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“Alan, please… No!”
The pained scream rips through my throat and past my lips, forcing me out of bed in an instant. I snatch up the Glock I keep in the drawer of my nightstand before I’ve even looked to see what’s happening.
I turn, gun raised, and scan the room.
Nothing.
There’s no hidden threat. No Alan. No Screwballs. Just nothing. Except, that’s not entirely true. There’s Boo.
Curled up in the fetal position at the foot of my bed, Boo’s sleeping form trembles as whimpers escape her pouting lips. Her feet kick out just a little as she dreams. God, I can’t imagine what this woman has been through. Well, I can, actually. I’d seen it firsthand, but I’d only seen it over a period of a few days. Boo had been with the Screwballs since she was just a child.
The idea of any of them fuckers touching her as a child sets off a deep rage that can be felt in my bones. It’s common among a sane population to hate pedophiles, but my own experiences have turned that hate into something vaster, something murderous.
The memory of his black suit and white collar floats through my mind before I can stop it. I try so hard to shove memories of him down so deep, they have no chance of resurfacing. But Boo’s horrors bring them all to the surface.
The way he walked. The way he smelled. The way he groomed me into believing that he was my friend.
I’d grown up in a Catholic home. My father had left when I was just a young child, taking off with a woman he’d met at work. This left my mother struggling to make ends meet, so we had moved in with my Gran.
Gran was a wonderful woman, full of love, and a wonderful baker. And nobody loved the church like my Gran.
Mom had worked a lot back then, busting her ass to make enough money to keep clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads. I loved her dearly, but our relationship wasn’t nearly as close as the one I’d had with Gran.
She taught me to cook and to do laundry. She had freshly baked cookies out on warming trays when I came home from school each day. Gran helped me with my homework, and volunteered at my school. She even taught me how to waltz when I was just ten years old.
Going to Mass was an integral part of our lives. We went every Wednesday and Saturday evenings, as well as Sunday mornings. On Thursday’s, we went to confession, and then volunteered in the kitchen, handing out meals to the cities less fortunate. It was the Lord’s work. At least, that’s what my Gran believed, and since my Gran was the smartest person I knew, I’d believed it too.
As soon as I’d turned ten, my Gran had decided it was time for me to serve the church in yet another way, and she made sure I went through all the steps to become an altar boy. It wasn’t a job I loved or hated, but it made her proud, which made me proud to do it.
Father Gibson was the acting priest at that time, and he’d taken an active role in the lives of his altar boys. He taught us lessons from the bible, and made sure we were well practiced in our roles. A couple of times, he had taken all of us camping at a lake just outside of the city, where we fished, hiked, and swam all day.
It was just after getting back from one of those camping trips that my wholesome life was shattered.
Gran was due to pick me up, but she was running late. The other boys were long gone, and I was still at the church with all my camping gear half an hour later.
“I’m sure she’ll be along soon, son,” Father Gibson had said. “Why don’t you come back to my office and I’ll get you something to drink while you wait.”
But it wasn’t a drink he had given me.
“It’s okay, Mateo,” he had whispered into my ear as he stole my innocence. “Just relax, and see how good it feels.”
It hadn’t felt good. Not during the moment when he’d raped me, and not any moment since when the memory of what he’d done that afternoon crept back in.
I told my Gran what had happened the moment I’d gotten into her car. She could tell right away that something was bothering me. Though Father Gibson was adamant that it remain a secret between us, I couldn’t keep it to myself.
My Gran might’ve been an old woman, but she was a hellcat when you fucked with her family. She had marched right into that church and called Father Gibson out on what he’d done. The police were notified, and he’d been hauled away. I never saw him again, and Gran had assured me that I never would.
I’d spent the rest of my youth acting as altar boy for the priest that had come to take Father Gibson’s place. Father Rafferty was a much older man, but he was fair, and he kept his hands to himself. That was all I’d ever wanted.
Becoming a priest myself was never really a life goal, but as I grew up, I’d realized how much the church was there to help people. I had a strong belief in God, and I wanted to be the one to get people excited about their faith.
I would’ve been a good priest too, but I never made it to the end of seminary school. During my final semester, I had walked in on a well-loved Bishop while he was molesting a young boy. My faith had snapped in that moment. It wasn’t just Father Gibson that was a bad egg. Here was another man—a Bishop, for fuck’s sake—doing the same sick shit to yet another child.
I’d gone straight to the archbishop right after helping that boy back to his home. The archbishop had nodded, his face grave and concerned. He’d assured me that he would handle it, but when I’d come in the next day, the bishop was walking out with his suitcase in hand.
The archbishop had told him about my report, and had given the sick bastard a slap on the wrist, assigning him to a church in a different state. There was no punishment. There was no reporting it to the police. It was simply swept under the rug, with the expectation it would never be spoken of again.
My Gran had long since passed on, but I believed then, as I do now, that she would’ve understood why I had dropped out. Hell, she would’ve helped me pack.
