Page 24 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Mercy tried to remove it.

She thinks we are destined for each other, that she will come between me and my promise to God.

What, like it’s hard?

My upper lip curls. So soon after I confessed that I wished for her trust, she acted so … undeserving of it. I must remember that she is a vehicle for sin. This is what she is trained for. It is in her very name. Mercy is manipulative and cunning—a wolf in lamb’s clothing.

She does not want absolution. I should focus my attention on those who do.

Lying back, I shove my hand into my trouser pocket, grip Maria’s old rosary, and thumb roughly through the beads. My anger makes me fumble, but eventually I find the beginning.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” I murmur, “the Lord is with thee⁠—”

Let me do the lying for us.

I shove Mercy’s husky voice from my mind and continue, “Blessed art thou⁠—”

I’m already going to hell.

“—among women⁠—”

What’s one more sin on my tally?

“—and blessed is the fruit of thy womb⁠—”

It’s no big deal.

“—Jesus.”

I’m used to being seen as dirty.

“I cannot pray with you talking in my head!” I bark and rip the collar loose, tossing it at the desk.

My bare feet hit the cold stone floor, and in two strides, I reach the vestment press. I yank off my chafing clerical shirt and trousers with jerky movements. The right leg won’t free my foot, so I kick it, flinging it across the room.

Standing there in my boxers, lungs heaving, I still feel hot.

Drips from lavabo’s leaky faucet echo like a buzzing fly, grating on my nerves. The ritual sink is meant for washing my hands before Mass, but the bathroom door is two more steps away and too far. I splash my face with water from the lavabo.

Still hot.

Vaffanculo.

Yesterday’s sweatpants will have to do. I yank them on, then dig through the vestment press, filled with robes, stoles, and chasubles, until I find the whiskey bottle that I stole from the kitchen. It’s flask-sized and fits snugly in my back rear pocket. I don’t bother with shoes and stalk out of the room, only to stop. Directly ahead, the Sin Bin mocks me with its wide-open door, the confessional booth in the dark beyond.

She didn’t come.

I waited, and still she didn’t come.

And me, what did I do? I took it like a saint. I told myself she didn’t deserve my compassion. Said she’s not worth my time.

One of the first lessons I learned in the seminary was that I don’t decide who deserves forgiveness. I must listen, offer grace, and leave the judging to God.

I should know this better than anyone.

I move to the front of the church and cross the chancel. Ignoring the altar, I find the small, boarded-up door hidden behind a tapestry. With a violent grunt, I force it open and almost fall forward when it gives way.

The stairs inside are a stone corkscrew. They’re tight and claustrophobic, but not for long. As I climb, the air changes. The deafening silence of the church gives way to a low moan escaping the trapdoor. I shove that open and haul myself into the chamber.