Page 114 of Crossed
When I’m with Amaya, the urge to beat myself clean fades away.
Turns out once I’m alone, old habits die hard.
As I sit in my room, the smell of Amaya still on my skin, I’m fighting a different type of battle. One that’s vacillating between what I’ve known to do my entire life and what I ache to do now.
Repent. Atone. Regret.
But I’ve already decided Amaya isn’t something to feel bad about, even if it means I lose favor with God.
I stand up, pacing to the corner of the room, staring down into the open chest. Indecision knots up my insides, and I blow out a breath, moving away before stalking back over again. I surge down and grab the discipline in my hand, the rope gripping onto my skin like gritty paper.
Moving back to my bed, I sit and stare at it.
“God wants me to beat it out.”Sister Agnes’s voice knocks against my brain, the way it has since I was a child, and I know the only way to make her leave is to give in.
But atonement for Amaya makes her feel dirty. Sinful.
She’severythingto me. Still, the urge crawls beneath my skin like bugs until I want to rip my flesh from bone just to snuff it out.
I shoot to a stand, ripping my shirt over my head and tossing it on the bed, my teeth clenched so hard, it feels like my molars will crack.
“Little demons who don’t learn their lessons get the whip again.”
My eyes close, my heart fractures, and I raise my hand up slowly, my fingers shaking from how tightly I grip the rope.
Then I bring it down and strike.One.
* * *
I’m taking confession today.It’s the last chance for it before the Festival of Fools on the first. I haven’t seen or spoken with Amaya in days, both because I’ve been recovering from the beating I gave myself after I finally had her and because part of me wants her to come tome.
It’s disappointing that I’m still waiting, although I’m not sure what else I could have really expected. I’ve decided to give her until the festival, and if she won’t give herself to me, I’ll accept Bishop Lamont’s offer to transfer me back to Paris.
I fear living in her absence will be a torture worse than death.
But I would do it, for her.
If she chooses me, I’ll turn in my collar.
It doesn’t hold the same appeal as it did before, even though my love for God stays strong and sure.
It’s late when I leave the confessional booth, my mind as tired as my body is sore. Instead of leaving the sanctuary, I move to the front of the dais, falling to my knees and bowing in prayer, searching for respite from the constant seesaw of questions going back and forth in my brain.
“Please,” I whisper, staring up at the crucifix looming over me like a promise. “Tell me what to do.”
A door bangs open, echoing off the high-arched walls, light footsteps making their way down the aisle behind me. I rise from my vulnerable position, twisting around to see who it could be, and my lungs collapse, my heart stuttering in its cage.
Of course it’s her.
Amaya.
And this is my sign from God.
I’m rushing toward her before she can utter a single word and taking her in my arms, my hands gripping her face tightly as I bring my lips to hers. She moans as she kisses me back, her feelings pouring into my mouth as fiercely as I’m bleeding mine into hers.
Wetness drips over my knuckles and I break away, seeing tears slide down her face. My thumbs brush beneath her eyes.
“What is it, mon trésor?”
