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It takes me too long to think past my reaction to his voice to unravel his words.
“Oh, well, there is Divine Shakes. They make pretty good milkshakes.”
One side of his lip twitches in what I think is a smile, or perhaps a smirk, before he takes another draw of his cigarette. “Not quite what I was thinking of.”
With a final tug, he moves to put the cigarette out on the wall of the church—a sacrilegious act, indeed—before crushing it beneath his boot.
With him facing me, I realize how close we are as his intoxicating scent washes over me. Gasoline and lightning. That’s what he reminds me of. Both alluring and dangerous.
His hand reaches out, and he wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, rubbing it with his thumb. I glance up at him, watching as he stares entranced at the fiery red strands trapped between his fingers, before lifting his gaze to meet my eyes. I wonder what he sees there. Does he see what everyone else does? I’ve overheard people saying that the devil put me on this earth to tempt men into sin. That my looks were carefully designed to coax men away from their loving wives and cast them into damnation.
“So unusual,” he murmurs to himself.
I’m not sure if he’s referencing my hair or my eyes, both of which are unconventional. Although, he’s not exactly the picture of conformity with his pierced brow, ring-adorned fingers, and aura of danger.
The next moment, he snaps out of his trance, untangling his finger from my hair as he drops his hand.
“Don’t tell me there isn’t somewhere around here where everyone goes for some teenage debauchery.”
“There’s The Cliffs,” I offer. “The kids from school hang out there on Saturday nights.”
“Sounds perfect,” he purrs, his devilish grin only enhancing that air of danger he exudes. “Where are these cliffs?”
“Just outside of town. Follow the track up the mountain.”
With a nod, he turns to walk away. When he’s several feet away, he tosses over his shoulder, “I’ll see you there, my little devil.”
I don’t bother telling him I won’t be there, too distracted by his nickname as I watch him disappear as mysteriously as he arrived.
CHAPTER TWO
“Penance,” my father barks, shoving me toward the basement door as soon as we arrive home. My father is a tall, imposing man, made more fearsome by his devotion to his faith.
“Did you see the way they looked at us today?” My mother whines, clutching the pearls around her throat. “Mary couldn’t even look me in the eye, and when I volunteered to help with the bake sale, I was told they did not need me this year.” Tears shine in her eyes as if that’s the worst thing to ever happen to her.
“Our friends are turning on us,” she seethes, spitting fire at me with her eyes. “And it’s all because of you, you impious heathen. You have been nothing but a plague on this family since the day you were born.”
Collapsing to her knees in the hall, she breaks down in sobs. “Heavenly Father, forgive me. I know not what I have done to offend thee.”
It’s the same routine every time someone points the finger of blame at me. My father gets mad, and my mother gets sad. And me? I get punished. Not that penance has ever done any good.
“You’ll spend the rest of the day atoning for your sins,” my father states with another rough shove toward the basement door. “I suggest you show God just how remorseful you truly are.” Before he slams the door in my face, he tacks on, “We have done everything we can to extract the evil from inside you, but if you will not help yourself, then there is nothing more we can do.”
I’m plunged into darkness as the door slams shut, and the loud click of the lock engaging cements my fate.
Tears sting my eyes but do not fall. What use are tears? My parents are reaching the end of their tolerance, and I can’t say I blame them. I may not fully understand why I am to blame. Why I have the Devil inside me, but that doesn’t mean the slanted eyes, the whispers, and my parent’s disappointment doesn’t eat away at my soul.
I don’t want to be the reason my parents, my classmates, or the rest of the town suffer. I don’t want to be a blight on these people.
With a heavy heart, I traipse down the stairs and walk over to the makeshift altar. Kneeling before the cross, I light the tealights before lifting the wire chain of the cilice. Careful not to jab my fingers with the sharp bits of wire sticking out, I strap it to my thigh, wincing as the needlelike ends embed themselves in my skin. Blood gathers around the puncture wounds before trailing a red path along my creamy skin as it runs down my leg.
Pushing aside the throbbing pain, I bow and begin praying. “Heavenly and Almighty God, I come before you humbled and sorrowful, aware of my sin, and ready to repent. Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned before you. Wash away my sin, purify me, and help me to turn from this sin. Lead me to walk in your way instead, leaving behind my old life and starting a new life in you.”
The words flow seamlessly from my tongue, having been recanted hundreds of times.
“Father, Son, and Holy Spirit drive out from me all influence of evil spirits. Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, I plead you to break any chain the Devil has on me. Pour upon me the most Precious Blood of your son. May his immaculate and redeeming blood break all bonds of my body or mind.
“I ask you this through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Archangel St. Michael, intercede and come to my help.
