Page 14 of Of Heathens & Havoc

Finally I relax, lock my door, and crawl into bed. I open my bible and find the verse the note quoted, but I can’t focus on the lesson. The wet fabric between my legs calls for attention, and I return the book to the nightstand, closing it in the drawer as if it will witness my sins and judge.

Then I reach up under my nightshirt and pull my panties down my thighs. Between my legs feels swollen and achy, and I rub my thighs together for a minute, my drowsy mind driftingto the scene in the cave, the way Heath’s thing looked so much bigger, more brutish than when we were kids.

Which should not be prompting this response.

I should be scared, but every time I recall the fear, the place between my legs only gets hotter and more uncomfortable. At last, I throw off my handmade quilt, panting hard.

What is wrong with me?

I just got a letter that’s just a longer version of the ones that came through the window on bricks until Mom packed up my stuff and snuck me out of town in the middle of the night.

I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. My throat is tight with frustration and pain at the memory. That was the last time I ever saw Saint.

Until today.

The memory of his gaze wraps around me like warmth and comfort and shameful desires I don’t want to revisit. My skin prickles with a new rush of heat when I replay our meeting in the hall, how tall he’s gotten, well over six feet, with massive shoulders and long hair pulled up into a neat bun.

A rush of goosebumps runs up my legs. He called me his sister. He still considers me family, even after everything. I huddle down, a new, throbbing warmth building in my lower belly.

No, no, no.

It’s bad enough that Heath stirs all these old memories and new feelings. But I can’t think that way about Saint. He’s mybrother.

I jump up and pull on a fresh pair of sensible cotton panties. Sleeping without them feels too naughty, like tempting myself to sin. I stuff my hands under my pillow so I won’t be led to rub the burning heat like Heath did.

I don’t do that.

I’m not a heathen like him.

When I wake up later, the sun is streaming through the window, and I’ve missed my first class. I hurry to dress so I can get to Father Salvatore’s class. The thought of missing it makes my throat go dry. I search around for the note I got, thinking I should bring it to an adult, let the Sisters know someone was sneaking around last night.

But I can’t find it anywhere.

I try to remember where I put it before I fell into bed, exhausted from the chaos of the night, but I can’t remember where I set it down. Was it all a sleep-induced hallucination?

Without the note, what can I do? If I tell the sisters, they’ll ask why I was up and why my door wasn’t locked, how I didn’t wake when someone opened my door.

A chill settles heavy in my bones, and I stop with my hands raised, about to secure my bun into place. Did someone come into my room while I was sleeping and take the note?

seven

The Merciful

I’m on edge the rest of the week. I’m scared to go to confession after the last one was recorded, and I don’t want to increase the sinful thoughts I’m already battling every day. Lusting after a priest has to be an even greater sin than lusting after a normal man… Probably unless the man is your brother.

Nonetheless, I have no other confidant, and finally, the dirty desires in my body lead me back to Father Salvatore. I don’t know how else to deal with them. Giving in is certainly not an option, for a hundred different reasons. I have no one else to turn to. I love my aunt, but I’d die before I’d share this humiliating weakness with her. The other students in my classes are friendly enough, in a surface level way, but I can’t confide in them.

The few people who try to strike up conversations quickly back off when they realize how painfully awkward I am, notice how strangely I wear my uniform, or sense the wariness in my demeanor. In turn, all I can do when I look at them is wonder if they signed up for HAVOC night too, if they were willing participants or coerced into it the way I was. I see Eternity in every face, and pain twists the knife of her absence deeper into my heart.

How can I disrespect her memory by trying to fill the hole she left in my life, as if I think it’s that easy to replace her? And more selfishly, how can I make a friend like her again, when I know I could lose them just as easily?

I don’t fit in, and I don’t try.

I figure that’s what drew the Sinners’ attention the first day—the dowdy way I dress and the way I present myself, along with the invisible shield I have up. While others sense that I don’t know how to engage with them or assume I don’t want to be messed with, and therefore leave me to my loneliness, bullies do the opposite. They sense when someone doesn’t fit, and they take it upon themselves to stamp out those who don’t conform. But they always go for the weakest member of the herd, the one they think is easy prey.

That’s why they came after me, a freshman girl in an ill-fitting uniform, but they backed off when the Hellhounds arrived. Bullies don’t like to fight their equals. They don’t want to risk losing and looking weak. Their greatest fear is my favorite disguise.

I slide into the confessional and close the door, sinking down on the bench and arranging the long skirt of my prairie dress around my knees. A shiver works its way up my arms when I think of Father Salvatore on the other side of the screen, waiting for me to begin. Does he dread what terrible things come from the lips of his congregants each time he sits behind that screen?

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