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Tears shed for another person are not a sign of weakness. They are a sign of a pure heart.
-Unknown
The ominous double oak doors are massive, leading into the magnificent church. St. Mary’s it’s called, and I’ve passed it every day for the last six months. Each time, it’s taunted me, beckoning me to take a step inside its walls.
I have to do it, you know—see if I’ll really burn by coming in here. If it’d happen to anyone, I’d definitely be a viable candidate.
Inhaling, I’m met with a spicy scent. Oil perhaps? The building reminds me of a castle from the outside, and the inside doesn’t disappoint in that aspect either. It’s the type of place that when you enter, you feel small and insignificant; no doubt it was built this way on purpose.
My middle finger dips into the glass bowl encasing what these religious freaks refer to as holy water. What the fuck’s so holy about it? Is it the fact that a priest has prayed over it? If that’s how it’s even made...I wouldn’t know. I was never around one of these places growing up.
The cool water coats the tip of my finger as I skim the surface, and amazingly, nothing happens. I was expecting burning flames to encompass my flesh in mere seconds. I’m considered evil, after all; I’ve heard it before. Not from any voices in my mind, but from child services attempting to steal me away from my family.
The silence encompassing the room is interrupted by a deep, accusing voice. “Sinner!”
My gaze shoots to the front of the room convinced I was right after all; they’ll burn me for coming here. That’s how all the holy ones are; they like to peel you apart and make you crumble in an attempt to heal you. I’ve been warned the entire time I was growing up to steer clear of them.
I never needed their healing, only blood occasionally from a bad soul. My father was the same and taught me how to make sacrifices. He said our Native American heritage called for it. Our ancestors needed it to live on through us. It’s our job to continue coating the earth with the black soul’s blood to give back for everything they’ve used up.
My father was a true, proud Indian with long, straight, jet-black hair and black eyes to match. His skin was tanned and leathery due to his heritage and exposure to the elements. His time was spent outside when he was young, and he says it forever changed him like our ancestors. I never understood why I had to favor my mother. Her cloud-colored eyes, fair complexion, and light hair made her angelic in a sense, opposite of my father.
I’ve kept my promises to him, sacrificing when the madness inside my head gets out of control. He’d be proud; I know it was an important ritual to him. It’s become sort of a cleansing for me as well, to show my devotion to the gods of the world. People may not understand my rituals, but the gods do.
On a podium set at the front of the room stands the man I heard dressed in thick robes. Behind him is a large, imposing marble table, covered with objects. I’m too far away to recognize what they are, however.
He’s the priest—the holy one—who can burn me, according to the stories my father shared when I was a kid.
A young man cowers below him, completely bare. He’s hunched over his naked front, his bloody back showcased for the man standing over him. Crisscrosses of bloody welts decorate his back, and I cringe. I’ve been whipped before. I know it hurts. The battered being draws me to him, wanting to see for myself if he’s worth the sacrifice.
“Forgive me.” The young, broken man pleads and the leather whip in the holy one's hand slaps against his flesh again. Blood splatters in its wake, leaving behind evidence of the punishment. The site of the garnet-colored liquid doesn’t bother me; it’s the purity of the man’s voice begging to be set free. He doesn’t sound guilty of anything worthy of his punishment.
“Sinner!” the priest declares again, and I begin to make my way around the room to get a better look.
I stick to the shadows to keep my presence unknown. That’s essentially what I am anyhow, a shadow amongst everyone else in the world. Multiple colors cascade over the glossy pews in the middle of the room, almost making them appear inviting.
Almost, but I see through their motives.
Glancing up, I’m met with stained glass windows depicting the church’s beloved saints. In the center of the raised ceiling is an ancient looking painted mural filled with fluffy clouds and golden angels. I wonder if that world ever existed. If it did, according to this, it must’ve been forever ago.
Smack!
My eyes snap back to the podium, drawn to the sound. The priest slashed another bloody welt into the young guy's flesh. Cringing, I can’t turn away. It’s like a car crash—you know it must be painful, yet you have to watch regardless.
“You must ask for forgiveness, Sinner.”
“For-forgive me, father. I beg you.”
No father should hit his son like this. He should teach him, rather than punish him. My own father taught me this. We worked together, never against each other.
“You’ve sinned, you must repent,” he repeats, bringing the leather down again. This time the man on all fours gasps in pain, tears raining down his face, and stuttering something about hail Mary being full of grace.
This is his father? Surely, he feels the darkness in his soul as I do. The man with the evil soul deserves punishment, not the beaten one at his feet.
Creeping slowly and quietly, I approach the man from behind. I’m good at being quiet; it’s how I always get away when someone searches for me. It’s how I sneak up on those I plan to offer as a sacrifice. The moon god always helps hide me.
“Priest,” I hiss, sounding more snake than human. The older man spins around, his middle-aged face lined with surprise. “Repent,” I hiss at him again with a scowl and drive my small blade into the center of his throat. It’s not a fancy way to kill, but it stuns the opponent immediately. Being smaller than many of the men I kill, it’s important to catch them off guard.
He stumbles back a step, as his eyes bulge, gurgling and choking on the sharp metal. Blood spurts, raining warm sangria droplets over my face. A genuine smile graces my lips as my hands rub the blood into my skin. I’ve killed a bad man, and there’s no better feeling.
