He pauses. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
"Perhaps," the priest adds, his voice dropping an octave, "you should stay after mass. We can discuss these... urges... in the rectory. To ensure you are truly repentant."
The world stops.
Red floods my vision. It’s not a figure of speech; I literally see crimson at the edges of my sight. The audacity. The filth.
He thinks he can touch her? He thinks he can invite her into his private rooms and feast on her vulnerability?
Ivy ismine. Her sins are mine. Her body, her soul, her impure thoughts—they all belong to me. I am her God now.
"Thank you, Father," she murmurs, oblivious to the predator sitting six feet away from her. "I will... I’ll think about it."
"Go in peace."
The panel slides shut.
I listen to the rustle of her coat as she leaves the booth. I wait until the click of her heels fades toward the exit. I wait until the heavy cathedral doors open and close, sealing her safely outside, away from the monster.
Then, I stand up.
I step out of my booth and walk around to the priest’s door. I don’t knock. I rip the curtain aside and step in.
Father Michael looks up, startled. He’s a middle-aged man with thinning hair and watery eyes. He drops his Bible when he sees me. He sees the suit, the scar cutting through my eyebrow, the darkness rolling off me in waves.
He knows death when he sees it.
"I—I’m sorry, the confessional is close—"
My hand wraps around his throat before he can finish the sentence.
I slam him back against the wooden wall. The sound is a dull thud, absorbed by the velvet and the sanctity of the church. His eyes bulge, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrist. He’s weak. pathetic.
I lean in close, my face inches from his. I want him to see me. I want him to know exactly why he’s dying.
"You invited her to the rectory," I whisper. My voice is calm, terrifyingly steady.
He tries to speak, but my grip tightens, crushing his windpipe. He gags, his face turning a mottled purple.
"She came here to give her sins to God," I hiss. "But you tried to take them for yourself. You looked at her with hunger."
I reach into my jacket with my free hand and pull out the switchblade. The click of the blade extending is the loudest sound in the room.
The priest’s eyes widen in horror. He starts to shake, a wet stain spreading across the front of his robes.
"Please," he wheezes. "I... didn't..."
"Don't lie to me, Father. Not in the Lord's house."
I drive the blade upward, right under his ribs, piercing the heart.
It’s quick. A sharp intake of breath, a shudder, and then he goes limp in my grasp. I hold him up for a moment, watching the light fade from his eyes, watching the judgment leave him.
I withdraw the blade and wipe it on his vestments.
"Consider this your absolution," I say to the corpse.
I let him drop. He slumps onto the floor, a heap of black cloth and wasted life.
