Page 5 of King of Pain
The cloying scent of incense. The dim glow of candlelight. The low murmur of prayers whispered in a voice that promised safeness but never was.
I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as I try to ground myself.
It’s just a regular priest—not one of them.
He’s not here for you.
But then he stops. He’s standing directly in front of the shop now, his right side to the window. My pulse quickens, a steady drumbeat in my ears as I watch him from behind the counter.
Keep walking,I think, silently willing him to move.
Instead, he slowly and deliberately pivots his head toward the window, his face partially obscured in the shadows cast by the awning. Now he’s looking in.
Directly at me.
A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. My throat closes, like the air in the room has turned to smoke.
My mind races, every rational thought drowned out by the roar of panic.
Does he know me?
Did someone send him
Did Frank lock the door?
I can’t breathe.
Without thinking, I duck down, sliding onto the floor behind the counter and press my back against the shelves. My hands are shaking, slick with sweat, as I clamp them over my knees and try to steady my breathing. I barely hear the music coming from the speakers through the ringing in my ears.
This isn’t happening.
It has nothing to do with them.
It’s your fucking mind.
I repeat the words like a mantra, but they refuse to stick. The memories continue to press in from all sides: bathrooms where I hid, pews where I sat wondering why the people singing around me wouldn’t help, hands that lingered too long, threats whispered on whiskey breath.
I close my eyes, my chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
Minutes pass, or maybe it’s seconds—I can’t tell. All I know is the weight of the fear pressing down on me, the sound of my own heartbeat drowning out everything else.
When I finally gather the courage to look, I peek over the top of the counter.
The window is empty.
The priest is gone.
I sit another few moments, legs feeling like jelly, before slowly pulling myself to my feet. My hands grip the shelf for balance as I scan the shop, half-expecting him to be inside, waiting.
But there’s no one.
Just the repetitive crackle-hum of a record left spinning after the last track has ended, and the quiet creaks of the old building.
I force myself to move, heading back to the counter on unsteady legs. The shop feels colder now, the shadows darker.
“It was nothing,” I whisper to myself, the words hollow in my ears.
I feel a mix of relief and foolishness, yet the fear remains, gnawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to let go.
