I might be at the center of the Catholic world, but somehow, these people are more forgotten than most, and I’m only one person. I can only do so much.
Giving Gianni five euros, I tell him, “You’d better come by later. That coat is threadbare.”
“I don’t feel the cold, Father. I told you.”
I’m not sure how he doesn’t, but he’s always perpetually cheerful, so I figure he isn’t lying. I’m miserable when I’m cold. Could he be so cheery if he wasn’t telling me the truth?
“If you say so,” I say dubiously.
“Give it to someone who needs it.” He shoves the five euros back at me, pushing it into my hands when I don’t take it. I know he’s involved with some shady dealings, but I don’t approve, and would prefer to give him honest money than have him rely on the criminals who take advantage of the homeless. “It’s okay, Father,” he tries to reassure me, but he fails when he lies, his eyes flashing with the mistruth that has him avoiding my gaze a second, “I got enough from another tourist. You give it to someone who needs it. I heard Riccardo lost his tent last night—someone tore it or something.”
Or something.
Violence against the homeless is surprisingly high. Though they deserve charity, they often receive the exact opposite—disdain and hatred.
“Let me at least buy you a coffee,” I argue, knowing there’s no point in trying to convince him to keep the money.
The irony is, these guys are more generous than most priests I know.
I remember one time when I was with Gianni in one of the fast food joints just down the road, getting him some food, and a woman had stopped by a priest asking for help with a coffee.
He told her to wait while he sorted out his food, then, as she hovered, watching on, he took a bite of his burger.
Then never gave her money.
My mind still boggles at the memory.
A priest making a homeless woman watch him eat.
Is it any wonder I lost faith in the Church?
Gianni’s eyes sparkle. “You know I can never refuse a coffee.”
My lips twitch. “The usual?”
He nods, and even though I need to get to Vespers, I head into the small coffee shop and grab him an espresso.
“Father,” the waitress greets. “I have some spare rolls from this morning for you.”
“Thank you, Elisa.” I accept the bag she hands over the counter, as well as the coffee, and tell her, “I kept a book bag back for Adriano.” Along with re-stocking the food bank, I’ve worked on creating a bank of other things that people need—anything from clothes to old kitchen appliances.
Her eyes widen at my words. “You did?” She releases a sigh when I nod. “Thank you. This month is tight—”
I shake my head at her—she’d already told me as much during her confession, expressing her worries about not being able to afford the gear her son needed for school—and chide, “You don’t have to tell me that. I know you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t need it.” I smile at her to lessen her embarrassment, then, knowing the score, whisper, “Thank you for the bread.”
She wriggles her shoulders uneasily—peering behind her in case her boss sees. “They were just going to waste.”
“I know. Thank you.” Before, they’d have gone in the trash, because my predecessor had never thought to ask the local businesses to give us their perfectly comestible waste. Some do it willingly, Sandro Rosseti, Elisa’s boss, makes Scrooge look generous.
When I retreat from the counter, I hand Gianni his coffee and ask, “Want a roll?”
He grins—like usual. And his smile is always infectious. “Please.”
“Are you sure you did well today?” I ask, as I hand him some bread. “You don’t need—”
“I promise, Father. Give it to Riccardo. But thank you.”
Knowing not to press because his pride won’t let him accept the money, I nod. “How’s the head?”
Some bastard had hit him this past week. I didn’t think it was because of his ‘work’ but you never could tell.
“I get some pain every now and then.”
“Tell me if you need Ibuprofen or something.” Without waiting on him to reply, because I know he’ll dismiss me—he doesn’t approve of chemicals—I raise my hand in farewell, and head back to Santa Cecilia.
With the bread in my hand, it’s almost easy to forget what just happened, but I can’t.
I almost expected the police to be waiting on me when I arrive, but they aren’t.
No one is.
The church, though small, has a building behind it, a new annex. I go in there, pass the meager stores of food, and leave the bread in the industrial kitchen where volunteers shout me cheery greetings. The annex, which consists of a kitchen and a large pantry, joins the church to a community hall. It’s new, and I helped with the fundraiser for it.
Heading to my office, I quickly change after I wash up, knowing there’ll be questions if I appear different than usual, and head on out to the chapel.
Vespers is ridiculously quiet, but the evening services usually are. Lara and only a handful of others attend. We go through the motions in the deathly quiet church, and for once, the rigidity of the rites actually calms me down.
I didn’t expect that. But I suppose there’s comfort in repetition.
When Lara hobbles from the church, her chauffeur propping her up, I watch her go, then glance about the pews.
I almost expect her to be there, waiting on me. Except, she isn’t.
Why isn’t she?
And why didn’t she call the cops?
Why aren’t they here? Sirens blaring, flashing fireworks through the stained-glass windows?
The question plagues me as I start to close down the church. I’m supposed to lock the doors, and I do, but it’s always begrudgingly.
What’s the point in locking down a church that’s supposed to be open at all times? The hearth of faith beckoning and welcoming any lost soul in the night? Still, there’s a lot of wealth in the relics, a lot of them are gold, so I understand even if I dislike having to do it.
I lock the doors myself and wander over to the rectory where I live. It’s right beside Santa Cecilia, and the thin, narrow building houses only four rooms—a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.
I currently live alone, but visiting priests sometimes lodge with me.
I hate it when they do. I like being alone, prefer the isolation over being with another who may have expectations of me. I hate limiting my behavior, and I prefer the freedom that comes with solitude.
When I finally make it into the rectory, I head straight for the kitchen.
Making myself some tea, I ponder my next move, but even though the tea is supposed to be cathartic, a means of calming me down, the edginess of being denied is there.
Although it’s at war with the surprise of being caught, the part of me who needs to make people pay for their sins has not been nourished tonight.
I close my eyes as the kettle hisses out the warning that it’s boiling. The sharp sound pierces me to the quick, but I let it.
Paulo is getting worse.
I sense it.
He won’t stop. His sobs told me that. His shame and his pity intertwine because he knows he’s weak—that he’ll fall into temptation.
Now, however, my hands are tied.
He’ll be wary of me now. When he wakes up where he did? He’ll question why he was there, why I took him to that alley. If he remembers my presence at all, that is. But he’ll know when he wakes up, won’t he? He’ll know I joined him at Carlucci’s.
I can shove aside the questions with answers that will appease, but will he trust me again?
Doubt spears me, and I regret being caught before I managed to do the deed.
The notion surprises me.
As it stands, I’m not in trouble. It’s her word against mine, but if there’d been a body? Then that would have changed things dramatically.
I rub a hand
over my face as the kettle carries on whistling, and the truth hits me.
I’m getting worse.
Exactly like Paulo.
Panic starts to crowd me.
How can I not care that I might end up in jail?
How can I not care that—
I throw the kettle across the room when it won’t stop whistling. The smashing sound, the destruction as springs and metal burst apart, tearing at the soldered seams, makes something inside me quiver.
Fuck, I need to let this out. I need to get this poison out of my system.
I eye the flame of the gas stove, and the strange desire to hold my hand over it fills me.
But that will be noticed.
People will see the burn, will notice the scars.
They will question, and I can’t afford the luxury of answering.
So I switch it off, take temptation away, and I move out of the kitchen and head up the rickety stairs that are so steep, in the dark, you could fall up or down them.
When I make it into my bedroom, a simple room with no ornamentation save for a crucifix above the bed, white sheets with a colorful patchwork quilt that was left behind by my predecessor, and books on the shelves that line one wall, I head for the dresser.
The bottom drawer contains the box I need.
My throat feels full, my body vibrating with so much emotion that I don’t even know how I’ll expel it all.
Then I open the box.
And inside, the bloodstained, steel-spiked leather reveals itself to me.
My heart starts to slow at the sight of it, at the acceptance of what I must do, at the poison I must milk from my system, and I shrug out of my black suit jacket, remove the dog collar and then the shirt, and when I’m bare, I pick up the lash.
My fingers tighten around the knotted handle, and a sweet serenity slithers inside me as, with a flick of a practiced wrist, I let it fly.
The pain is excruciating.
The pain is delightful as the barbs take hold and tear at my flesh.
And with it, I find freedom, a freedom I never felt when the French government liberated me from Ishmael and his rebels.
More importantly, I find peace.
Even if it’s only momentarily.
Six
Andrea
The taxi pulled up outside the church just as he was closing the doors and locking up.
I have to admit, I find that to be fortuitous.
Or maybe serendipitous.
As I sit there, watching him leave the church entrance and walking over to a narrow building at the side of the street, which he subsequently unlocks, I have my answer.
I know where he lives.
Fortuitous, it is.
Paying the taxi driver, I climb out of the car, wincing a little when my head aches as I stand up too fast.
A sigh rumbles from me, because I’m so beyond tired of my body not behaving as it should. Pre-surgery, I was fine. But now? Mentally, I’m strong, but physically? I’m weak.
And I hate that.
But there’s nothing I can do. Only time will heal me, only time will take some of my issues away. Maybe a few will always hover around, but I can deal with that so long as I return to a semblance of ‘normal’ working order at some point.
Impatience and drive got me here, and out of rehab ahead of the schedule by months, but my obstinacy can only do so much, and that’s clear as I hobble across the street.
For a second, I stand outside, watching as lights flicker on through the windows on the second floor.
I feel...
My hand shakes as I reach up and rub at my eyes.
I didn’t expect to feel this way, to feel so unconfident in my next steps, but seeing him in the flesh? Seeing his darkness? Sensing how on edge he is?
It’s so much more than I expected. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in a way that makes me wonder if I’m good enough for him.
My brow puckers at the thought of all my failings, all my scars, and if they’ll serve him.
My zealous need to be with him, to cement the connection I’ve felt since I was seventeen as his life brushed up against mine, even only on the tattered edges, is what pushed me through my recovery.
But nothing has happened how I thought it would.
I thought our eyes would meet and he’d feel the sparks.
I thought we’d trigger a connection, and he’d want to speak with me. Would want to be with me too.
Maybe I’m crazy without the cyst doing anything to help me.
Maybe I really am insane.
And if I am, should I be here? Should I just leave him alone?
The thought whispers through my mind at the same time as I hear a slight grunt.
After dark, I’ve noticed how quiet Rome actually is. Especially on certain streets.
I think it’s because it’s winter. In summer, I could imagine the streets always bustling with life, but at this time of year, it’s actually quiet. Only a few cars rumble down the streets, and only tourist spots like Borgo Pio where my Airbnb is, and where there are plenty of restaurants, have more people gathering, but even then, nothing like through the day.
It’s that peace that helps me hear it.
A grunt.
A slapping sound.
Faint.
Like a murmur in my ears.
I strain to hear it again, wondering what it is, then the grunt is louder.
And the whistle?
Louder still.
It’s rhythmic. A dull thwacking sound with a high-pitched whistle.
I struggle to recognize what it might be, and then it hits me.
My throat chokes, and I rush forward on shaky legs. I tried to walk across the river, back to Borgo on foot, but my body just wouldn’t let me. And even now, after the drive, I still feel weak, but for him, I’ll push it. Push myself to the limits, because this has to stop.
He has to stop.
I slam my hand on the doorbell, not letting go, my heartbeat roaring, the sound whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to answer.
I refuse to let him ignore me.
There’s a dull thudding sound from behind the door, and I think he’s running down the stairs. He pulls it open, and I see he’s wearing a shirt that he just pulled on, and only a few buttons are fastened.
The sneak peek of his chest, of those pecs, all those muscles, has me momentarily diverted before I cast him a look and see his face is pale, white even. Sweat beads on his brow, and there’s a strange light in his eyes.
A fever.
God, I want that fever breaking over me.
I stare at him, and he stares back.
From my position on the doorstep, he could slam the door in my face, but I shove myself forward, pushing past him and walking into the building.
As he closes the door, I see his back, the black shirt soaked in places, and though I know, seeing is believing.
I push forward, grab the hem of his shirt, and lift it up, exposing raw gouges along his spine. Thick train track lines of flesh.
Blood has pumped to the surface of his skin, revealing all the scars from previous mistreatment.
I can’t stop myself.
I push my hand against his back, even though I know I shouldn’t, and when he hisses, I whip my hand back as he twists around to glare at me.
He froze at my touch, but that was nothing compared to my reaction as I stare down at my fingers.
My blood-covered fingers.
So much of it.
So much blood.
My throat grows thick, and I flash him a glance, stare up at him, and see the fever in his eyes beginning to die.
I’m not sure what replaces it, but unlike before, there’s nothing ice-cold about the link between us.
He sees me.
At last.
I raise my hand, and let my tongue flicker along my finger, watching as his pupils turn into tiny pinpricks.
His nostrils flare in response, almost like I’d flicked my tongue a
long his cock.
The taste of his blood comes as no surprise. Metal. Iron. Dull. Dry.
But it sings inside me as my body and his collide in the simplest way imaginable.
I watch as he gulps, his Adam’s Apple bobbing, and for a second, I know I’ve robbed him of words.
I’m glad.
I want him to be affected.
I need him to feel this as much as I do.
This madness can’t affect only me. He needs to be infected with it too.
My heart, for the first time since I saw him, is finally on an even keel. Like, because he’s been stunned, because he’s in shock, I can be calm.
And I am.
“Dirk Benson. Maria Santiago. Lucas Reisling. Sara Cinnabar. Jose Gutierrez.”
He flinches at each name.
“I’m a writer,” I tell him. “I had nothing but time on my hands this year. You’re lucky no one else connected the dots. Especially if you’d added Paulo to the list.”
His mouth tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His stony reply has me smiling. “Don’t you? Each one was a parishioner in your church. Each one died from an unusual suicide.” I arch a brow. “It’s the makings of a mystery novel. Or an angel of death...”
“I don’t prey on the innocent,” he snaps, before he brakes to a halt, his teeth grinding as he realizes the imprudence of what he’d just admitted.
Although, to be honest, I’m not sure why he thinks he can deny it. After all, I just saw him.
With a knife in his hand and Paulo’s wrist vulnerable to the blade he wielded. There’s simply no avoiding what he was doing. No ignoring it.
“What did they do?” I question, my gaze flickering to my hand. “What makes you do this to yourself? Do you self-flagellate after each one? To what? Atone?”
I don’t say ‘after each murder,’ even though that’s what it is.
Instead, because I know something deeper is happening here, because I know I wouldn’t have been led to him if he didn’t need my help, if he wasn’t on a righteous path, I wait for him to answer.
When he doesn’t, I muse, “Let me see. Paulo touched his niece.”
The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale Page 9