Redeeming Rhys (13 page)

“Heaven has called on you, Julianne.”

Confusion bathed her more than it did before. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it had to be good. She was slightly naïve, realizing that she hadn’t learned about that in any CCD class or during school. Priests were to have only one relationship. To God.

“What does that mean?” she questioned, searching the depths of his blue eyes.

The crow’s feet at the edges of his enchanting eyes turned dark. In that moment, Julianne was painted and turned black by a man that was supposed to be a servant of God.

“Heaven wants you to be my secret angel. No one can know.”

FATHER SULLIVAN AWOKE
to his head thumping on the hardwood floors. Rhys was dragging him along with little effort. He thought about fighting, bringing his arthritic hands out to try and grasp onto to something as he passed by the rows of pews, but he continued to stay at the mercy of Rhys. He gazed at the beautiful dome of his beloved church, staring at the angels and feeling sorry for himself.

Father Sullivan felt his neck tip up as Rhys struggled to pull him up the two steps that led him to the altar area. Rhys must not have realized that he was conscious yet. Rhys groaned in agitation and yanked harder, finally getting his body up the steps. He let Father Sullivan’s body go limp and took a step back.

“I see that you haven’t died. Do you trust that I keep my promises?” Rhys asked, glaring down at Father Sullivan while wearing a grin of malice and intent.

Father Sullivan refused to offer him a return. He gulped hard, knowing his selfishness would lead to his ultimate hell.

“Answer me, you foolish old man,” Rhys seethed, spitting on Father Sullivan.

Father Sullivan nodded his head, the throbbing of pain shooting through every part of his aging body.

“Stand. I haven’t broken your legs… yet,” Rhys demanded.

Father Sullivan rolled over to his side, trying his best to ignore the emotional pain that was persistent through him, because that was greater than the physical pain. With much effort, he finally stood, gripping the white cloth that adorned the bare altar. The same one he would bless the Blood and Body of Christ over every Sunday during Mass. Instead, at that moment, he would be the subject of a macabre secret that was unveiling. One that he was sure would never become unmasked.

“Lie down. Up there,” Rhys stated, gesturing with his head for the old man to lie on top of the stark white altar cloth.

Father Sullivan’s heart sped up in his chest. He didn’t trust him. How could he? He was created out of mistrust. Out of sin. Rhys was the result of a catastrophe… Rhys was the poisonous apple that had continued to come back to haunt him. There was no more cover up. The boy had sided with the devil. Perhaps that was his punishment, the holiest man bearing a child responsible for the ghastliest acts. But what Father Sullivan didn’t realize was one major thing; he was seeking something that he wasn’t.

Redemption. It didn’t matter if it was unconventional, at least he wished for true forgiveness from somewhere.

Father Sullivan struggled to climb atop the altar, but finally succeeded. He sat there, slightly out of breath, inhaling the unique smell of incense. That aroma typically calmed him, but for some reason at that moment in time, it made him nervous.

“Lie down on your back, Father Sullivan. Let the confession begin.”

After wandering through insanity for so long, the lost little boy embraced the Hell he was admonished from before and never felt more at home.

“HOW DID IT FEEL
when you stole innocence for the first time, you foolish old man?” Rhys whispered, wiping the blade of his knife on his stained jeans.

It hadn’t been littered with blood yet, but it was something he did out of habit. He swallowed hard, the dryness in the back of his throat reminding him that he needed to feed and water his body. He hadn’t cared for himself much the past ten years. Who was he kidding, he wasn’t cared after before that ominous night, he thought, recollections painting back to delirious conversations with rats while being partially concussed. He was angry. He needed to feel alive, and whole again, and there was only one out there that made him feel even like half of a man.

Her.

Wren.

The man that lay atop the praising table held the secrets that he wished to know. As much as he wanted to press the blade to his neck and watch as his sagging skin split apart, seeping the beautiful crimson blood, the only evidence of a life so meaningless and harmful.

A faint moan escaped the tattered lips of Father Sullivan. Rhys tilted his head and looked closely, trying his best to withhold the urge to laugh like a maddened lunatic, as he watched Father Sullivan attempt to grasp ahold of the white cloth. He failed himself as a bout of laughter escaped his chapped mouth, and by instinct, he brought his loyalist advisory to his lips to silence his lunacy. It was as if he were being shown love in the most fucked up way. He pushed the blade to his lips a little harder, enjoying the discomfort a little too much, until he tasted the metallic liquid that he had grown to admire over the years. He pulled the knife back and saw that it had been marked by his blood. He allowed the laughter to return as he thought of how hilarious that was.

He strode over to Father Sullivan, briefly eyeing his knife and the useless attempts that the priest was still making to clasp onto something, anything, to make him feel safe. How ironic, for a man to be in the holiest of places, one that he welcomed people to worship… to pray away their pain. Now it was his turn.

“Are you ready to pray away
your
pain, Father Sullivan?” Rhys asked, when he finally reached the head of the altar, looking at the pitiful expression that was painted on his face.

He couldn’t wait to soon change that; to disburse the feelings of pity and storm them over with terror and horror. After all, it was sort of like an eye for an eye. He was ready to wash himself free of that old man and reach his one and only. He never had been able to keep pets before, but somehow, he was certain he could convince her that she wanted him too. Whatever the case, he understood he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Father Sullivan, what does Deuteronomy 22:27 state?”

Father Sullivan’s eyes began to water again, which angered Rhys greatly. Out of habit, and anger, he brought the knife over his head like he was ready to strike him dead, but refrained. He would mar him for life and keep him alive. Make everyone see that he was the one that was responsible for the ripple effect of deadliness.

“Fucking answer me!” Rhys screamed, knowing his patience was wearing thin.

“For the man found the young woman out in the country, and though the betrothed woman screamed, there was no one to rescue her.”

“How did you take her, Father Sullivan? How did you kill her spirit?”

Father Sullivan’s hands covered his face, out of shame or fear, Rhys couldn’t be sure. He didn’t care either. He lashed out in a fury, bringing the blade over his wrists and cutting just hard enough to induce discomfort. Father Sullivan yelped out in pain, withdrawing his hands and placing them at his sides without another demand from Rhys. Every part of his body was trembling at that point, his eyes continued to cry, but Rhys was certain it was all an act. He wasn’t truly sorry. He didn’t want absolution. Men like Father Sullivan didn’t care about anyone except themselves. He had fucked up many people’s lives. There wasn’t a way to put the pieces back together.

“Did she cry to you when you fucked her free from her virginity?” Rhys yelled, the echoes of his deep voice reverberating loudly throughout the almost-vacant church.

All Father Sullivan continued to do was pray to a fruitless God for himself, not the ones that he hurt.

“Did she beg you to love her when she told you she was with child?” Rhys pressed, slapping him across the face.

Their eyes locked and a moment of hatred was shared, even more than previously.

Father Sullivan’s disdain was apparent, his lips turned down at the edges and his once sorrowful eyes wore pangs of hate. He spit in Rhys’ face.

“No. I wished she aborted you. Instead, I made her fuck the altar boy in front of me… I knew he liked her, and he liked it a little too much. Your mother cried like the whore that she was, but she came anyway.”

Rhys’ sanity left him and the moments of realism that once surrounded him were gone. Tunnel vision hugged him, threatening to make him weak again, but he didn’t have a choice but to let it have the upper hand. Darkness was just a matter of time.

RHYS AWOKE TO A
shiver. Not the kind of trembling from a winter’s chill, but the type of cold that sets deep, down into your bones. He felt his teeth rattling and the joints in both of his hands felt bizarrely sore. His eyes were still shut, but he was conscious. Rhys had been through a lot, but in that second, he was terrified to open his eyes to see what he was surrounded by. Was he dying? Had he been injured by the man he planned on letting go? Was he on his way to hell, a place that he knew he deserved?
No
! He hadn’t gotten a chance to get the forgiveness from her yet. That is all he needed before he bid the world goodbye.

His tired body felt the cold, creaking wood beneath him. His ears peaked to listen, to hear something, anything, around him. The cinders of the underworld burning wildly around him. Nothing. Pure silence. Then, the shuttering of the air-conditioning unit sputtered on. His body trembled again, and he told himself in his mind he had no choice but to keep fighting. He had been on his own two feet since he was fourteen-years-old living a life others thought to be true. It wasn’t, because nothing is what it seems.

He was ready to put all that aside, regardless of the choices he made after the fact of it all, and get to her.

His eyes finally opened and angelic paintings stared at him in the face on the dome of the church. He inhaled sharply, his belly inadvertently grumbling in response to the bloody smell it had just inhaled. Every part of his body felt wet, including his face. His tongue darted across his chapped lips, and he was instantly greeted with a taste that he had come to admire.

Blood.

He brought both hands to his view, seeing they were bathed in bright crimson liquid.

Pray away your pain.

Bathe yourself free of your sins…

He sat straight up, the aching from his body told him he had been in a ghastly fight. He swallowed hard, his senses betraying the rationality he was trying to find. Every part of him was covered in red, a color that drove him to the brink of madness and lust.

He stood, briefly frightened to turn around to face the altar and see what he had done, but his body was working to its own needs. He turned around, faced with a sight that he hadn’t ever been witness to before. He took a deep breath, not sure if he was relieved or confused at the sight before him.

990 Harmony Way

990 Harmony Way

990 Harmony Way

990 Harmony Way