Deviation
Authors: Scott M. Williams
Deviation
by Scott M. Williams
Deviation
is Copyright © 2013 by Scott M. Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form
or by any electronic means without permission in writing
from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and characters
are either the
product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously.
Table
of Contents
Deviation
Dianne
The church was at least a century old, and from all
outward appearances seemed to be abandoned. Dianne doubted there
was anyone inside who could help her even if it wasn't. She stood
there on the sidewalk, feeling drawn to it and yet not quite able to
dismiss the foreboding sensation that was warning her to stay away.
A weathered wooden sign poking up from the lawn of mud
and weeds informed her that this was St. Paul's Episcopal Church.
She studied it curiously. The church was profuse with symptoms of
neglect: the ancient bricks were crumbling, and there was a chaotic
accumulation of graffiti spray-painted on the walls; many of the
stained glass windows were cracked or broken; even the concrete
walkway was smashed and sunken. She craned her neck and looked up
at the cross on the peak of the roof; the mounting was badly
damaged, causing it to lean at an obscure angle. It appeared likely
to come tumbling down during the next storm.
She stood considering the church for a long time. She needed to
either select it or move on. She knew she wanted to visit a church,
and to talk with a priest, but she'd never done either of these
things before and was feeling almost overwhelmingly confused. She
knew nothing about the various religious denominations and cared
even less. She simply needed advice, and something inside of her
was demanding it come from a priest.
She took a deep breath and winced. She was in a lot of pain,
compliments of her boyfriend, Cliff, and it hurt when she breathed
too deeply. It felt like he might have broken one of her ribs this
time. She'd go to a doctor, but she hated to waste money
unnecessarily when she earned so little. Besides, even if a doctor
helped her she'd just end up getting the shit beaten out of her
again when she got home. Calling the police wouldn't help much,
either. They'd locked Cliff up in the past, and since getting out
he was more vicious than ever.
No, she needed a priest. She needed some real changes,
life-altering changes, and she was convinced that this was the way
to go about getting them.
Making her way up the crumbling walkway, Dianne was careful not to
slip on the patches of melting ice. It was late March, and
Milwaukee was just starting to warm up after a tremendously
punishing winter. She was glad it was almost over. She wished
everything was almost over. She wished a meteor would collide with
the earth and wipe everything out, herself included, so that there
wouldn't be any more punishment or brutality or disappointment.
She'd been wishing that for a long time, and so far it hadn't done
any good.
When she reached the end of the walkway she climbed up the slanted
wooden steps and stood in front of the doors, searching for signs
that the church was still operational. None were apparent. For a
moment she considered simply turning around and finding some other
church. There were dozens of them in the area, and most of them
were in far better shape than this peculiar old wreck. Something
about the place appealed to her, however, and she decided to stick
with her initial instinct.
The doors were closed and there were no markings on them. Dianne
stood there, feeling confused and nervous and ready to give up. She
wanted to get back in her 14 year old Ford Escort and drive home.
She wanted to get drunk and go back to bed and never get up. But
Cliff was there. Cliff with his fists and his aggression and his
evil fucking moods. She couldn't go back there again, not after
yesterday. And there was nowhere else to go.
She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. The wood was rough
with splinters and unusually thick. The sound her frail fist made
on the door was barely even audible. She doubted anyone inside
would hear it, unless they were standing directly beside the door.
“Oh, god,” she muttered. “Can't I just get one
little fucking break? Just one?”
She knocked again and stood there waiting. She heard nothing from
inside and no one answered the door.
“Son of a bitch. I guess I'll just go home and let him
finish me off.”
She knocked once more and stood there, feeling cold in her ratty
thrift-store jacket. No one was going to answer, she knew. It had
been a stupid idea. No one had ever liked her, not really, and so
why should god be any different? Perhaps god wanted her to be
beaten to death. Or perhaps he just wanted her to be beaten, a
little each day for fifty or sixty years, and then die. It could
all be part of his plan. The thought of it infuriated her and she
fought back tears as she clenched her teeth and turned the knob,
shoving the door open.
Well, the church was open now. She glanced inside, trying to
determine if there was anyone there, but it was far too dark inside
to be sure. She pushed the door open further and stuck her head in.
“Hello?” she called out.
Nothing.
“Fucking shit,” she muttered. She didn't want to turn
around, not now. She stepped up over the threshold and entered the
foyer, allowing her anger to take control and lead her. Sometimes
this worked to her advantage, and of course sometimes it made things
much worse.
“Hello?” she called again.
Still nothing. She glanced around, taking in the enormity of the
sanctuary. It was relatively dark in the room, but there was some
scarce light filtering in through the many broken stained glass
windows up near the ceiling, lending the atmosphere a sinister
dimension. Rows of pews stretched out before her, all of them
deserted. Up near the altar a collection of candles were on
display, as if awaiting someone to come and light them. If there
was anyone there to perform such a ritual, they were nowhere to be
seen. She made her way deeper inside, her shoes echoing softly on
the wooden floor.
“Is anybody here?”
She spoke louder this time, and as soon as the words were out of
her mouth she heard a muffled crash from somewhere off beyond the
sanctuary. She stood waiting, looking around at the vast emptiness
of the place. There were many doors and hallways leading off into
other areas, and within seconds she saw a dark figure emerge from
one of them, near the far end of the room.
Feeling suddenly frightened, she thought it wise to announce
herself again. “Hello. I hope I'm not interrupting
anything.”
The figure stepped cautiously closer, and she could see that it was
a man. A priest, dressed up in a cassock and a clerical collar.
She sensed that he was as unaccustomed to this as she was, and that
visitors here were rare; maybe even unheard of.
“Good afternoon,” he said. As he got closer, Dianne
could see that he was middle-aged, probably in his late 40's and had
gray hair which seemed a bit too long. He was also unshaven, which
surprised her. “No, you're not interrupting anything. How
can I help you?”
She thought how best to answer. “I'm not sure, actually. I
came because I need to talk with someone.”
“Alright,” said the priest. He folded his hands in
front of him. “You need spiritual guidance?”
“I'm not sure. I just... I need to talk. I need advice. I
was wondering if there's anyone here I could speak with.”
He sighed heavily, and Dianne thought she could detect the scent of
alcohol on his breath. It could have been her imagination, but she
didn't think so. The priest looked very disheveled, and in the dim
light she could even make out his bloodshot eyes. “You can
speak with me. I'd suggest you might want to speak with the pastor,
but he seems to have disappeared recently.”
The information chilled Dianne. “It doesn't matter,”
she assured him. “I'd be happy to speak with you, if you have
time.”
“Of course,” he said. He looked around the cavernous
room as if noticing it for the first time. “Would you like to
talk here, or shall we go sit in the kitchen?”
“The kitchen?”
He smiled, his teeth clean and white. “Yes. That's where I
was just now. Or there are any number of empty classrooms we can
use. Or the rectory...”
“Anyplace is fine.”
He rubbed his chin, considering. It seemed like a major decision
for him and Dianne wondered briefly if she ought to think of an
excuse to leave and go find another church. “I think the
kitchen would be best. If you don't mind.”
“No, I don't mind at all.”
“Good. There are refreshments there, and I think we'll be
more comfortable.”
Dianne nodded. It sounded fine to her, although she wasn't really
in the mood for refreshments. She was in the mood to speak with a
priest, and it seemed as though she'd finally be doing just that.
She stood there, waiting for him to lead her into the kitchen, but
he remained still, gazing off into the distance. It was impossible
for her to know whether this priest was strange or not, as she had
no experience with priests and therefor no one to compare him to.
He certainly seemed strange, but maybe all priests were like this.
She continued to wait, and he continued to stare off into space.
Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Dianne cleared her throat. “Um...
should I go back to the kitchen now?”
He looked at her, coming out of his daze. “Hmm? Oh, yes,
I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, no, not at all.” His gaze sharpened and he seemed
to look directly inside of her. “What's your name, by the
way?”
“Dianne.”
“Nice to meet you, Dianne. Frank. Father Frank Luciano.”
He extended a hand and they shook. “Come. Let's go sit down
and you can tell me what brings you here.”
“Thank you.”
He led her through the sanctuary then, and into the small kitchen
beyond.
Father Frank
The kitchen wasn't much different from the break room
where Dianne worked as a data entry clerk. There were a few tables
with chairs scattered around them, a refrigerator, a sink and a
microwave. There were also vending machines, and it looked as
though Father Frank had obtained a bag of potato chips from one of
them. The bag was lying on one of the tables, chips strewn across
the surface. Beside the bag of chips was a can of Pabst Blue
Ribbon.
He quickly picked up the can and took a gulp. “Can I get you
something? I've got more beer in the fridge, if you'd like.”
Dianne stared at him, not sure what to do or say. Did she really
want to seek advice from this man? This apparent fallen priest? Of
course, she was rushing to judge him. Just because he hadn't shaved
in a few days and was drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon
inside the church didn't mean he was a bad spiritual adviser. For
all she knew, he was the best.
“Um... I don't know...”
“It's no trouble,” Frank assured her. He tilted his
head back, guzzling the last of his beer. Then he crushed the can
in one fist and threw it into a small trash receptacle near the
counter where it rattled around with many others. He opened the
refrigerator, revealing dozens more cans of Pabst, as well as a
small variety of other beer. While Dianne watched, he selected two
cans of Pabst and closed the door. “I keep plenty on hand, so
it's no trouble.” He held a can out to her, and after a
moment of hesitation she accepted it.
“Thank you.” She stared at it. She was kind of in the
mood for a beer or two, actually. It just didn't seem right to be
drinking with a priest.
Father Frank cracked his can and took several long swallows. He
was obviously a thirsty man. “Care for some chips?” He
scooped a few off the table and slipped them into his mouth,
crunching away. “Help yourself.”
“No, thank you.” Dianne opened her beer and took a
sip. It was good and cold and she was suddenly glad she had it.
“How is it?” Frank asked.
“Good. Thank you.”
He motioned to the chairs. “Have a seat?”
She nodded. “Alright.”
They each sat down, Frank grabbing a few more chips and stuffing
them into his mouth. He chased them with another gulp of beer.
“Now. What's on your mind?”
Dianne took another sip of her own beer, trying to loosen up.
“Well... you mean I can just kind of tell you my problems,
like a confession or something? I'm not sure how this works. I've
never even been inside a church before.”
“Oh.” Frank frowned thoughtfully. “Count
yourself lucky.”
She waited for more, but there was nothing else. “So... I
can just tell you what happened? And maybe get some advice?”
“Sure. I'll listen, and I'll be happy to give you some
advice. That's about all I can do, really.”
“That's fine. That might be a very big help.”
“Okay.” He lifted his beer again and drank deep,
almost finishing it off. “You don't want any bourbon, do
you?”
“Bourbon?” She had hardly touched her beer.
“Yes. I like a little taste now and again. This stuff is
getting on my nerves.” He picked up his can again and poured
the last of it into his mouth. Then he crushed it and tossed it
behind him, missing the trash by inches. The can clattered across
the room and came to a rest near another door.
Dianne took a drink of her beer. “I think this is good
enough for me.”
“For now it probably is,” he agreed. He ran a hand
through his hair. “Shit. Hang on. Let me grab something.”
He got up from his seat and opened one of the cabinets above the
sink. There were several bottles of booze in there and he looked
them over thoughtfully. Then he slammed the cabinet and cursed,
rubbing his face. He opened the refrigerator again and withdrew
three more cans of beer instead. Returning to his seat, he cracked
one open and took a long drink. “Okay. So what's going on?
You run away from home?”
Dianne stared at him. “I'm 26. I have an apartment, here in
the city.”
“Oh.” Frank looked her over carefully. “For
some reason I thought you were younger. You look younger.”
“Thank you.” She did have a youthful face and bright,
piercing green eyes. She kept her dark hair long, at least a few
inches past her shoulders.
He nodded and drank.
“Anyway, like I said, I have an apartment. But I can't go
back to it.”
“Why not?”
“Well...” She took another sip of beer, trying to wash
away all the horrible thoughts and feelings that were surfacing.
She'd never told anyone about Cliff before, other than the police.
She wondered if she'd really be able to do this. “I have a
boyfriend. That's probably not the best term for what he is, but
you get the idea. He lives there with me. Well, at least he does
now. He moved in even though I said he couldn't, and now I can't
even go home anymore. Well, I mean, I
can,
but... he...”
She had to stop or she'd start crying.
“Are you trying to tell me this cowardly shit hits you?”
She looked at him, alarmed. “What?”
“You heard me. Does he hit you?”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “How did you know that?”
“Well,
somebody
does.
I can see that clearly enough.”
Dianne hung her head, ashamed. She had no idea it was so obvious.
Even to a stranger.
“Sorry,” Frank said. “Keep talking. I won't
interrupt.”
“It's okay. I...” She tried to get her thoughts and
emotions in order. She was suddenly glad she was here; she needed
this more than she'd realized. Maybe it would really do her some
good to spill her guts to this weird priest. After a small sip of
beer, she continued. “He's a deadbeat. He doesn't even work.
That's why he moved in with me, because he could no longer afford
his own rent. He quit his job because he thinks he's too smart and
important to waste his time working, but he's just an idiot. He
sits there all day and night playing video games.”
Frank nodded. “I see.”
“He plays the same game all the time, too. It's some stupid
quest game, and he never gets tired of it. He just keeps wandering
around through these caves and field, killing things with clubs and
swords. He yells at them, and laughs at them. It goes on and on,
and he plays it the entire time he's awake.”
“Except when he's hitting you.”
Dianne bit her lip. “He didn't used to hit me,” she
said quietly. “That started happening more recently.”
“ And why does he hit you?”
“I'm not sure. He gets mad, obviously. He's just... it's
like his life is going down the tubes and he's trying to take me
along with him. He'll be sitting there, playing his stupid game and
eating a bowl of cereal. And he'll spill some of the cereal on the
couch. He'll give me a dirty look like it's somehow my fault and
yell at me to clean it up. And while I'm cleaning it up sometimes
he'll reach over and grab my hair and start pulling it and calling
me cruel names. And sometimes he'll punch me in the face or twist
my arm real hard. This is just an example, but you get the idea.
It seems to make him feel better when he hurts me.”
Father Frank was listening intently. “Is he drunk when he
does this?”
“Not usually. He doesn't drink much. He helps himself to
one of my beers now and then, but nothing major. He's just a stupid
asshole. Sorry, Father. He eats a lot, plays his dumb game and
abuses me. And it's getting worse.”
Frank took a drink.
“A few weeks ago I was complaining about the electric bill.
It seems to go higher and higher every month, and obviously it's him
using the electricity because I'm at work 40 hours a week. And he
can't help with any bills because he doesn't work and doesn't
qualify for unemployment. He's just a big useless loafer. And he
got real mad and asked me what the fuck... sorry... what the heck
he's supposed to do about it. He said it's my apartment, and it's
my bill, and I shouldn't even be mentioning it to him. I asked him
when he was going to look for a job and he threw his game controller
at me and told me to mind my own business. Then he got up off the
couch and shoved me into the TV.” She paused to take a drink.
“I wasn't hurt too badly, but it was a shock, you know? I
didn't see it coming.”
“Have you asked him to leave?”
“Yes. Several times. A few days after he pushed me into the
TV, he beat me up for the first time.” Dianne licked her
lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “It was horrible. I
thought he was going to kill me. I'd never been beaten up before,
not really. A few fistfights with other girls in grade school, but
nothing like this. He had me down on the floor, and he was kicking
me. He was kicking me as if he wanted to kill me.”
“You can't let this continue,” Frank said.
“I know.” There were tears coursing down her face now.
She wiped them away. “He beat me up a few times like that,
and then I called the police on him. They arrested him, but, I
don't know, he was back a few days later. And then he beat me up
really bad. I couldn't even go to work the next day, it hurt too
much to walk. And he said... he said if I ever called the cops on
him again he'd kill me. And I believe him.”
Frank lifted his chin and rubbed it with one hand. “This is
not good, Dianne.”
She laughed miserably. “Tell me about it.”
“Have you mentioned any of this to anyone? Your parents?”
She shook her head. “I don't have parents. My biological
mother... gave me away.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I'm used to it by now. I've had several sets of foster
parents, but none I kept in touch with.” She looked down at
the table. “No one's ever had much use for me.”
“And so you've decided to come here, hoping that I could
offer you some help.” Frank finished his beer and set the can
aside. He opened the other one and sat waiting for her response.
Dianne took another drink. “I don't know that anyone can
really help me. But after the other day... oh, god, he really went
to work on me. He was punching me so hard in the stomach I was
throwing up blood. He beat my head against the wall until I could
barely see. I thought I was going to die. I didn't even do
anything to cause it...”
Frank reached across the table and took her hand, which was
shaking. “This will not continue,” he told her.
She stared at him, more tears spilling down her cheeks. She felt a
tiny spark of hope, but she knew enough not to trust it. Hope had
proven itself to be nothing but a distraction in the past. “I
don't know what to do. I can't even go home...”
“Of course you can.”
“How? He never leaves. He'll beat me up again, for no
reason.”
“No he won't. Those days are over.”
She took a deep breath, getting herself under control. She wiped
her eyes again and took a long drink of beer, finishing her can.
“How do you figure?”
He released her hand and slid an unopened Pabst across the table.
“Would you like another?”
Dianne considered it for a moment and then nodded. She popped the
top and took a drink. She was beginning to get the impression that
Father Frank was really going to help her.
“Let me ask you something,” he said.
“Okay.”
He rubbed his face, his eyes closing briefly. “Have you ever
shot meth?”
“Excuse me?”
“Methamphetamine,” he clarified. Have you ever
mainlined it?”
She was suddenly nervous again. “I've never even seen meth.
I've never considered using it in any way.”
“Yes... well...” He rubbed his face again and then
clawed lightly at his chest. “I've given up shooting it. But
I miss it terribly. You've never even smoked it?”
“No. I wouldn't want to.”
“Are you sure? It's extremely enjoyable.”
“You don't really use meth, do you? Isn't that... illegal?”
Father Frank laughed. “By the laws of man, yes. But I
answer to a higher power.”
She guzzled some beer. She had a slight buzz going and she had to
admit, this priest was very unusual and quite interesting. “You
mean... god doesn't mind if you use it?”
“Not at all. At least he hasn't said anything to me about
it.”
She couldn't help smiling at that. “I don't think meth would
help me.”
“No, probably not.” He leaned back in his chair. “You
know what I like about it most?”
“What?”
“When you shoot meth, you yourself become god. There's no
one more powerful, and there's no power higher than yourself.
There's nothing else like it.” He took a drink. “It's
the finest feeling in all the world.”
Dianne was silent, not sure how to respond.
“I'm trying to stick with smoking. You sure you don't want
some?”
“No. Thank you, though.”
“I wouldn't ask you for any money.”
“No. I really don't want any.”
“Suit yourself.”
Dianne waited for him to do something, but he only sat there. She
took a gulp of her Pabst, feeling disappointed. This priest wasn't
going to be of any help after all. He was a mess, and had probably
already forgotten about her problems. She felt suddenly awkward,
sitting there beside him. “Thank you for the beer, Father.
And for listening to me. But I guess I'd better be going now.”
“Soon, Dianne. Soon. First we need to take care of your
little problem.”