Page 21 of The Secrets of a Sin

Realizing Cora's heavy stare was on me as well, her body blatantly shivers as our eyes meet and linger. Her eyebrows lower, and her pale complexion turns a dark shade of red as if our previous encounter was replaying in her head. “Principal Welch.” I nod. “Always a pleasure.”

She stiffens almost immediately as I feel Father Henry deepen his gaze on my form. They both appear uncomfortable and uneasy around me. I switch from being perverse and playful to serious. “So, what is it you want from me?” I ask, motioning around us. “I was told from a Sister outside that you want me to speak?”

“Yes, we thought it would be beneficial for the students to hear something optimistic and kind about Phoebe. Especially hearing it come from her brother.” Father Henry gestures his hand towards the podium surrounded by bouquets as his mouth turns into a deep frown. “It's been a difficult week for everyone at St. Catherine's, as I'm sure it's been for you. I know it's not easy talking about her, but this might help you receive some closure in her passing.”

His words all seemed to have blended and blurred together as all I could think about was how he said it would be ‘beneficial’ for the students to hear OUR fucking stories, moments Phoebe and I had together. Beneficial, my fucking ass. None of these girls gave a shit about Phoebe. None of them knew her like I did. None of them were her friends. None of them stopped her from being murdered. If the young women of St. Catherine's needed positive and kind words, they asked the wrong fucking guy. I'd give them something better, though. Something far more factual about what really happened to my sister.

“You want bright, cheery words about my sister, Father?” I ask, feeling my blood temperature already rising to a sizzling degree that has my hands sweating. “You want to hear some positive bullshit on how Phoebe's in a better place now and how everyone at this school can finally move on?” I glare at Cora, who looks as though I slapped her across the face. “Is that what you want, Welch?” I snarl viciously, feeling every eye in the church move to me.

“Arsen, calm down.” Cora snapped, trying to reach for my arm, but I instantly recoil, climbing up the steps of the stage and resting my body behind the podium. Hot with rage and filled with explosive words that rest on the tip of my tongue, I briefly take in the rows upon rows of pews filled with bible thumpers and stunned teachers. They all watch me like you would a freak. Disgusted scowls and dirty looks. I thrived off my haters.

“I'm not letting him up there, Father!” Cora fought against the grip of Father Henry, but he firmly held her back. Causing a scene in a church was most certainly frowned upon, and by Father's conflicted stare, he let me take the fucking stage with a fiery vengeance on my tongue. Leaning over the podium, I take in my audience. A sea of maroon and black burns my vision as they all fuse into one, creating a room full of Phoebe lookalikes. My breathing hitches, and my skin breaks out in intense heat as my eyes try to blink away the delusions. In frustration, I rub at my eyes mercilessly until my lids sting and my sight blurs.

Phoebe's gone.

Dead.

My throat smolders, aching to howl at the multiple impostors that are seated in the pews. All of them, every fucking one of them, is an exact replica of Phoebe. From her unruly dark curls to the cluster of freckles that covered her button nose. They are all identical. As I widen my mouth to speak, I notice out of the corner of my eye as a single body rises from the bench, and I lock onto the assailant.

The Phoebe lookalike. The imposter.

Her mouth moves as if she’s trying to speak, but no words come out. All I hear is silence. The more her lips continue to move, the more frantic she becomes with her movements. I quickly try to shake out of the hallucination, blinking and rubbing at my eyes until I feel fucking raw, but it doesn’t seem to work. Anger claws at me, digging into the flesh of my heart until a scream becomes lodged in my throat.

You’re not real.

You’re not Phoebe.

“Arsen.” Father Henry calls, causing my eyesight to recover quickly. My stare moves from him to my hand, tightly wound around the microphone. The cheap plastic feels seconds from crumbling in my palm due to my heavy grip, so I swiftly release the mic. Trying to regain my composure and breathing, I unwillingly glance back into the crowd and realize the horde of Phoebe’s was just a cruel trick that my mind played on me.

It wasn’t real.

Inhaling as much air as my lungs can manage, I focus on my audience.

“Phoebe Grace Hale.” I exhale as the tension in the room reaches an all-time high. Saying her name felt immoral. When I spoke her name, I expected to hear her radiant voice in response, but all I received was silence and a painful stab to the heart. I wanted them all to feel my agony. I wanted their insides to be mauled by despair and left with an everlasting scar that would forever remind them of my sister. “At first, when she told me she wanted to go to St. Catherine's, I rejected the idea. In my eyes, Phoebe was perfect the way she was. Quirks and all. But if you knew my sister like I did, you knew that once she set her sights on something, she never stopped until she got it.” My eyes remained on the colorful stained-glass window that hovered above the mass of girls. My simmering rage began to jet fuel into a ruinous fury. Gripping the podium with both hands, I rest all my weight against the wood, letting my head drop and my dark locks fall over my face. The dead silence was only feeding into my impending rage, and I knew the second I met all their stares, I would combust on impact. Every single person in this church was to blame for her death. The faculty and the teachers, who are obligated to keep the students safe, ultimately failed Phoebe. But it wasn't just their liability. The wicked girls of St. Catherine's were just as much to blame.

“She pushed and pushed until I finally had enough and agreed for her to come here. Anything to silence her nagging and begging.” My throat began to burn torturously as regret flooded me. I could sense a blanket of sorrow cover the church, but I wasn’t up here for sympathy. I could care less about the sniffles and choked up cries from the audience.

I wanted blood. I wanted revenge.

“I can still remember the goofy smile she gave me when she got here. It was pure. Fucking beautiful.” I chuckle to myself, imagining her toothy smile and bright eyes as they watched me with complete warmth.

My eyes peer up from the podium, scouring the crowd around me. Principal Welch catches my stare as tears fill her dismal eyes while Father Henry still looks at me with apprehension.

“St. Catherine’s.” I test the sour words on my tongue, hating every second of it. “Where young women are saved with the teachings of God.” I scoff, causing hushed whispers to break out and harsh glares from the teachers to slice through me. Religion was nothing more than something for weak people to grasp onto when their life spiraled out of control. Believing that once they devoted their lives to God, all their sins would just vanish, and every fucked-up thing they did would be exonerated. Religion was a fucking hoax for the scums of society to say, “if God has forgiven me, you should too.” And for St. Catherine’s, it wasn’t much different. Only the girls had no choice but to embrace religion. If they want to be cured, they must welcome God.

“And what makes God so unique anyway, that he’s able to cure all of the students?” I ridicule. “What makes the women of St. Catherine’s so unique that God is willing to spare them all?” I question directing my words at both Father Henry and Principal Welch.

“Arsen!” Principal Welch shouts as my stare burns through Father Henry.

“Apparently, Phoebe wasn’t special enough to be liberated. Isn’t that right, Father?” I spit, gauging every part of his body for a reaction. He flinches slightly, grabbing onto the silver cross against his abdomen.

“None of you have the goddamn right to cry for my sister. None of you.” I snarl into the microphone, sounding like a roaring lion. “You’re all alive and breathing with presumably happy households and parents who would give anything to fix you, and yet Phoebe, the least fucked-up out of this whole school, is murdered.” I glower at the sea of girls. “Slaughtered like an animal.”

Furious, both Welch and Father Henry rush up the stage towards me, along with another faculty member who appears reluctant to approach me. Swiftly reaching into my pocket, I pull out a dagger, easily concealed by the podium but visible to all three of them, who abruptly stop in their tracks beside me. Grinning inwardly, I glance over at them and watch as they all visibly shake as their eyes glue to the sharp knife at my side.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cora whisper-shouts in my direction, but I completely ignore her.

“Phoebe was damaged, but she wasn’t suicidal.” I continue as I dig the side of the knife further into my thigh. I needed them to know everything I felt. That after my speech, they’d remember me as Phoebe’s psychopath brother, who would do anything in his power to avenge her death. “Her god damn throat was sliced like she was a fucking offering in a ritual, and everyone thinks she did that to herself? Tell me, Father, do you think she took a knife to her throat?” My head swiveled in his direction, catching his narrowed eyes and heavy breathing. He remains stoic and unresponsive until I draw the knife at my side up and point the tip at him.

---