Italy and I have a connection. My father is Italian, my mother is French, and we visited the place often throughout my childhood. I see neither of them that much anymore because they were against my becoming a priest, but the fond memories put a smile on my face when I walk into the terminal. Then, as I collect my baggage, I head for the termini, walking down the various moving sidewalks to get to the train station that’s annexed to the airport.
For each path I take, there’s a TV screen above, and while I don’t take much notice of TV, not since I’d become a bizarre celebrity thanks to my ordeal, the face splashed onto the screen catches my attention.
There’s no sound, but I don’t have to understand what’s being said to read it. I speak fluently in both Italian and French, English too, so the headlines are no issue.
‘Famous author makes it through perilous brain surgery. Family thanks anxious fans for outpouring of concern and asks for prayers.’
The woman is beautiful in a way that takes me aback, because her face is so...
What?
Open?
That’s the only way I can describe it. She has wide eyes, and the pale green orbs are candid, like she’s looking straight at me and seeing all my flaws.
Her nose has freckles on it, her cheeks too, and they’re high, tapering into a soft, pillowy mouth that makes me think things no priest should consider. She has no lipstick on, no makeup either. She’s free from artifice in all things. Her button nose is cute, and her wide brow makes her look, of all things, curious. Like she wants to understand everything. And the sandy blonde hair that dances around her shoulders in bouncy waves makes me feel like she’s moving. Running toward me even though she’s still.
Just like in Spain, where I’d spent a year two years ago, the Italians have a ton of daily panel shows. I could see them discussing the woman’s rise and fall.
Apparently, though I’d never heard of her, she’s a massive author. Her books flash on screen, and I could see the covers, even recognized some of the titles. My brows rise as I see clips from movies that have been produced from her stories.
Then, there are more flashes on the screen, like cards with a pen that scrolls exactly what she’s enduring. A cyst. In her brain.
My stomach tightens at the thought of that beautiful head, a brain so filled with tales and stories that caught the hearts of millions of people around the world, being cut open.
The panel seems to be dissecting her as much as the surgeons are—wondering if, after the surgery, she’ll be the same.
I find myself sending up a quick prayer to God, hoping that she will.
Andrea Jura.
I savor her name for a second before I’m spat off the moving sidewalk and have to shuffle onto the next one.
Each one has a TV overhead, and for what feels like miles, I follow her path, her journey.
And each time, they flash her image between segments. Her at an award ceremony, her on the red carpet. Shots of her in a city as she goes about her business.
On every occasion, she’s alone.
And, God help me, that pleases me.
I bite my lip as I make it to the termini at long last, and it’s strange, because, there, where I purchase my ticket, I see a sandwich shop and a newspaper stand.
Her face is on the cover too.
How is she so famous? She’s young. Incredibly young. But her stories have fed the world. Nourished it.
I find myself collecting a paper to read on the hour-long trip into the city from the airport, and as I travel, I read more about her.
Until the point where I feel like I know her.
Even though that’s impossible.
When I finish the paper, I could have tossed it away. But I don’t.
I keep a hold of it and don’t throw it away until, weeks later, I hear on the news she’s in recovery.
And I’m glad.
I hope for her sake that she’s truly recovered, and more than just on the ‘outs
ide.’
Because it’s destructive to look fine, to be normal to the rest of the world, but to feel like you are being torn apart with every breath you take.
I know how that feels, and I wish it on no one.
Not even Ishmael.
For him? I wish fire and brimstone to tear him apart for centuries to come.
For the woman with the bright green eyes and the imagination that has made the world happy?
I pray for peace. For good health. And, more importantly, happiness.
Part Two
Four
Andrea
Today
Rome smells good.
Yeah, that’s a strange thing to say, but ever since the surgery, I have weird perceptions.
Weird, as in I couldn’t tell anyone because if I do, they’d probably lock me up in an asylum for the rest of my life.
That’s not going to happen.
Nope.
I refuse to spend another goddamn day in a hospital. Eleven months I’d been inside the clinic. Eleven. Frickin’. Months.
For someone who moves around like a butterfly, just staying put for that length of time has been a killer.
While I healed, physically, I knew psychologically they’d never understand me, so I lied.
And that’s the only reason I’m out.
Why I’m free.
I lied to everyone.
My parents, Diana, the doctors.
Because no one would understand.
Sure, that makes me sad, but nobody has ever gotten me anyway. Now they could use the cyst to explain that away, my peculiarities, the things they classed as cute before but now rub their heads over. With the cyst gone, that part of me ripped out, they have nothing to blame except the surgery.
And if they blamed the surgery, they’ll question if I’m still sick, which means I’d have to stay longer in the clinic.
So, I’d come to the decision to remove myself from my well-meaning family and friends and travel overseas.
Rome.
It isn’t by chance.
Eleven months in the hospital and you thought I’d forgotten?
Never again.
Savio Martin.
During my recuperation, the only thing that has kept me going is learning about him. Sure, I’m kind of stalking him, but it’s for his own good!
He needs me.
And, God, I need him.
He’ll understand me.
I just know it.
He knows what it means to have a vocation, to have a calling. Just like me.
The weight of the wings aren’t there anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.
I haven’t lost my calling, and I just need to...
Fuck, I need him.
I know it’s stupid and crazy and weird, but he’s been with me from the start. I know I need him for the end.
So, I tracked him. Traced him through his articles, studied the trajectory of his career as much as I could, and have even called the archdioceses of his last parishes—ones that were listed in articles online—and found out where his current church is.
Rome.
The Catholic capital.
And I’d never been there.
Ever.
So, it’s fate that’s my destination. At least, that’s how I figure it.
The taxi takes me straight to the street behind my Airbnb. I’m in a part of Rome that’s called Borgo, and the street is called Borgo Pio. It’s ancient with an old wall surrounding it like a barricade, and the history lines these streets as well as the pizzerias and trattorias do.
Just at the bottom of the cobbled road, there’s a McDonalds that’s humming with life, and I passed the Vatican to get here.
Yep, the Vatican is actually a neighbor. It’s a minute’s walk away, just off McDonalds.
With a rucksack on my back, I stand in the center of the chaos as people walk past me. Some of them are heading for the Vatican, and others heading away from it. I know which is which because, the damn nerve, they toss their tickets on the ground as they shuffle away.
I can’t stop myself from picking up one of the tickets, chasing down the litterer, and shoving it at their chest. They blurt something at me in Russian, I think, but I just glare and say, “Your trash.”
They’re probably swearing at me, but I don’t care. I stare the bastard down, ignoring how his bulging cheeks turn red and his squinty eyes narrow even more. He takes the ticket, huffs, then moves a few feet away to shove it in the bin.
“There. That wasn’t so damn hard, was it?” I snap at him, then, nose in the air, storm off.
A second later, my irritation has fluttered away. Life teems here, and I wander down the street, passing doorways to buildings as well as shops that sell religious artifacts, and other little restaurants and delis that will become my locales. There are groups of tourists, old and young, some with heavy duty cameras around their necks, others with their cell phones out, posing for selfies, then there are families with bored kids, and waiters touting their wares to all and sundry without prejudice. What there isn’t?
Many Italians around.
Which makes the person I’m looking for easy to spot. She’s standing in a doorway, a briefcase in her hand, entirely out of place for this heavily touristic spot.
So, wandering over to her, and peering at the street which, seriously, has no numbers above the door, at least, not as far as I can see, I ask, “Excuse me?”
She pushes shiny black hair over her ear as she peers over her phone at me. Disdain lines her features until she manages to hide it—barely—saying, “Si?”
I actually speak decent Italian thanks to my mother’s belief that we’d be transferred overseas for one of my father’s deployments, so I reply, “I’m Andrea Jura? Are you Anna from Your Vacation in Roma?”
Anna casts another glance at me, and though she’d just lumped me in with all the other backpackers, the second she hears my name, her eyes light up. She grabs my arm, and as she does, the scent of vanilla and chocolate wafts my way.
Super smell has been a weird addition to my abilities in the aftermath of the surgery.
I couldn’t run anymore, not without my legs feeling like jelly, and my strength has depleted to the point where I need to find a gym to work out at while I’m here to rebuild some strength, but I gained the ability to sniff the grossest stuff all while I maintained the ability to see things no one else does.
I’m still a Watcher.
I know it, even if I never told anyone.
I’d never share that again, not even with Savio. He’d think I’m insane.
I’m not.
Truly.
I want to pull back the second her perfume floats over me, but I’m not rude, so I tense as I smile, trying not to heave at the abundantly musky scent, and murmur, “Ciao.”
She grins at me. “I loved Thunderstorm.”
I’m getting used to that for a greeting—it was my biggest release to date, and unfortunately for me, the release of the movie pretty much synced up with my being taken into the hospital. “Thanks,” I tell her.
She ignores my wooden tone. “Are you going to be writing while you’re here?” Her gaze drifts over my head, which is no longer showing any signs of surgery. The hair has grown out, and though I can’t wear it in a shoulder-length bob anymore, it’s a decent pixie cut that hides everything. Well, mostly everything if I sweep the strands over it and use gel to keep it down.
I’d been famous before, but now that I’ve had brain surgery, I’ve apparently caught the interest of the world.
Before, my books were what interested folk. Now? People are curious about me.
Call me horrible, but I get the feeling they’re just waiting to see me crumble.
I don’t think they’re trying to be spiteful, but their avaricious curiosity comes across that way.
“Yeah, I’ll be writing while I’m here.” London’s Burning, my current WIP, hasn’t had a single word added to it in months.
So, writing? Sure. I’ll be trying to.
It’s something else I’ve lost along the way, but I’m trying to get it back. Only, no gym will help me regain my writing skills.
I’m having to face the fact that I might have tapped out my abilities with the loss of the cyst, which prompts me to question its presence in my brain.
The doctors said it needed to be cut out.
But that cyst was as much a part of me as my green eyes... they’d even told me it had been in my head for over two decades, gradually getting bigger and bigger until it started affecting me around the age of seventeen.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’d come across ‘the boy I failed’ at that age either.
When Anna looks like she wants to discuss my treatment on the doorstep of my building, I take advantage of a huddle of tourists who brush past me, and shove myself at her. She makes a huffing sound, which has me hiding a smile, as she quickly pushes the door open at her back.
It’s massive.
Over sixteen feet tall, all wood, and with gold finishing, it’s seriously impressive. And the hall? All lined with black and white checkered marble floors.
It’s also freezing, but I kind of like that. Outside, it’s a little sweaty, and that’s down to all the people hovering around too, so the crisp, interior air feels good.
I refuse to admit that the bag on my back is making me tired, and that I seriously need to take a nap.
Maybe because of the jet lag—although I slept like a log on the plane—but I don’t think so.
I might be lying to the rest of the world, but to myself? There’s no point.
Weakness is pervasive, and I don’t want it to affect my confidence. I need to stay strong, because if I don’t, I’ll just end up back in the hospital.
What I’d gone through, according to my doctors, and the depth of development of the cyst? I should still be in a bed with an IV attached to my arm.
But I’m not.
I’m here.
The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale Page 5