Redeeming Rhys (12 page)

“Your pleas mean nothing to me. Get up. Now,” Rhys demanded.

“You cannot make me confess my sins to you. I will not do it. You are not my God! I answer to the one and only Holy One!”

Rhys clenched his free hand in a tight fist, his knuckles cracking, and turned his head slightly to study the priest. He didn’t pity him. He knew that is what Father Sullivan was trying to do. He was attempting to get him to feel sorry for him; to reel him into a place that didn’t exist.

Heaven.

How could it? Rhys had been enveloped by it his whole life, but even the goodness that they made him think was real was really evil.

“Stand the fuck up. You think that you will win this little game? You don’t know me. Let me show you what I have…”

Rhys tossed his hard fist across Father Sullivan’s face, the blow resounding like fallen angels singing through the papal.

“Tell me, Father Sullivan. Is your life and reputation more important to you, or death?” Rhys questioned as Father Sullivan guarded his bleeding lip and throbbing jaw.

“I will not defy my God for you.”

Father Sullivan thought of all the horrible things that the boy, now a grown man, was likely capable of. Selfishness swarmed him as he thought of the possibility of people finding out his secrets. His transgressions.

“You tell me everything, I will let you live,” Rhys stated.

There
was
complete truth to his statement. He planned on letting him live if he told him everything about his mother. About Wren…

Father Sullivan looked up at Rhys, his lips trembling in fear as his eyes watered with uncertainty. His frailty was apparent, his deep wrinkles saturated his face and his stark white hair showed his age. Rhys pondered his favorite color; the one that symbolized both life and death and what it would look like sprayed on his snow white strands, but he made a promise and he was going to keep it.

Not all promises are sweet, though.

“Stand up, Father. First, you will tell me how it all began with my mother. I want every fucking detail you worthless, dirty man. Every single one.”

Father Sullivan knew his fate was not well-played. He would not end up in a place lovely, free from eternal pain. He would end up in the embers of hell, the very destination that he warned others of. He praised those who led lives free from turpitudes and shame, yet he had been a sinner the entirety of his life.

Father Sullivan stood, eyeing the doors and hoping that someone would come in soon to light a candle to pray, however Rhys saw his tearful eyes dart to the entrance of the church. A smile lit Rhys’ face like he had caught the cat with the canary, but he was the cat and Father Sullivan was the canary. He couldn’t outsmart him even if he tried. He had been living off his own insanity and taking for the past ten years. Rhys could practically sniff it out.

“Lock the door. I know you have a set of keys. Get up.”

Rhys’ voice was calm, yet authoritative.

Father Sullivan looked at him through a pleading gaze. Rhys motioned his head towards the two large doors. Father Sullivan struggled to stand, but Rhys didn’t help him. He refused. He wouldn’t. Not after everything he put him through. He walked behind him as he took the jingling keys out of his pocket and handing them over to Rhys. Father Sullivan locked the doors, taking the chain at the top to secure it from the inside. Rhys felt at ease, realizing that he was completely alone with him.

“To the altar,” Rhys stated, sticking the keys in his pocket while he grasped onto the knife harder. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to kill Father Sullivan, but a promise is a promise.

They walked down the freshly vacuumed carpet, dull without life, until they reached the altar. Father Sullivan looked at Rhys for direction, which he was happy to give.

“Sit over there,” he motioned to the chairs.

Father Sullivan moved to the chair, eager to sit as the arthritis in his knees was bothering him greatly. Too bad his pain was just about to start.

“Not at that one,” Rhys boasted, disrupting him when he tried to sit at the celebrant chair.

Father Sullivan didn’t offer a rebuttal, instead he moved to the smaller one to the side. He sat as instructed when Rhys sat next to him, knife still in tow.

“Start where our story begins…” Rhys whispered, admiring the shiny blade he clutched in his hand.

Father Sullivan hung his head in shame, knowing that if he wanted to live he had no choice. He decided he would try one more time to beg.

“Please!” he screamed, holding his watering eyes in his hands.

Hands that sinned.

Hands that hurt.

Hands that killed.

Rhys stood quickly, moving before the old, disgusting man. He brought his hard hand above his head again and slammed it over his temple. Father Sullivan slumped over the chair until he was greeted by horror and a hell that he deserved.

Blackness.

JULIANNE MOOREMAN WAS
a bright seventeen-year-old girl who grew up in a modest home in Hooverville, Kentucky. Her mother was a seamstress for a local shop on the town square and her father worked for the coal mine. They were devout, never missing a Sunday Mass or holy days. Julianne had been raised right, but something had overcome her the past year. Perhaps it was just her age, but she prayed. Prayed away her sins to God every night before bed. But he didn’t listen.

When that didn’t work, she decided she would speak to her priest, Father Langston Sullivan. She wasn’t sure what it was about when she looked at him, but the place between her legs that would bleed every month or so would burn and throb in church when his deep voice spoke the scripture on Sundays. She couldn’t help but picture herself as Eve, him Adam, his distinct and passionate demeanor apparent and made her heart thud in her chest. She was a sinner. He was a saint. She needed to free herself from the thoughts that invaded her mind. Thoughts that she didn’t understand.

She had learned about sex in her private school a few years prior, only realizing it was an act that should be performed between a husband and wife if conception was wanted. They didn’t teach her about the types of feelings she had then. She came to the conclusion that she was different, and different wasn’t always good.

She wasn’t Eve nor Adam; she was a poisonous apple that people would never be able to understand. The delicious fruit full of promise that begged to be eaten.

Literally.

Julianne studied Father Sullivan often, his full pink lips perfectly sculpted. She wondered what his body would look like beneath his black tailored shirt, his Adam’s apple moved in perfect synchrony when he swallowed to moisten his mouth when delivering his sermon in church. Julianne was certain she was destined for hell when she studied his cleanly shaven neck. She was birthed for the beginning of something wretched.

Before it got out of hand, she needed to relieve herself from the feelings that were becoming overwhelming. The throbbing soon turned into a wetness that was similar to a cycle that she had every month, yet when she went to the bathroom to check, there was no blood, only a fluid-like substance that saturated her white cotton underwear after she stared at her priest.

She needed confession. She needed freedom.

So, she had asked him the Wednesday before to have a private confession time after Mass. Her parents were proud of her, as she made time to cleanse herself free from her sins. She had it planned; she would tell him her feelings, ones she craved to understand, yet free, and ask for forgiveness because deep down she knew they weren’t right.

She was at his side during Mass and found it difficult to concentrate, listening to his shallow breathing when he sat before he dismissed the church. It was too much for her to stand. Finally, after she walked down the red aisle holding the cross after Father Sullivan, she moved back to the room to disrobe herself from her altar girl clothing. The once bustling church was quiet, the other altar helper, a boy who had been eyeing her for months, was gone as well.

“Julianne, are you ready for confession?” Father Sullivan asked from outside.

“Yes, Father. I’ll be right there,” Julianne responded, straightening her pleated skirt and buttoning the top part of her white blouse, though the forbidden part of her contemplated unbuttoning it to show him the small amount of cleavage she had to offer.

She heard his footsteps reverberate across the wooden floors to the booth and she swallowed hard, her heart fluttering wildly like a famished butterfly craving its sweetness that was right within its reach. Bittersweet deceit was all she wanted…

Her petite footsteps peppered lightly over the ligneous grounds of the vacant church, so innocent. So graceful. Soon to be tainted…

Julianne entered the confessional area, sitting down on the bench, knowing that the pain of the pew on her bare knees would be uncomfortable and she was already not looking forward to telling Father Sullivan her true feelings.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession…” her voice trailed, catching in her throat.

She debated leaving, not sure if she would have enough courage to tell him the dirty thoughts that had painted a wicked mirage in her mind. One that was supposed to remain pure and untouched. She wasn’t sure where they had come from.

“Tell me your sins and I shall give you penance.”

His voice shuddered through her like a welcome melody, making her insides quiver with sweet anticipation. The wetness pooled between her thighs and she tried to clench them together to make it go away, but it only made it worse. She tried to peer through the black veiled screen to see his face, so handsome and untouched, but the thick veil prevented her from seeing his features.

A faint moan escaped her mouth when she crossed her legs. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her body, a tingling sensation prickling over every inch.

“Julianne, are you okay?”

She was mute, desire had her voice and all her rationality, but she was just a girl… a girl that had discovered lust and wanted it.

“Julianne?” Father Sullivan questioned again.

Her heart continued to drum in her chest, its tempo too quick to count; her body started to perspire. Her mouth craved something, but she didn’t know what it was. It was as if her body was moving to its own wants and needs.

“I, I… I’m not... o-o-okay,” she stammered.

“You can always talk to me, Julianne.”

His voice was too much for her. She stood, quickly leaving the confessional booth and tripping over her own two feet. She landed on her face, busting her lip. Tears invaded her once lustful eyes. The door to his side swung open and his steps rushed over to her. She crawled into the fetal position, trying her best to travel to a place where he didn’t affect her. Where the confusing feelings didn’t swirl about in her body making her feel dirty and disgraceful.

“Julianne. Nothing is ever so bad where God can’t forgive you…” Father Sullivan stated, leaving his soft hand out for her to take.

“It is. I’ve sinned beyond measure, Father.”

“Julianne, sit up.”

His voice wasn’t as soft as it normally was. It was tougher. More demanding. Her belly tightened again and she listened. She sat on her bottom, realizing her legs were uncrossed, giving Father Sullivan a look between her legs. Heat flooded her cheeks as they turned a dark shade of cherry-red.

“Let’s sit down on the pew before the altar. Would that make you feel better?” his tone had softened.

Julianne didn’t respond, she only nodded her head yes.

They walked to the front pew and sat, her hearing had peaked as she listened and counted his breath sounds. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, the beautiful blues of his gaze made her feel at ease, yet terrified all in one.

“What has you so scared, Julianne?”

She looked at him, her innocence was suffocating him.

“Feelings.”

Her response was blunt.

“What feelings have you so bothered?”

Her petite chest rose and fell; the desire she wished to leave had only invaded her body more at his requests. It was not a confession anymore. It was a conversation…

“About… you.”

The words slipped from her mouth and she swallowed again, looking at him as he ran his hands through his blonde hair with speckles of grey dusting it throughout. He had captivated her, and she him, in that moment.

“Are you frightened of me?” Father Sullivan questioned.

“No, Father. I, I don’t know what it is. I think that I love you…” Julianne stated, nervously fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

She sat there, for what seemed like eons, waiting for a reply, but his lips remained sealed. She looked at his Adam’s apple, and it bobbed up and down as he swallowed like he was wetting his mouth like he did when he gave a sermon in church. A small smile then formed at the edges of his mouth.