Page 65 of Crossed
Today, the pain of my back is so sharp, I can barely stand.
Sister Genevieve’s green eyes widen when she opens the front door of the monastery and finds me there, leaning against the doorframe. I meet her gaze, and something pulls sharply in my stomach when I do, but I brush the feeling aside.
She has darkness in her just like me. That’s why I chose to come here.
I’m not used to having to depend on anyone else. I don’t like others knowing about the spiritual practices andfailuresI have to atone for, but ever since arriving in Festivalé, the lashings have become more common. More severe. And the pain in my back is becoming too much to bear. I know that if I don’t get some help with caring for the wounds, infection could easily set in. That’s what happens when rope rips open scabs that haven’t had time to fully form.
But going to a doctor or hospital is out of the question. I’m known in the community now, and loose lips sink ships, or in this case, take away the mystery that shrouds me. I don’t want people to know anything beyond what I decide for them to, and having multiple eyes on my self- inflicted lashings would be the opposite of controlling the narrative.
What would they think if they knew their priest was so weak that he needs to beat himself to repent? That I’m nothing more than a man disregarding my vows of chastity and being led blindly into lust? I suppose no worse than what they’d think if they knew the truth about what else I get up to in the dead of night.
But I’m much better at keeping that part of myself tucked away and out of sight.
The point is there would be no respect and far too many questions. And maybe there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want Amaya to become the center of any more hate. If there’s hatred at her doorstep, it will be doled out byme, not by anyone else. The very thought of someone disrespecting her sends me flying from calm to anger.
I won’t have it. Not until I figure out what to do with her now that I’ve accepted that I can’t go through with killing her.
The one thing Idoknow is that I need to keep my hands to myself. I cannot give in to temptation again. I won’t survive the lashings otherwise. But part of me fears I’m too weak to resist. My thoughts have only gotten worse since I’ve had her cum on my fingers and her heartbeat in my palm.
“Father Cade,” Sister Genevieve says, moving to the side of the open door so I have room to walk in.
“I need your discretion.” I don’t bother with pleasantries. It will only waste both our time.
Moving past her, I step briskly into the small living space. It looks the same as the last time I was here, a small log fireplace crackling in the corner and warm lighting that casts a cozy glow throughout the room.
“You have it.” Her eyes are curious as they take me in.
I stand taller and nod before stripping off my gloves and coat, folding it methodically and placing it on the back of the couch before reaching for the hem of my shirt and lifting.
Her eyes widen for a split second before she masks the look, and when I spin around, showing her my back, I hear her sharp intake of breath.
I haven’t looked in the mirror because I know what I’ll see. There’s barely an inch of unmarred flesh left. Some scars from years ago—starting when I was a young child— to the most recent ones that still trickle with blood when my skin pulls too tight.
There are several tense moments of quiet before Genevieve moves to my side, her warm hand gripping my forearm and squeezing in comfort. “Don’t sit down. Your bleeding will stain the furniture.”
I don’t move a muscle until she returns, holding a first aid kit and a small wooden stool that she plops down next to me before looking pointedly, clearly implying the seat is for me.
My back stings as I move to sit, and I wince as she perches behind me and starts to dab something cold and wet on the wounds. It stings, and the pain makes my eyelids flutter, a sick sense of satisfaction rushing through me, the way it always does when I canfeelthe atonement staining my skin.
We don’t speak while she works, but there’s a comfort in the air, and I know without a doubt that I can trust her. And I know that I’ll return. Part of me wishes that she wouldn’t stay here in solitude so I could have her at my side in the parish to tend to my secrets whenever I need.
She stitches a few of the deeper cuts closed and then spreads a thick, gooey substance that makes the sharp ache ebb away, and I sigh in relief, feeling better than I have in days. She dresses the wounds and then I’m done, being careful as I redress.
“You’ll need to take it easy for the next few weeks,” she says, her eyes sharp and sure. “You can stay here with me if you’d like.”
I pull my gloves back on and move toward the front door, suddenly desperate to leave. I know she’s right, but I’m not sure if Icantake it easy. And I definitely don’t want to stay here with her. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Father.” She stops me with a hand on my arm, and I spin to face her, looking down at the top of her head. “It won’t do you any favors to hurt yourself until you can’t stand. Whatever it is you’re doing…stop. At least until your body can heal.”
Gritting my teeth until my jaw tenses, I give a sharp nod and then head outside to my car.
It’s Saturday, and after a morning of confession, I’m in my office, preparing the homily for tomorrow, when an email pings through on my computer. Sighing when I see the name of my superior, Bishop Lamont, on the screen, I drop the pen and click the mouse to open the message.
Father Cade,
Mr. Errien has kindly reached out to inform us that he has upcoming nuptials and would like them at the Catholic church. I’ve already briefed him on what that will entail, and he would like extra precautionary measures taken for his new bride, including one- on- one lessons to rehabilitate her image. I’ve assured him we’ll do everything in our power to accommodate his requests, including making sure she’s an upstanding woman of faith and honor. He has generously donated to the church in thanks.
Please do your best to accommodate any of his requests.
