Page 25 of Forgive Me Father
I pause when I see a page with color that shouldn’t be there, one word sticking out to me, its letters highlighted in bright yellow.
“Satanas,” I whisper.
Satan, in Latin.
Slowly trailing my fingers over the keyboard, I type in the seven letters, saying a prayer to Jesus that this password works. Slamming my finger down on the enter key, the screen loads. I tap my foot vigorously under the desk as I wait.
Several seconds pass.
You’re being delusional Roman-
Father Kevin’s desktop pops up on the screen, a single application for email set up from what I can see. I run the mouse over the application icon, hesitating before double-clicking.
Looking up at the picture of Mary Magdalene, she seems to watch me, judging me for sticking my nose where I know it shouldn’t be.
"You’d think having you here would’ve done something to keep the man honest," I scoff.
The email application is empty. I move the cursor to the left over the ‘Trash’ folder. Opening it, there’s one email. The subject line reads 'Inventory’.
Holding my breath, I click to open it. Attached to the email is a furniture inventory sheet with ridiculous prices listed by each item. Some pieces with retail dates from roughly eleven years ago were priced around twenty thousand dollars, all set to deliver to this church three months from now. The list continues, with twenty items in total. Scrolling down to the bottom of the order form, I see David Faulkner’s signature again.
What the hell kind of furniture is worth spending nearly four hundred thousand dollars on?
Was it hand crafted by the descendants of Apostle?
The bottle of bourbon on the bar cart in the corner of the room calls to me. My eyes grow heavy, exhaustion from the day finally setting in. This mystery is getting close to becoming too much of a mental burden to bear without sleep.
Looking over the list a final time, one of the furniture pieces stands out to me. Its age is much older than the rest, and its description is eerie.
Twenty-year-old vintage sofa, mint condition, premium brown leather, great for family events.
Enlarging the image of the sofa, I find that it’s nothing more than ordinary, like something you’d pick up in a department store or a yard sale, frankly. But it’s got the highest asking price of all the pieces, nearly double the cost of the other furniture.
"What the fuck-"
My head snaps up, and my heart thunders as the quiet of the office is pierced by the deep, resonant toll of the massivechurch bell. The sound is jarring, cutting through the air like a thunderclap, its vibrations reverberating off the stone walls. The darkness of the midnight hour makes the sound feel more ominous as if the bell is warning of something unseen.
I log out of Kevin's profile, giving Mother Mary one last look before leaving the office.
Thirty minutes have passed since I left the cathedral and made my way home. My eyes have stayed glued to my phone. Two glasses of scotch are not enough to stop me from wondering what she’s doing right now.
Did she listen to me when I told her to lock her door?
What the hell was David like when I wasn’t around?
Was Aiden telling the truth?
Pacing around my home, the space is barely unpacked, boxes still sealed shut, my bed one of the few things I prioritized getting in order. After showering to clear my thoughts, I walk around the room in a pair of sweats, the damp fabric clinging to my skin. The tattoo that begins around my neck and spirals down my side and along my back is exposed. If anyone looked closely enough, they’d see the intricate designs skillfully concealing the array of scars that weave across my skin. Twisting thorns and vines, beautiful and dark, wrap around my body like a living entity. The memory of the needle’s sting against my scarred flesh lingers. The pain was oddly soothing—a welcome distraction compared to other torments I’ve endured. The hours spent under the needlewere a blend of agony and solace, offering a strange, cathartic relief.
Throwing myself back to that moment in the car with Eden, my cock stiffens with deep longing. I try to think of anything but the idea of pleasuring myself to the memory of what she felt like wrapped around my fingers. The brief taste of her I got was more addicting than any of the harder substances I tried in my youth. I can't get the feeling of her hand grazing my hard length out of my mind.
I thought this fucking overpriced bourbon was supposed to make it harder to get it up.
Running my hand through my hair, I glance over at my phone again, quickly snagging it from my nightstand.
I never should have looked up her number on the altar servers' information form.
I should have kept my distance.
