Page 8 of Heathens
I wasn’t always so pious. There are a couple of years—two years and seven months, to be exact—where cardinal sins were the last thing on my mind. I’ve since repented ten times over, making up for it by diving head first into my studies. But those years of debauchery...
I felt shame, guilt, remorse afterthat. I’d confessed my sins every day for a year. The Catholic guilt had ridden me hard.
So why don’t I feel those same pangs of conscience?
Unlocking the door to my building, I take the steps two at a time all the way up to the fifth floor. I fish for my keys, unlock the door, and step inside.
It’s a modest apartment. The church is funding it—they have apartments all over the area for clergy members, if need be. I plan on moving to the parish rectory once I start receiving a salary from the diocese—after I’m ordained—where other priests and clergy members living in Paris are free to live.
Walking to my wardrobe, I set my briefcase down on my small desk and unbutton my collar. I reach into my pocket and study the velvety black card, setting it down on my desk. I remove my outer shirt and throw it into the laundry bin. Tugging my pants off, I change into loose running shorts and a t-shirt. Grabbing my iPhone and earbuds, I step into my running shoes and switch on my music.
I won’t call the number.Can’tcall the number.
It’s a quick run. My longer runs happen on Saturdays. As my feet pound the pavement, I turn the corner and jog down Rue de Rivoli and past Saint-Jacques Tower, the only remaining part of a 16th-century church that was destroyed during the French Revolution. Turning my music up, I increase my pace as I pass the Louvre Museum on my left and the old, brick buildings to my right. Tourists are still swarming the area, taking selfies in front of the infamous glass pyramid. Camera flashes light up all kinds of faces—like fireworks of their own making. Sweat begins to drip down my face, and I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe it off. Two women whistle at me as I pass them, but I ignore them as I run into the Tuileries Garden. It’s not technically open, but that doesn’t stop the throngs of young students from camping out with their wine and cigarettes. It certainly doesn’t stop me. I’m of the belief that Paris is so old, so grand, that there are just certain parts of it that should be viewable at all times.
I pause in front of the octagonal fountain in the middle of the gardens, resting my hands on my knees as I catch my breath. Shaking my head, I try to get the number out of my head. I’ve already memorized it. Even if I threw it away—which I should—the eleven digits would haunt me forever. +33 1 49 22 50 50. I don’t know what awaits me on the other side of that phone call.
I quickly make the sign of the cross and mutter an apology to God.
But what if I could help her?
What if I could... save her? I’ve seen broken before, and Lilith is that. Perhaps some, deep-rooted part of mewantsto save her. Wants to save that bereft soul who looked so adrift amongst the pews. She looked... unhinged. A wandering soul looking for some good in the world. And she didn’t even realize how desperate she was for it.
Shaking my head again, I take a deep breath and stretch my obliques as I raise my hands over my head, bending from side to side. I can’t save her. The notion is a fool’s wish. Every human makes their own choices. Every person can choose to do good or evil. As for myself, I’ve made my choice. I’ve sown my wild oats and now I’m ready to help people. I’ve been ready for a long time. But after today...
Why do I suddenly feel like I’d follow her to the depths of hell?
I could call the number and get to know her.
I turn around and start the run back to my apartment. When I get upstairs, I don’t even think about it when I pull up Facebook and enter her first name, narrowing the search to the greater Paris area. Fifty or so results come up, and I filter through them quickly. I would recognize those hazel, slightly up-tilted eyes anywhere. The heart-shaped face. The full lips. The high cheekbones.
I slam my computer shut and mutter my fiftieth apology to God. I don’t think I’ve ever apologized this much.
Opening my laptop again slowly, and my breath catches when I see her face on the third results page.
Staring at a Stranger
Evelyn
Present
I swipe the dark red lipstick on quickly before adjusting my false lashes. Smacking my lips, and taking a puff of the joint that was handed to me by one of the other girls, I tousle my red hair and step out of the communal bathroom. The other girls are either sleeping or wandering around aimlessly in a drug-induced haze. I ignore the pang of guilt as I leave the Victorian-style house. I’ve gotten so good at ignoring my feelings of guilt. One of Auguste’s guards opens the door of a black, nondescript SUV. Before getting in, I throw my joint onto the ground, not bothering to put it out—pondering how long it’d take for the old, wooden building with light pink trim to catch fire. A small part of me wonders if I’d be putting those girls out of their misery. Two years ago, I would’ve felt guilty for even thinking that. And now?
I feel nothing.
At least I am one of the lucky ones.IfI can even consider myself lucky. Auguste has a soft spot for me, so he spares me from the hard drugs most of the time. The other girls aren’t always given that luxury. I understand, though. Facing reality is too depressing to be sober.
There are dozens of girls just at the house—hundreds in the near vicinity—that were scooped out of their normal lives and forced to be sex workers.
And I am one of the lucky ones. I should be grateful I am treated somewhat fairly.
This life, while lonely, does warrant certain luxuries I was never able to indulge in before—the nicest makeup, the softest lingerie, the expensive, five-inch heels with the signature red bottoms.
So, there’s that.
The car drives us south, out of the eighteenth arrondissement, past Sacré-Cœur and the various nightclubs. I sway to the movement of the car, my limbs soft and malleable from the pot. We stop at a light near Montmartre—the other, older church on the hill, which claims to be the location where the Jesuit order of priests was founded. I only know that because Auguste told me once.
The car slows outside of La Bourdonnais, a boutique hotel in the 7th arrondissement. It’s one of the three hotels Auguste owns around the city. I climb out of the car, followed by the driver, as we make our way past reception and towards the shiny, gold elevators. I don’t bother looking at any of the hotel workers. They are paid exorbitantly to stay quiet—tokeepquiet. Humans revolve around money just as the earth revolves around the sun. As for the guests... it’s no secret why I’m here. Paris is a major city, and all I can do is try to keep my chin up as a young couple rides the elevator with us; and try to remain passive as the couple doesn’t even try to hide their disdain. They scurry off when we reach the sixth floor. I continue the ride up to the seventh, not bothering to look away from my reflection.
