Page 165 of Penance

“I hate how you make me feel.”

It’s closer to the truth, but still not right.

The truth is too painful, and it scares me.

The truth is that I want her to save me. That I want her to see the man I could have been, not the monster I’ve become. I want to wrap myself around her and never let her go. I lean closer, my lips brushing against her forehead.

“No. No, I fucking love you, Mercy.”

The words hurt, but something inside me releases, like a muscle that has been clenched painfully for all these years.

Inside me, guilt and longing writhe like serpents.

I love her.

I hate her.

I want to protect her.

I want to destroy her.

My hands move from her arms to her face, cradling her tear-stained cheeks and forcing her to look at me. My thumbs brush away her tears, smearing the tracks through the dirt and mud. I study her features like a man memorizing his last glimpse of the world before death takes him.

“I love you so much. I’ve always loved you. I loved you back then, and I love you now. I’ve loved you since I realized what love was. I don’t want to live without you. I won’t. I won’t live without you, Mercy.”

There is no hatred in her eyes.

No judgment.

Just a deep, throbbing sadness and something else—something that might be understanding.

I kiss her. I press my lips against hers and taste the salt and dirt that clings to her skin. I taste the fear and the confusion, and I know it’s all my fault, the same as I know I’ll do anything to chase it away. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for this, as long as she’ll let me.

I kiss her hard, but not violently.

I kiss her with desperation I never let myself touch before, and it feels right.

It feels human.

Her hands clutch at my shoulders, pulling me closer.

I pull away from her, gasping for air and looking into her eyes.

“You should hate me,” I say.

Her hands find my hair, her soft fingers tentatively threading through the strands in a way that’s so gentle it makes me want to scream.

To break something.

To run.

“I should,” she says. “But I can’t.”

I suck in a deep breath, and I realize I’m crying harder now.

It’s real, but it feels wrong.

When was the last time I cried? That day in the church?

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