Page 55 of Savior

I’m not allowed to be seen, but I do sneak into Mass sometimes. Even though I don’t think the man who’s after me attends, I know Ardesia and Father Russo are just being safe. Matteo is still out there, and I need to lie low.

I’m sitting in the first pew of many on the second floor that overlooks the nave. A breakfast has been set up near the sanctuary, and Father Russo and a few church members are busy plating food and handing it out to parishioners and passersby who came for a meal.

He looks joyous like this: his prematurely silver hair wafted back on his head, setting against his olive-toned skin like a moonbeam on dark waters. As if he could feel my glare, he looks around the nave.

I sit back in my pew, thinking of everything I shouldn’t be.

How I got here.

The way I’ve acted since I got here.

I’m out of sorts after all that’s happened to me, and while Father Russo might be right in thinking I need to take time to process recent events, that’s true of my entire life. The things I’ve lived through while with my mother and father are things no one should be privy to—especially not a child.

I can’t deny the idea of touching a man who has never been touched is taboo and alluring. But I know it’s wrong. As far as I know, it was wrong to knock on his door after what happened. Not as bad as pressing my ear to the door as I heard him cry out my name as he came.

The echoes will live in my head for the rest of my life.

I sit in the pew, watching and remaining hidden until the church clears out and Father Russo enters his office. He knows I’m here, but we’ve been avoiding one another sincethe incident.

I wander down into the nave, running my hands over the well-worn wood of the pews. My eyes drift over toward the confessionals, their very presence reminding me of the things I confessed to Father Russo in the throes of orgasm. In the hand of pleasure itself.

I know this has to be some delusional way I’m coping with what’s happened to me, what’s still happening to me, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

I can’t control the raw, carnal attraction I have for Father Russo.

I open the door to the confessional, and it squeaks.

Looking around, I ensure no one is watching as I slip inside.

For a while, I looked through the screen and imagined that he was on the other side, kneeling on the small floor toward the screen, with barely any light coming down from above.

I wonder how many things he’s heard inside this box.

It’s not until the other side opens and the door shuts that I startle, getting into the seat and facing forward at once.

It’s him. I know it is.

No one else would dare step into that side of the booth.

For a few tense moments, all we do is breathe together. The weight of everything unsaid is crushing.

I’ve already confessed so much to him. To lay anything more out for him would be to splay my chest open. To let him look inside the dark and twisted bits of me.

“Do you want me to hear your confession, child?” His voice is raspy and full of gravel.

The same gravel that raked over me as I came with his name on my lips two nights ago.

“I think you’ve heard enough, Father,” I reply.

“I am but a vessel—an ear to listen. But I can also be a presence if needed. If you are not ready to confess, let us sit in silence. May you feelHispresence within it.”

My heart is rattling like a runaway steam engine, and my breathing is picking up. How he could think anyone could feel a presence beyond his own is astounding.

Because even with a wall separating us, his aura seeps through every nook and cranny of the wood that makes up this confessional.

“Do you have things you’d like to confess?” I blurt, not thinking, per usual.

A deep chuckle resounds through the confessional, and my thighs press together at the way it skims over my flesh.

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