Page 64 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

I sit hard on the bed, and the mattress gives way. One of Mercy’s sex toys rolls down the coverlet to hit my thigh. It’s none of my business, so I keep my eyes front and center, locked on the crucifix over the one-person kneeling pew. The fly buzzes closer, and I swat it away.

The length of pressure against my thigh burns with awareness. The more I ignore it, the hotter it gets. I run my finger between my sweaty neck and the cotton collar. The burn grows. The buzz returns.

“Cazzo,” I mutter, swatting the fly from my face.

Don’t be a baby. Just move it.

Grinding my teeth, I place the ultra-realistic dildo back where it belongs, beside the rest of her extensive collection, each sex toy lined up like soldiers.

Then I go back to staring at the crucifix again, wiping my palms down my trousers. I am not a prude. I am not ashamed or embarrassed, nor am I curious. Not really. I sneak a sideways glance. Count nine toys. The same nine that I placed there last night.

The buzzing fly returns, circling my face.

You should have thrown her toys out the window.

It’s not my business if she prefers the feel of silicone over flesh—over tongue—then that’s her prerogative. I bite my lower lip.

She left them here for you to see. She wants you to think about her.

“Bullshit,” I mutter. “She didn’t leave them. They were thrown in.”

She could have taken them. She wants you to think about using them on her.

I get up and cross to the window again, pushing the pane to let in more air, only to realize it is already open as wide as it can go. Outside, in the yard below, nuns go about their day, gardening and walking between the outbuildings. I scan for familiar red hair among the black-and-white habits.

A face looks up at me. A delicate, nervous hand waves. It’s Sister Edith. I recognize her bird-like frame and the sprig of lavender, tied to the cross around her neck with twine.

“Buongiorno, Father,” she greets.

My breath hitches. Why is she talking?

“Ciao, Sorella Edith.” I nod slowly. “Stai bene?” All is well?

She startles and then touches her lips, dazed. When her eyes meet mine, they’re swamped with guilt.

“If you need to talk,” I say, concerned, “I will be available soon.”

I hope.

Relief washes over her face. Sister Edith has been eagerly practicing her Italian with me during confession and for an hour after Mass. She told me she’s always dreamed of visiting Rome, especially to tour the Vatican, and hopes to gain access to the pontifical library. Like Wesley, she’s a scholar and is often in the archives here, cataloging and organizing, but she has quite a nervous temperament.

A gust of wind hits me, and I step back, out of view.

Where is Mercy?

Maybe she is sleeping. Maybe she is dead. Maybe she is doing what I should have done and has run as far from this place and its prophecies as her legs can carry her.

She was supposed to see me first, and yet she has not come.

She does not trust me.

I sigh, sit down on the bed, and scrub my hands through my hair. What does it matter? I am not the Saint for whom she is meant. I am the devil who will one day destroy her.

That same dildo rolls down the bed and hits my thigh again. Grinding my teeth, I grab it and hold it before my face. I squeeze it. Scowl at it. What’s the appeal with it anyway? The size? I glance down at my crotch, then back up. It’s not even that big. I scoff and toss it back on the pile. Then scowl harder when I realize I just compared my dick to a piece of plastic that is none of my business.

She is right to make me wait. She should never come back.

The lock clicks.