Page 51 of Penalty to the Heart

Yeah, I’d be up for that.

Make a move on her… not so much.

“Hopefully, on the sacred ground, you’ll be a little more respectful than you have been these past two days,” she can’t help but add.

“Don’t count on it, sweetheart,” I grumble.

With burning embers in her gaze, she pulls my t-shirt down by the lapel and gets right into my face.

Honeysuckle.

She smells like honeysuckle.

Fuck.

“If you can’t find it in yourself to respect the process you’ll see today, then all I ask is for your silence. Can you do that?”

I think about it for a pregnant pause and nod, letting curiosity win.

Or maybe it was the sweet, decadent scent of honeysuckle that scrambled my brain.

“Thank you,” she says, releasing her grip and taking a step back. “Follow me then.”

I’m about to say I’m not a puppy for her to shell out orders to when a priest suddenly appears before us, about to close the doors.

“Roxanne, what a lovely surprise,” he beams, stepping out of the hall to greet her.

“Good afternoon, Father McDowell. Are we late?”

“Not at all, child. You’re just in time,” he says, throwing me a curious glance.

I don’t say a word, preferring to trail behind them as we enter what looks to be the main hall below the church. My anxiety peaks to new heights when I see a bunch of people all gathered around, seated in a perfect circle.

“Please take a seat,” Father McDowell ushers us both as he takes a seat of his own.

I sit beside Roxanne, wondering what kind of bullshit kumbaya she’s got me into.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Father McDowell starts merrily. “I see a few fresh faces here today and some all-too-familiar. As we gather here today to share our stories and support one another in our grief, let us remind ourselves that we are not alone in our sorrow. May this space be one of healing and compassion for all who seek solace. As you all know, no one here is forced to bear witness if you don’t want to. Having said that, who would like to go first?”

On cue, everyone sitting in this fucked-up circle begins telling their sob stories about how they lost a loved one and how they have been coping with said loss.

A husband mourns the loss of his sick wife.

A mother cries over her unborn child.

A friend tears up after her best friend took her own life.

One by one, I sit here listening to their stories of how they lost the person they loved most.

It’s at this moment that I decide that I hate Doctor Roxanne Seymour.

Yesterday, I made her hurt, and today, she’s sought out her revenge in the most diabolical way.

I try not to fidget in my seat while doing my best to tune every sob story out of my head.

When the woman next to me is finished with her sorrowful tale, I feel all eyes on me, waiting for me to pour my heart out like they have done.

“Pass,” I say with a snarl, kicking my feet forward and crossing my arms over my chest.

---