Page 22 of For I Have Sinned
It’s been a long time since I felt this kind of ache in my chest. The all-consuming pain that leaves you breathless and miserable. The kind that prevents you from taking a full breath, no matter how hard you try. Like someone’s lying on your chest. Squeezing your heart until it’s nearly a pancake.
Making you feel like you’re having a heart attack. I’d shut the pain out for years. Three years. I’ve made it go away, carefully constructing the numb shell around me, emptying my mind of anything—memories, pain, guilt. And filling it with the bullshit that helps me forget.
Because that bullshit just irritates the fuck out of me. All the lies that the fucking Church preaches. Their contradictory and hypocritical doctrines. It just fuels a never-ending fire of anger inside of me that people are so fucking gullible to believe it. Following it like fucking cattle.
Sheep. Docile and mindless. I get the flock thing now. It’s fitting.
Taking a breath, I try for perhaps the dozenth time over the last several days to push it all away. But no matter what I do, it refuses to go back into its hole. I can’t get the pain to go away. I can’t convince my body to stop reacting as if I was experiencing the devastating loss all over again.
It’s worse this time. Because I never dealt with it the first time, and now it’s happening again.
A clink and crash startle me and I suck in a breath as I turn my head to look at my dresser. I’ve been laying on my bed for days. Have I even gotten up for anything besides to piss? Probably not. Others have come in with water and bland food, convinced I’ve come down with food poisoning.
That would be a welcome ailment, so I could stop feeling so fucking much.
My gaze flits tiredly over my dresser. There’s not much there. A lamp. A Bible. The cross frame that I brought with me as my one possession.
As I look, my eye catches on the fact that it’s the cross that fell over. The frame came apart, which shouldn’t have been possible. Behind the cross is the picture that I keep close. The only picture I have of the life that was stolen from me.
New tears sting my eyes as I stare at my face and the man I lost three years ago.
Struggling to pull in another breath, I sit up and stare. It shouldn’t have come apart. That damn frame was glued together. Because I couldn’t go without that picture, but I obviously couldn’t leave it behind. He’s the reason I’m here. The only reason I’m here. It was his belief, not mine.
Getting to my feet, I cross the room and touch it. A tear trickles down my face and I suddenly feel a weight lifting.
I can’t do this.
Stripping from my clothes, I get into the shower and wash away the multiple days' worth of misery. And sweat, tears, pain. Everything. Only the sweat really washes away, though.
When I get out, I somehow shave while refusing to look at myself in the mirror. I have to do something. I can’t keep doing this. This is no way to live.
Dressing, I pick up the picture and pocket it before leaving my room. Leaving the church. I head down the street, heading for Zaiden’s house. I stand in the middle of the walkway, staring at the door for several minutes as I try to compose myself.
Deep breath. It’s time to come clean. Time to admit defeat and everything else I’ve kept to myself.
Licking my lips, I walk to the door and knock before I can convince myself otherwise. There’s noise and a minute later, the door opens. It’s not Zaiden.
Henry looks at me with a brow raised. His gaze looks me up and down before he frowns. I probably look like a fucking mess.
“There’s a priest here for you, Zay,” Henry calls, but doesn’t move away from the door. He doesn’t let me in. He protects his friend.
Dread slips over me as the thought that maybe Zaiden doesn’t want to see me runs through my mind. A new throbbing pain cuts through my chest and I scratch at it, trying to ease it away.
Over Henry’s shoulder, down the hall in the living room, I see Zaiden. He looks like a wreck. Like he’s been sick. His hair is all over the place, and his face is covered in many days worth of growth. His eyes are glossy and sad. I swallow as our eyes meet and I can feel his pain, knowing I did that to him.
He moves toward me, almost hesitantly. When he steps past Henry to stand on the threshold, I falter for a second longer before I reach for him and pull him to me, crushing my mouth to his. He sucks in a breath before his arms wrap around me, clinging to me tightly.
Catcalls behind him make us pull apart. Zaiden glances over his shoulder before pushing me outside and closing the door. Then his arms wrap around his middle protectively as he looks at me warily.
I don’t blame him. I’ve done nothing but hurt him. Probably since the day we met, I’ve done nothing but hurt him. I should have stayed at the Church. But I couldn’t.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the picture. Looking at it makes everything in me ache as a tsunami of grief overtakes me. With a shaking hand, I give it to him.
I watch his face as he studies it, bringing it closer to look at the two men. Tears sting my eyes and it takes everything in me not to let them fall.
“That’s you,” Zaiden says.
I nod.
