The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale

by Serena Akeroyd

  My lips curve of their own volition as I greet Carlo and start the confession.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  His morose reply has me grinning, and I take a second, close my eyes, and force my voice to behave—even if I find his antics hilarious, his parents definitely don’t. “Let me decide if what you did is a sin.”

  “Mama said it is. That’s why I’m here.”

  Carlo, not unsurprisingly, doesn’t appreciate being dragged to church every time he misbehaves.

  He’s only twelve, and his parents are older. He was a late baby, and they never seem to know what to do with him.

  “Tell me. Let me decide,” I coax.

  “It was an accident. I mean, I never meant for all the glue to get wasted.”

  Glue? “Start at the beginning.”

  “My teacher’s a bitch.”

  That has me sitting up. “There’s a sin right there, Carlo. Did you just use profanity under God’s roof?”

  He hisses, and mutters, “I just made it worse for myself, didn’t I?”

  My lips twitch. “You did.”

  But I make a mental note to talk to his father on Sunday. Evidently, Carlo, who’s always a cheerful boy even if he’s due confession, is having issues with his teacher.

  “She was picking on me. Trying to make me look dumb in front of everyone. So I knocked over the glue on her seat, painted it so she wouldn’t notice and then let her sit on it.”

  My brows lift as I try to ascertain what kind of testament that broke which required him being dragged to church on an afternoon, and then it clicks.

  “You were suspended?” That’s the only reason I can think he’d be here at this time.

  “Yes. For two days.” He huffs. “But she’s mean, Father.”

  “I can imagine, but did that mean you had to be mean to her? Is that what you’ve been taught, Carlo?”

  “No,” he mumbles, and as I peer through the grate that separates me from him, I shake my head.

  “But it isn’t the end of the world, Carlo. Don’t tell your mother or father this, but I was suspended when I was a boy too.”

  “You?” He sounds so stunned that I have to laugh.

  “Yes, I wasn’t always a priest.”

  “I mean, I knew that. But... what did you do?”

  “I used to get into fights.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “Does there have to be a reason?”

  He hums under his breath. “I think so. I mean, did you like fighting?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I was very angry, and the only way I could stop feeling like that was if I hit something.” Sometimes I grew tired of being bullied, and had to defend myself…

  “Why were you angry?”

  “My teachers weren’t very nice to me either.” They never listened.

  “Why not?”

  I sigh. “They just weren’t. They thought I was the troublemaker because, in class, I got bored really quickly.”

  “I know how that feels,” he says glumly. “I find it hard to concentrate.”

  I could only imagine. “Maybe speak with your parents about it.” Surely then they’d realize that was why the doctors gave him medicine in the first place.

  “I hate school,” he mutters.

  “Only six more years of it,” I reply, trying to cheer him up.

  “That’s a long time. I mean, I’m twelve. That means I have to do half my life again of school.” Another huff escapes him. “Life sucks.”

  “It can suck sometimes, but I’m sure there’ll be a lot of times you actually have fun. You have friends there, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But I can see them at home.”

  I grin at the logic, and say, “Carlo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why your parents brought you to me?”

  “Because they say you’re the only one who’ll make me listen—”

  My brows lift at that. I never expected him to say that, and despite myself, I’m actually touched.

  And, God help me, a little choked up.

  “Well, be that the case, you know why you have to atone, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “That doesn’t sound very sure to me.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t lie in God’s house.” I purse my lips. “You know very well you meant to. Why would you do it if not?”

  “I-I guess.” His voice is small now.

  “Are you sorry for what you did?”

  “I’m sorry I wasted all that glue,” he grouses. “And I’m sorry I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” I retort, amused, and then, because I have others waiting outside, I give him his penance.

  When he heaves a huge sigh, like I made him atone by walking the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, I have to smile again.

  And, a little buoyed up, my mood soaring, I see the next two people and manage to forget about the woman and Lorenzo who’s waiting outside.

  Until, of course, he enters, stinking of garlic and cheap wine.

  Suddenly, she’s there. Right at the forefront of my mind, a better focus than Paulo Lorenzo and the shadow of sin around him.

  Is Andrea Jura still out there?

  Waiting for... Well, I have no idea what, but is she?

  I rub my brow as Lorenzo whispers, “I did it again, Father.”

  And just like that, my mood sinks.

  Even as I cringe at what he says, at what he means, I know that my time to act is approaching.

  Lorenzo just tugged on a tripwire, and he doesn’t even know it.

  But he will.

  Soon.

  Five

  Andrea

  The church is smaller than I expected. Quaint and a little more comforting than I’m used to.

  Sure, it’s old, and the pews make my butt ache after a while, but the way the sun shines through the window, and how the back of the church is tucked in shadow? It comforts the new me. All the stacks of candles are clustered around here, and while they’re electric, they add a soft glow.

  My eyes don’t hurt here, and my head doesn’t ache. The scents are ones I’m familiar with, ones that represent childhood, if I’m honest. I used to sing in the choir, even though I hated singing in public—Mom always made me. Good thing I love her even though she can be a pain in my ass.

  The scents of incense, and even the beeswax candles on the altar and polish on the pews, all represent a homecoming to me.

  And that this is his church?

  Well, it’s like a warm embrace.

  Having seen him in the flesh?

  I know this is meant to be.

  He’s beautiful, but hard. Cold. His eyes are like stones, obsidian, where before they were like amber.

  That first time I saw him, the picture of him fresh out of Seminary flashing onto the TV? He’d been warm. Open. Hopeful. Like he knew he could make a difference and, so badly, wanted to try.

  Now, he’s the exact opposite.

  Yet I know how it works. Have been to many churches where the priest didn’t give a shit, and after service, would just wander away and retreat to the confessional or to the back of the chapel where his office was. They didn’t engage with the parish, didn’t give a damn about the community.

  Savio cares.

  I can feel it, even though when he looked at me, it wasn’t with the link I’d hoped for.

  My lip aches from where I’ve been nibbling on it, but the truth is, I’m nervous.

  For so long, Savio has been a part of my life, and he hasn’t even known it. I pick up my phone and scroll through the doc I have on him. It’s like a patchwork quilt with all the different screenshots I’ve taken over the months. Articles here, reports there. Small church newsletters, some pieces he wrote in Seminary where he spoke about his relationship with his faith.

  I collated them all, desperate to know everything about him.

  When I think about it, I know I sound crazy, but it was jus
t a way of connecting with him. A lifeline amid the pain and discomforting treatment I’ve gone through this past year.

  It’s weird how that thought only comes to me now when I’m here in church though.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve sat through communion, a long time since I’ve actually been in a chapel for this long.

  Once I left home, when I started college, that was it for me. Mom and Dad gave me shit about never attending church, but I didn’t listen.

  What were they going to do?

  Travel to Michigan to make me go every Sunday?

  Hell, that was one of the reasons why I chose my college, one that was across the country from my folks! I didn’t want to be pressured anymore about attending service.

  So, though I visited church for the Christmas service when I was home with my parents, and rolled through the motions of it, nothing has affected me like Savio’s.

  There’s something about him, something that isn’t right.

  I can’t put my finger on it. Not entirely.

  I guess… Well, I guess it’s like he’s going through the motions too.

  Each word is cold. Imbued with no feeling. There’s no passion, no...

  It strikes me then.

  No faith.

  He says the words, but he doesn’t feel them.

  I guess, after what he went through, that fits.

  But it saddens me.

  It’s been a long time since he was in Algeria, since he was released. If it still affects him, why is he a priest?

  Why hasn’t he left?

  I mean, it’s not that unusual for someone to lose their way, to take another path. It’s not like being a priest is a life sentence, so why hasn’t he defrocked himself?

  I tug at my lip again, trying to figure him out. As I settle deeper into my coat, my back aches where my wings sit, and I tug my collar up higher so that my breath blows back on me, warming me up.

  Late February in Rome isn’t exactly warm, but it’s been surprisingly sunny. Also, kind of humid. In the shade it’s frigid, with a wind so bitter it cuts you in two. Then, in the sun, it’s hot enough to make you regret wearing a coat.

  I spent yesterday exploring the place, enjoying learning about the city that was to be my home for the next couple of months.

  My base, as it were.

  And I love it here.

  It’s exactly what I need. A new leaf, a fresh start where few people know me enough to actually worry about me. To watch me, and wonder if I’m going to head to the roof and dive off it because of my wings…

  With my sunglasses on, a woolly hat on my head, and a scarf around half my face, no one knows me, and I like that. I’m incognito again. For a blissful few moments. Until the sun pops out from behind thick clouds, of course, and then it’s either be recognized or sweat to death.

  Like I said, it’s surprisingly warm in the sun. Just not in here.

  I hear a soft laugh from the booth, and it whispers through me, making me shiver. It’s so wrong, but my nipples peak, and I close my eyes, relishing the husky sound.

  I know it isn’t something he does often.

  Of the many lines on his face, laughter didn’t cause one of them.

  Strain, pain, fear, and rage did that.

  He exudes each emotion. It floods from him, making me wish I had the right to soothe him.

  But I don’t.

  Not yet.

  The boy who shuffled in after his father pushed him toward the confessional seems to make Savio smile. I watched their interactions earlier on, saw he was refraining from grinning, before he wandered on, caught my eye, and I watched him come to attention.

  It reminded me of when a deer flinches, hearing something, sensing something—unknowing they’re in the hunter’s crosshairs, but somehow still aware that everything has just changed.

  He didn’t look at me after he paused at the door, saying goodbye to everyone as they left the church, and he strode into the confessional like I wasn’t there.

  It hurt.

  A lot.

  I’ll forgive him in time for not recognizing what I am to him. That he recognized something means more than he can even imagine right now.

  A few laughs have escaped him since the kid went into the booth, and I can see the boy’s father grumbling under his breath every time he hears Savio’s amusement.

  But when he shuffles back out, the father’s shoulders slump like he’s tired, like he really wants a good nap, and then to wake up and for this day to be over.

  I heard what the kid did—messed with his teacher’s chair. Seems tough to bring him to confession for something like that, but hell, my parents were the same.

  Anal-retentive dad was one of the worst when it came time to putting the fear of God into me.

  Not that it worked.

  Not wholly.

  I mean, I’m not a bad person, but still, I’m just not that driven.

  As I sit there, listening to the sacrosanct confessions that spill from people’s lips, I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but technically, I’m not.

  I’m listening to him. Not to them. They don’t interest me.

  Not until something happens to Savio’s voice.

  It goes from soft and almost caring to hard. Cold. The chill is enough to make me shiver.

  It has me tuning into the confession, but it’s difficult to hear because the guy is speaking so softly that I have to strain my ears. Maybe it’ll give me a headache later, but it’ll be worth it. I crave knowledge where Savio is concerned. I want to know what makes him tick.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  That’s like a running theme in confession, I think.

  We never mean to do something, yet somehow, it happens. Sins occur, souls get tarnished.

  And this guy?

  He’s crying.

  My brow puckers as Savio bites out, “What happened, Paulo?”

  “S-She wore such a short skirt,” he whispers, and inside, I just die.

  I know where this is going, and my heart starts to pound in my chest like I’ve been running a race.

  And yeah, at the moment, I can’t run anywhere. Never mind take part in a race, so my face starts to feel clammy, and my body tenses up in a weird way.

  Not a good way, at that.

  I’ve heard this story from the other side of the fence so many times that I recognize it, that I know what I’m about to hear, and it sickens me before he even continues with his confession.

  “Short skirts are not a crime.”

  “If she dresses like a slut, what else am I supposed to think of her?”

  A tense silence seems to charge the air, and I feel it. It’s strong enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge.

  “You dare use that word in my confessional?”

  His words aren’t what I expect, but I wait for the guy’s reply with bated breath.

  “Forgive me, Father—”

  “I don’t. I don’t forgive you.”

  The man falls quiet, then, his tone more modulated, he states, “She—”

  “Before you carry on with that sentence, she can do whatever she wants, it is you who sinned. It is your sins I want to hear, not hers. And if she did sin, I’m sure she’ll come here and tell me herself. She can ask for forgiveness and I can give her absolution.

  “What she did has nothing to do with you, Paulo. So, before you utter another word, before I toss you out of this booth, you will stop right there and reconsider your confession.”

  The strength in his voice, the passion, it’s there all of a sudden.

  Where at the lectern he was wooden and almost lifeless as he invoked his sermon, now? He’s alive.

  And it makes parts of me tingle that shouldn’t be damn well tingling in church.

  I gulp, trying not to be turned on by his strength, by the way he stated everything that needed to be said.

  The sinner here is this Paulo schmuck.

  Not the woman who dared to wear a short f
ucking skirt. Like that’s a goddamn crime.

  Tension throbs through me as I wait for the bastard’s next words, and I can almost feel the prick’s mind churning, trying to figure out how to make this right, how to say what he wishes to confess without making himself look too bad.

  I know how it feels to confess. You always try to lessen the sin, try to make yourself look better than you actually are. I never wondered how boring that must be for the poor priest who’s having to listen to it.

  “I touched her.”

  Three words.

  Each one stuns me. Not in surprise, but like I’ve been tasered. Each syllable makes me feel like he’s taken out a knife and stabbed me somewhere.

  Like a memory playing in my head, a sorrowful soundtrack to my past, I hear Diana’s admission as to what her father put her through, Linda’s too. They entwine with Nerea’s and Wanda’s... all women I’ve saved from men. All of them who I’ve taken out of danger.

  I want to help the girl this bastard touched. The need to find her, to save her is a dull ache in my body.

  Too often, the victims are blamed. Too often, they’re cast in the shadows because they daren’t let the light touch them.

  They shun family and friends for their cruel husbands and boyfriends, they cut their support from their lives because they’re manipulated by the sacks of shit who should love and adore them, who should cherish them, but instead, who work hard to isolate them. To bind them in all ways.

  To turn their relationship, something that should be a source of joy, into a prison cell.

  And the sad thing is, it works.

  Isolating, separating them away from friends and loved ones, works.

  I feel like, some days, I’m the only one who sees them.

  It’s how I find the people I help. Just like with Diana, who was trembling on the phone, I notice what others prefer to avoid, and from then, I act.

  But here, now, I can’t act.

  I’m hearing things from the side I never wanted to hear.

  And, God, poor Savio.

  Dear Lord, how he must feel having to hear this, having to deal with the self-pity. Like Paulo is the victim and not the girl he’s touched?

  “You repented your sin two weeks ago, Paulo. A similar sin.” His tone is back to being wooden. “Did you learn nothing when you sought penance?”