Page 24 of Wanted

Sucking in a deep breath, hoping to ease some of the terrible ache, I swear I can smell incense in the air.

Then I hear the hymn. The very hymn that gave me comfort before the Judging. The hymn that tricked me into believing that God loved me and I was safe.

As the singer’s voice rises, reaching an octave only angels can sing, I sense arms wrapping around me, cradling me in an embrace.

It’s been so long since another person has touched me in such a way, without a hint of malice or violence, I’m stunned into complete stillness.

I don’t know if it’s real or something subconsciously conjured up by my touch-starved brain, but to be touched by hands not that are not my own is something I haven’t felt in so long it brings tears to my eyes.

The arms begin to rock me, as if trying to soothe me and ease my pain.

Then I feel the fuzzy warmth of affection blooming behind my ribs like a flower opening up to sunlight.

The sensation is so foreign, though, so out of place, it unnerves me.

Am I being tricked again?

Is there a malevolent being trying to play tricks on me?

God rejected me, I remember it clearly.

The Prophet declared me, “Tainted!”

My father and mother turned their backs on me and abandoned me as the entire congregation hurled insults, slurs, and shoes at me.

I haven’t seen sunlight in over ten years. I’ve lived every day since the Judging beneath the cathedral, entombed in stone like a walking corpse.

Is this the Devil reaching out to me? Like Sister Agatha has always claimed he would? Is he trying to seduce me with empathy and tenderness?

Was it actually him I felt when I first heard the hymn?

Anger boiling my blood, I shove the arms away.

I won’t be fooled again.

The hold of the arms breaks from my force, but a second later they’re trying to wrap around me again like two desperate snakes.

Growing more and more enraged by the cruel trick, I shove the arms away again and scream, “No! Let me be!”

The sound of my own screaming voice rings in my ears and smashes through the veil of the dream.

Sitting straight up in my bed, I look around my small cell.

My eyes wild and searching for the intruder that was touching me. Half expecting to find one of the creepy, leering priests or a young, hot-blooded seminarian trying to climb into my bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened…

But there’s no one there.

Only the bare stone walls of my small room weeping their endless murky tears.

Feeling incredibly foolish, I close my eyes for a moment and lean my head back. Wondering if I’m already mad as I try to catch my breath.

The arms felt so solid, so real, I swear there was a person truly holding me.

Am I that desperate for another’s touch that I’m starting to dream it? Subconsciously ache for it?

Disgusted with myself for being so pathetic, I shake my head.

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