Page 52 of A Beautiful Crime

It’s as hypocritical as it is hysterical.

The Catholic Church, the entire religion, is nothing but corrupt and hypocritical.

And unlike me they hide, wearing a false facade of innocence and goodness, before they capture you in their ever lying webs of darkness and sin.

“My mamma was heavily Catholic,” Carina says in a soft yet flat tone. I stand beside her, hiding my surprise at her strike of a conversation. I had thought it would be like pulling teeth to have her talk to me. What a delightful surprise. “Went to church faithfully every Sunday. Said grace before each meal. Prayed before she fell asleep. Respected her elders and treated everyone with a kindness the God she worshiped would’ve been proud of.” I remain silent, unabashedly staring at her striking angelic face as she stares at the Gate of Heaven. “Even when she would commit a sin, which was rare in itself, she suffered from Catholic guilt. And that guilt ate away at her until she confessed her sin, did the steps of repentance, and then finally allowed herself redemption.”

“These sins,” I inquire carefully, something I’m not known to do, “do you consider her committing suicide the ultimate one?”

Although I know the truth of Viola’s death, Carina does not. And I’m rather curious to know her thoughts and feelings. It will give me insight on the woman I’ve come to obsess over all of these years. It will give me a glimpse that she’s allowed no one else to see.

Carina Fiore is a beautiful tapestry but she allows no one to see the workings behind the masterpiece.

And selfishly I want to be the only one who sees.

For the first time since my arrival she looks at me full on. Her eyes, emerald jewels, are fixed on mine with a flicker of emotion dancing in them. “No,” she answers me and by her tone and the look upon her face I know she’s telling the truth. Then I see the fire begin in her eyes, simmering like embers. “The ultimate sin my mamma ever committed was falling in love with my papa.”

Revulsion.

A deep seated revulsion clouds her eyes.

Eyes that have been dull and lifeless for far too long now show a flicker of the life she denies inside her.

Her lips, soft, plump and pliable, painted in a merlot red, are set in a firm line. One of distaste. Of loathing.

What I had suspected ever since I saw her papa handle her roughly on the streets long ago, when I had caught my first glimpse of her, is true.

She grew to hate the man she calls her father. And it wouldn’t surprise me if that hatred has also extended towards her brother.

And yet that same hatred she has for them I also see in her eyes for me.

I saw it when we were dancing together.

And again earlier this week before we had parted.

But there is a fine line between love and hate. Carina will come to cross that line soon enough. And when she does, when she finally accepts the attraction between us, the darknesswithin her, her love will set fire to the entire world without it ever burning us.

Her brows then furrow with confusion and self disgust. “I don’t even know why I am telling you any of this,” she muses more to herself than to me. Her lips twist as she declares to me, “I don’t even like you.”

My lips twitch, amusement lighting my eyes. Leaning down I bring my lips to the outer shell of her ear. Her body stiffens as her muscles lock. And I would believe that she wouldn’t want me close if it wasn’t for the flush blooming across her skin. Or how the rise and fall of her chest with quickened breaths betrays her.

My lips graze the outer shell of her ear as I say rather impressed, “You do have the gall to lie to me.” A shudder wracks down her spine and before she casts her better judgement to pull away from me I place my hand on her lower back.

A hiss slips between clenched teeth as her eyes are overtaken by fire. “Remove your hand.” Her voice is as hard as steel.

Beneath my fingers, under the thick material of her wool trench coat, lies bandages that wrap the entirety of her torso.

Bandages the color of beige that seeped splashes of crimson when I had seen her earlier this week.

Bandages she must wear because of the person who had inflicted the wounds upon her already scarred skin.

Despite her demand I keep my hand gently on her lower back. “Does it hurt?”

Her nostrils flare. “No.”

“Have you taken a liking to lying to me, or is it your pride preventing you from speaking the truth?”

Her lips remain in a firm line however her eyes burn brighter. There is so much power there, such strong emotion for a woman who believes she is dead.

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