Page 28 of Crossed
I tell myself that it’s just to follow her home, to finish what I came here to do in the first place.
Kill her and be done with this sorcery.
But when she makes it back to her apartment, I don’t leave then either.
Instead, I stand by the side window off the alley, the poor excuse for shrubbery digging into my side as I stare through the smudged glass, watching her sway her hips as she undresses in what she believes is the privacy of her bedroom.
I should go in and murder her. My body ishummingat the chance to take her life in my hands, to see the spark dim from her eyes and feel my obsession drain away with it.
But I don’t. I leave her in her bed, safe and alone, while I go back to the rectory and whip myself for my weakness.
* * *
“Give,Lord, strength to my hands to wipe out all stain so that, without pollution of mind or body, I may dare to serve You.”
The water is cool as it runs over my fingers, and I continue with my prayers as I grab my amice, a white cloth that I wrap around my shoulder and neck.
Today, the fabric feels like it’s choking me.
After that comes the alb, and I slip it on, the robe dusting the floor. “Wash me clean, Lord, and cleanse me from my sin that I may rejoice and be glad unendingly with them that have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.”
My back is raw and tender, making me hiss as the vestments scratch against my skin, the guilt and self- loathing running through me like rotting trash, rancid and strong.
Then comes the cincture. The ropelike texture rubs against my palms as I tie it around my waist, and I’m reminded of how I atoned with similar material last night. Every move I make is painful from the lashes.
“Gird me, Lord, with the belt of faith, my loins with the virtue of chastity, and extinguish in them the humor of lust that the strength of all chastity may ever abide in me.”
My chest tightens in regret as I speak the words, hating myself for the way Amaya makes me feel, the things she makes me do.
Next, I grip the purple silk of the stole tightly, lying it over my shoulders, letting the material drape down the front of my body. “Restore to me, Lord, I beseech Thee, the stole of immortality, which I lost in the transgression of the first father, and though unworthy I presume to approach Thy sacred mystery with this garment, grant that I may merit to rejoice in it forever.”
Breathing in deeply, I exhale my mortality, allowing His word to flow through my veins and into my heart, because it is He who celebrates the Mass. And even while I’m in turmoil, today isn’t aboutme.
Then, finally, I reach for the chasuble. The sleeveless, ornate outer vestment slips over my head with ease, dropping over the length of me like a waterfall that pools on the floor.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, sneaking its way beneath the layers of clothes and stinging the whippings on my back. I use the pain as fuel, a sense of rightness clicking into place as I prepare to face the people of Festivalé for the first time as Father Cade Frédéric.
But during the homily, my gaze scans the pews, and then I’m spiraling, wondering wheresheis and howshe’sdoing. If she would scream louder when she comes or when she dies. How once I do the latter, I’ll never get the chance to hear the former.
My chest tightens at the thought.
My mind is still in a fog as I give Communion, and I glance down at the woman kneeling before me and murmur softly, “Corpus Domini nostri Iesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam, amen.” I place the body of Christ on her tongue, the motions monotonous in a way they’ve never been, because I’m mentally so far away from where I’m meant to be.
The line for Communion continues, one by one, bits of bread and sips from the chalice until everyone is in silent prayer back in their pews.
It’s a heavy atmosphere, and my voice booms, echoing off the arches and stained glass. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
I say the words, and Imeanwhat I say, but at night, as I make my way back to a run- down apartment, staring in that same bedroom window as before, unable to rid myself of this sick obsession, it’s not the Lord I’m serving.
And I feel nothing close to peace.
Chapter11
Amaya
QUINTEN SKIPS DOWN THE AISLE, DRAGGING HIS toes on the ground while I push the grocery cart behind him. It’s Monday afternoon, and just like every other week, right after I pick him up from school, we head to the store so we can stock up.
Today, I’d rather be anywhere else. The overhead lights feel like they’re hammering behind my eyes, and my attention is torn, making sure Quinten doesn’t trip while he hops around on his tiptoes while also trying to grab our groceries.
