Page 1 of My Saintly Demon

CHAPTERONE

CHARLES

I’m a man living a terrible lie.

Preaching about the evils of sin while overindulging in every single one I can.

Gluttony? Check.

Sloth? I’m a fucking master.

Lust? Well, that’s the one that brought me to my knees. Literally and figuratively.

Raising the tiny disc of unleavened bread over my head, I repeat the same damn prayer every time I bless the symbolic white wafer. Every time I mutter the blessed words under my breath and the altar boy rings his bell, I die a little inside.

Being the shining example for a community, when sainthood couldn’t be farther from the truth, is hard. If they knew what I keep hidden in the back of my closet and buried in the depths of my mind, all the adoring looks would be in the past. The pious pearl-clutchers in front of me would banish me as far as they could.

Shunned by the very flock I’ve shaped and built for the last ten years of my life.

Breaking the wafer, I place the dry, tasteless morsel on my tongue and wash it down with bitter wine. Just like I do every mass. It balls in my stomach like poison. I want to vomit with the hundreds of pairs of eyes trained on me. Regarding me like I’m something so special. Something to be revered. But I’m not.

Not anymore.

Maybe I once was, but I too have found a light to follow. It’s probably darker and not very helpful to most of the people shuffling to the front of the church, but it’s what I need to find my way.

Taking my place at the front of the altar, I distribute the sacrament of communion like the most precious gift to the people of my parish. There’s a reason they refer to members of a parish as a flock. Sheep follow commands without question. Led from place to place with no thought of their own.

I’ve done this. Led them down this righteous and holy path. For what? A false sense of security that they’re doing the right thing? That the church’s way is the only way? I wonder how many would still talk to me if they knew what I’ve been up to?

Mass ends and I paste the fake smile and pious attitude on, along with the fancy robe I wear, and mingle with myflock.It’s gotten harder to do this with each passing day. My stomach grows more sour with every extra second of the charade.

I fucking hate this farce I’ve become.

“Great sermon, Father.”

“Father, I was so touched by your homily.”

“Father, I’m so happy to hear your message of truth today.”

I tune them all out and nod with a hollow thanks or, if I’m feeling extra wordy,glad to hear it. I hate this part about mass because sometimes they want to talk and I don’t. I hate faking every single thing in my life from sunrise to sunset.

When the last congregation member has thankfully left, I do my final walk around. Checking locks and turning off lights as my shined-up shoes click over the tiles and slide over carpets. Collecting the silk scarf Mrs.Watson has left behind again. Stupid woman. I’ve stopped leaving a note with it in the lost and found. She knows it’s here. I’m positive she leaves it on purpose hoping for me to invite her over to pick it up. If only she knew my temptation could never be the fault of a woman.

I need a damn drink. It’s the only way I can cope with life these days. Alcohol and marijuana numb my existence. This shallow bubble of a life, with no more depth than a shadow puppet on the bedroom door, seems less bleak in a gin soaked haze.

Finally, in the rectory’s safety, I lock the door behind me before stripping off my clothes, tossing my collar with no care onto the coffee table as I pass by it. Leaving my clothes in a heap in the hallway, I step into the shower.

The hot water turns my skin pink as I lean my head against the tiles and release the dam of tears I’ve barely kept at bay. When the water turns cold, I finally step out and wrap a fluffy towel around myself before walking to the kitchen for a gin and tonic, double.

I down the first one with ease and mix another. Adding a splash of lime this time. Alcohol doesn’t solve the problem, but it sure makes it go away for a while. Not long enough, but I’ll take the temporary escape for now as I contemplate the shitshow of my life.

Not caring about any kind of decorum in this church paid for abode I have to live in, I let the towel drop to the floor and my bare ass hit the upholstery of the hideous lime green suede couch. Who knew the 70s would make a comeback in style and the parish would spend a crapload of money decorating a house I live in without my input?

Ha! Silly question. Of course, they don’t care about me or what I think. That’s obvious in how they’re taking the Bishop’s side. I’m just a parish priest. I’m disposable.

The second drink goes down quickly and calls for a third. The happy buzz of alcohol already floats through my brain. Naked and giggling, I pad back to the kitchen and instead of mixing another drink; I tuck the bottle of gin under my arm, grab a few cans of tonic water from the fridge and carry them to the living room with me. No sense getting up every time. I can get shit-faced faster if I limit the amount of distractions and movements.

There’s no better time than when you’re drunk to face the music of your impending job loss, though, is there? Not that I’m sad to leave this pit of fake leather and smiles, but I want to leave on my own terms and it’s not going as planned.

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