Mom looked dubious. “Does that mean that you haven’t been written up? No penalties for bad behavior?”
“No, mom,” I said, my rising anger threatening to choke me. Of course she’d presume I was at fault. I pressed my palm to my forehead where the throbbing escalated to the force of a jackhammer, and I felt my face drain of blood.
“Son, you’re pale,” my father said, almost apologetically. “We shouldn’t have kept you on. We’ll talk to you?—”
“But I wanted to give Jude advice,” my mother whined.
“You can, but not now,” Dad said in a coaxing tone, talking to her as if she was a child. “You don’t want him to get ill, do you?”
My mother sniffed. “Of course not. All right, Jude we’ll talk on Sunday and in the meantime, I’ll pray for your soul.”
“Thank you,” I said, just above a whisper, and I genuinely meant it. Even though I believed my soul’s path was on a trajectory quite opposite than what my mother intended.
THREE
ETHAN
I sat on my bed,staring straight ahead, my bare feet tapping on the hardwood floor in an alternating beat. I’d awoken from a fitful sleep a little after five with one thing in mind—pain. Pain that I could inflict with the flogger laid out on the dresser across the room. My fingers twitched with a desire to wrap them around the handle, swing my arm in an arc, and come down hard in a mighty whack. One after another until my back flamed from the lashes.
I'd been in the same spot for over an hour, stripped down to my briefs, talking myself off the ledge. For the last two nights I’d almost handcuffed myself to the railing on my balcony to avoid picking up the flogger and striping my back until the blistering red shone through my brown skin.
As I wrestled with emotions, I pondered the truth behind my motivation. I’d been honest with Hawk when I’d explained that not having a Dom left me without direction. Part of the reason I joined The Ring was to have a focus and goals outside of my job at the Maserati dealership. Hawk was close to beinga professional without competing at that level. Thus, sparring with him demanded that I maintain a rigorous workout schedule to sustain the physical fitness required. Inside the ring Hawk tested my mental prowess, and I thrived on the stimulation.
In reality, I could quit the gym and not be threatened by Hawk’s warning to ban me if I showed up with fresh marks. But honestly, I might self-destruct without having to be accountable to Hawk. The problem was the underlying reason for craving the sting of a flogger or cane went deeper than being adrift without a Dom.
Six and a half years ago, I raped a man—Luca—while under the influence of a dissociative drug. My Dom had been drugging me for weeks, assuring me that he was injecting steroids to improve my muscle mass. When the truth was revealed about my mental incapacitation, Luca hadn’t pressed charges and my record had been expunged. I’d spent three months in detox, during which I’d realized my full break from reality due to hallucinatory drugs. Another three months went by before I’d felt my thoughts were truly my own again.
When I was discharged my body had been purged of substances, but I was a mess emotionally. After years of therapy, I was able to ride through the attacks of guilt that occasionally clawed at me without having a complete breakdown, but peace still evaded me. It didn’t matter that my mind had repressed all memory of the heinous act I’d committed. When I had agonized over getting away so easy by not having vivid flashbacks, my psychiatrist had explained otherwise. My heart still held me responsible, and that was just as bad. To ease the heart wrenching guilt, I practiced self-flagellation.
But that Saturday morning, I eventually was able to shelf the flogger when I thought about one person—Father Jude Donlan. Instead of beating myself bloody, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and googled St. Michael the Archangel church to findout when confession days and times were. I’d been drawn by the father’s breathtaking beauty upon first sight but after he had pushed off his hood and revealed his identity in front of the bookstore, my curiosity had skyrocketed. He was a priest. So why the flirtatious gesture? Or was I reading his actions all wrong? Whatever his motivation, I was jumping on what I perceived to be an opening for communication and I brightened when I read the schedule.
Weekly Schedule
Friday6 PM - 7:30 PM
Saturday 8 AM – 9:30 AM
I jumped up from the chair with an enthusiasm I hadn’t felt in too long. Showering and dressing took on new meaning, even though I might be disillusioned once I was face-to-face with the man. But what did I care? This wasn’t a fucking hookup. I’d be in a house of worship. And whether I believed in God or not was immaterial. I was going for one reason—Father Jude.
The next three hours seemed to pass like a sloth running a race until finally I was in my truck heading toward the church. There was hardly any traffic early on a Saturday when schoolchildren were home as well as people who worked in offices, which also meant that finding a parking space took more time than I’d anticipated. I circled the block three times. On the fourth rotation, I spotted someone exiting the church. I tracked him visually, waiting to see where he was going and then luck was with me as the person drove out of a space a few cars up from where I had stopped.
I parallel parked easily and cut the engine. Hopping out of my truck, I locked up with my key fob and drew in a deep breath before taking the steps two at a time. Quietly pushingopen the heavy doors, I peeked into the nave and saw only one other person was left waiting for their turn. I stepped over the threshold, dipped my finger in the holy water, and took a seat to wait.
I let my mind drift until the woman I’d seen the other day caught my attention when she gave me a small wave and a smile, then kneeled several pews up where she silently said her prayers, her head bobbing slightly when she must’ve come across one of the many names for Jesus or God.
I wondered if priests still gave penance, like in my youth, along the lines ofFor your penance, you’ll say three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys, then go in peace. And even back then, I would leave wondering what peace was supposed to feel like.
My nerves ratcheted when the older man who’d been before me exited the confessional. I sat frozen for a full minute, suddenly wondering what the fuck I was doing there. I hadn’t gone to confession in two decades. Huffing out a long breath, I shook my head to clear my thoughts and scooted to the end of the pew. Half tiptoeing, I closed the few feet to the confessional, opened the ornate redwood door, and lowered myself to the small wooden bench. When I raised my head, I was met with those rich brown eyes that had taken root in the space behind my rib cage, and Father Donlan’s lips turned up into a smile. A gracious greeting, which I presumed he’d perfected over his years as a pastor. Nevertheless, the warmth of it gave me confidence to speak. “Hello, Father. I’m Ethan.”
“Hello, Ethan,” he mimicked. “I’m Father Jude.”
I rubbed the palms of my hands over the fabric of my chinos. I’d expected him to start the conversation with the sign of the cross, if I’d recalled correctly. After which I was supposed to say something likeBless me Father, for I have sinned. But I hadn’t sinned lately. Not for six years and a half years. And thevenial sins I’d confessed as a schoolboy had been silly nothings. I wouldn’t admit the important ones. Such as being mad at my parents for dismissing me… dismissing my needs.
I tapped the wooden ledge in front of me with my index fingers, then said, “I think coming here was a mistake. I have nothing to confess.”
“Why did you come?” Father Jude asked without judgment.
“I needed someone to talk to who would keep what I tell them confidential.”
