Page 45 of Judge's Mercy

“Self-flagellation appeared sometime in the fourteenth century, where the pain of whipping oneself was believed to exorcise evil and cleanse the soul. Even those within the church used it as a form of penance for disobedience.” I pause, knowing once I say the next part, there’s no taking it back. She’ll know everything I work so hard to hide. “And horrifyingly enough, there are still those who use it today as a means of atoning for their sins.”

“Is that what you do?” she whispers.

I turn, looking her dead in the eyes. “You’re not the only one with demons. Some are just better at hiding them.”

“This is why you won’t take your clothes off when we have sex.”

I purse my lips and nod. She looks away, and I notice she has a thick layer of makeup over her swollen eye, but her split lip is an angry red. Her eyes dart all over the room as her mind works to process this new information. Her expression is hard to read, giving me no indication of how this will change her opinion of me.

“So, you what? Cane yourself or something every time you commit what you deem to be a sin?”

“The cat o’nine tails,” I correct, and she pins me with a look that says I’m being obtuse. “Right. Not the point. Sorry.”

“So you whip yourself when you sin?”

“Not just my own. My brothers rely on me to take their confessions, and that sin doesn’t just dissolve into thin air. It has to go somewhere, and they can’t do what’s best for the club if they’re weighed down with guilt. So, I accept them and when the weight is too much for me, then?—”

“You bleed it from yourself.”

“Essentially.”

She grips my arms and turns me back around. There’s nothing left for me to hide, so I allow it. The nerves might be damaged in most places, but I feel slight pressure as she traces each slash mark marring my back. What I don’t feel is the typical psychological pain that manifests as physical pain whenever anyone even comes close to touching my back.

I first noticed it when we were on my bike, then again when I asked her to touch me over my cut. I’m not delusional enough to think that she’s the cure for my mental disease—that’s a fairytale that exists only in books—but there’s a reason for this. I just don’t know what it is.

Yes, I do. Myla is my exception.

“Some of these are really old. When did you start this?”

“In my twenties.”

“These scars are older than that.” She traces a few that are up higher by my neck, a spot I can’t reach on my own.

“Those aren’t from me.”

“Then who?” Her voice snaps from concerned to lethal, ready to take down the person who hurt me. A smirk tugs at my lips in response. It’s been a lifetime since someone has shown genuine concern for my well-being, but that’s always been the case, and I only have myself to blame. I’ve perpetuated this dynamic in all my relationships, rooted in my deep-seated fear of rejection and abandonment.

At least I’m aware of why I do the things I do, but the question Myla asked was, ‘Who?’ and though the answer is simple, it’s something I’ve never told another soul. I close my eyes, feeling heat climb up my neck and face. Pressure builds behind my ears, and my hands tremble as I spill the rest of my secrets.

“The story they told me was that my mom was a teen when she got knocked up, and her parents gave her a choice: keep me and get kicked out of the house, or allow a good Catholic family to adopt me. I don’t blame her for the choice she made. She’s every bit a victim in this as I am.” I bite the inside of my mouth so hard I taste blood, the physical pain shutting down the emotional pain. “They traveled two counties over just to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally run into me with my new parents, and my mom signed over her rights to Catholic family services. Joke was on them, though, because no one adopted me. Or maybe the church didn’t let anyone, I don’t know.”

“You never had parents?” She wedges herself between me and the kitchen counter, taking my hand in hers. The difference between them is striking, and not just in size. Myla’s hand is soft and unblemished in any way, really driving home our age difference. Her fingers are thin and delicate, and her nails are trimmed and filed. Mine show each of my forty-two years and then some, with the scars, sun spots, and an obvious avoidance of any kind of lotion. My nails are just as ugly because I bite them down as far as I can without ripping them off completely. Even so, I love the way they look together, and I lift them up to kiss the back of her hand.

“No. I grew up in a group home for boys that was overseen by nuns and the priest of the local parish. Father Kerrigan was fucked in the head but was good at hiding it. Even if I had told someone what he was doing to me, they wouldn’t have believed me.”

“What did he do?”

“He liked little boys in a way grown men shouldn’t.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh my god.”

“I was his favorite, and as fucked up as it sounds, I was proud of it at the time. He was constantly telling me my parents didn’t want me, my grandparents didn’t want me, and no adoptive parents wanted me, but thankfully, he did. I owed him my life and my silence because he’s the only one who ever loved me.”

“What a twisted son of a bitch.”

“Yeah.” I laugh humorously. “He would bring me into the rectory for ‘sessions,’ as he called them. Then he’d make me undress in front of him and?—”

“You don’t have to tell me the specifics.”

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