Page 102 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“You can start with the reconciliation prayer, or just—”
“Bless me, Father,” I blurt a little too loudly. “For I have sinned.”
His breath hitches. I straighten. Did he just gasp? Is it because he recognizes my voice already? He knows I’m the only one who hasn’t seen him. The silence between us is deafening. If he hasn’t guessed it’s me... I suppose he will now.
“It’s been weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins. I fucked a married man a few months ago. My regular release wasn’t at the bar when I needed him. So I seduced the chef. It didn’t take long. Just a pout here and a touch there. Before I knew it, he was railing me from behind in the Coolroom. But that was weeks ago. I haven’t been able to release this tension since Team Saint arrived.” I cough, trying to stop myself but the words keep falling out. “I can’t help it. I fantasize about sex all the time. I masturbate whenever I can.Jesus Lord, do I.In bed. In church. In the gym. In the pool. In the shower. In the fucking toilet. It’s worse when I don’t fuck someone. I just can’t stop. I know this isn’t right. Many priests, nuns, and people better than me have told me that my urges come from a sinful, evil place. That’s why I’m here, right? To turn that rotten core into something useful? But, fuck, I haven’t been on a mission since forever—I can’t even funnel these urges into something good. Do you know how hard it is to deny yourself the one thing your bodyscreamsfor you to have?”
I flop back against the wall, defeated. Tears sting my eyes, but I hold them in. I always hold them in.
“Si.” Father’s soft, disembodied voice is a life raft through the lattice. I hear him licking his lips. Hear him breathe. And then he exhales. “I know what it’s like.”
“No disrespect to you, Father, but I don’t think you get it this bad. I’m certified. Spent a few months in a psych ward. They tried to fry the sin out of me, but it didn’t stick.”
Silence is my answer. Shame heats my cheeks, and I brace for the hate I always get. So many of them can’t help the righteousness they dish out. Whenever Father Angelotti sits across from me at a briefing in the archives, or looks at me from across the gym, his eyes simmer.
When the silence extends, I brave a look through the lattice. The priest’s fist is clenched so hard around his rosary beads that a sliver of blood drips from his fist and stains his black clerics.
“They locked you up?” His voice is a raw, breathy snarl that sends shivers down my spine. “True?”
“I’m not lying.” I blink. “Why would I lie to you? That’s another sin I don’t need penance for.”
As if in response to the P word, my thighs burn. I yank my yoga pants down and inspect the circle of raw, creamy skin with a hiss. The welts from the chain cilice are as angry as they were when Leila stole them from me. I lick my finger and rub the wound. It’s itching now. Needs air to heal, but I hide the wounds with pants. The tight fabric rubs and irritates me, giving me the pain I need to distract myself from my demons.
“I’m punishing myself enough,” I mumble.
“Mercy.”
“Yes, Father?” I lick my finger and rub my welt, wincing.
“Are your pants down?”
My spine straightens. My eyes widen and then shut.Stupid. If I can glimpse his knees through the lattice, he can see my pasty white ones with my black yoga pants around my ankles. My legs would be like a beacon in the shadows here.
“It’s not what you think.” I grimace. If this were any other place, if he were any other man, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck. I’d kick my pants off and invite him in. For a split second, I entertain the thought of doing just that. Or, at the very least, sticking my fingers down my panties to ease my throbbing ache. But I slide my pants back up and over my hips. “I have cilice wounds. The pain helps me rein in my urges.”
Wait for it.
Here comes the derogatory judgment.
“Si,” he replies. “I understand. What else helps you?”
He’s... not shaming me. He’s... being nice. I touch the lattice with my fingers.
“Sometimes penance, depending on what it is.”
“Go on.”
I flatten my lips.
“I cannot help you if you do not share,” he says.
“Honestly, nothing works for long. Pain helps me focus on something else. Missions give me focus. As long as someone else pulls my strings, I don’t beat myself up about it too much.” I survive. I flourish. I might even enjoy the ride. “And... confession. Letting something out, even talking about it, somehow seems to let off steam.”
“And what happens when you... explode?”
“I, um... hurt people.”
“You have forced yourself on someone?”
