Page 147 of Penance

Why did I do that?

The rain intensifies, tapping against the roof of the car like impatient fingers. The windshield wipers struggle to keep pace, and I lean forward slightly, squinting through the glass. The church is still ten minutes away, but I can feel it pulling me forward like a black hole, inevitable and consuming.

It still makes my heart speed up to see it.

It still makes me want to run, but I don’t.

Mercy’s grip on my hand tightens. A tear splashes onto our intertwined fingers. I watch it travel down the ridge of my knuckle before disappearing into the fabric of my sleeve.

Her head leans against the passenger door, temple pressed to the cool glass. I study the curve of her neck, the way her pulse jumps beneath her skin. I just drink in her face, her lips, the light in her eyes. I look at everything like it’s the last time I will ever see her.

What if it is?

It can’t be.

I won’t let that happen.

I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, where headlights from oncoming cars reflect off the wet asphalt in long, distorted streaks. I release her hand and return mine to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly as we round a curve. The church spire appears in the distance, a dark spike against the gray sky, and I feel it like a stake through the heart.

Mercy turns away from me again, retreating into herself. I watch from the corner of my eye as she presses her forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass in expanding and contracting clouds. Her left hand moves unconsciously to her stomach, resting there briefly before dropping back to her lap.

The gesture isn’t lost on me. Neither is its significance.

I feel it pressing down on my chest, restricting my breathing. Not out of guilt, but out of anticipation.

I don’t feel guilty.

Guilt implies regret, and I regret nothing.

Everything is falling into place, piece by careful piece.

This feeling in the pit of my stomach?

This nagging?

It’s just a momentary lapse in judgment.

We pull into the parking lot and pass a sign welcoming us to holy grounds. The parking lot rises ahead of us, already half-filled with cars.

The perfect audience.

Mercy straightens in her seat, wiping quickly at her face with both hands. Her fingers tremble as she tucks stray hairs behind her ears, trying to gain some sense of order, at least with her appearance. The hazy grey glow from the rain swollen sky overhead catches on the dampness on her cheeks, and she looks so ghostly I have to look away.

But I’m too late.

She looks over at me, and if I had been standing, I think I would have dropped to my knees right then and there.

For a moment, I think she sees through me—through the facade. For a moment, I think she glimpses what lurks beneath.

Can she see the monster that lives inside me?

The monster that was born, screaming and bloody, in one of the back rooms of this church.

But then she nods, slow and resigned, and I know my secret is safe.

For now, but not much longer.

I guide the car into a space near the back of the lot, away from the main entrance, where fewer eyes will witness our arrival. The engine dies with a shudder when I turn the key, leaving only the sound of rain on metal and Mercy’s uneven breathing.

---