“Of course you are, Father.” The words slip from my lips like venom.
I stand, my body stiff as I grab my bag, then shove my way through the confessional door. I can’t fucking breathe in here. He’s too close. I head straight for the exit, his presence trailing after me, his footsteps desperate, too fucking desperate.
“We’re not done. I haven’t said a prayer. I haven’t…” he insists, and my jaw clenches, a wave of heat rising in my chest, my ideation flashing with hostility.
“Let’s be real, father,” I sneer, my words slashing through the air. “There’s no exorcising the demon that festers inside me. I was molded into the monster I am by other monsters. It’s in my blood, rushing through my veins. Nothing Christ can do will cure this.Nothing.Not you. Not him. Not fucking anyone.”
I freeze in the middle of the aisle, every nerve screaming and I feel him stop too, right behind me. My hand shakes violently as I grab the cold, hard handle in my bag before, slowly, I turn my head, eyes carving through him over my shoulder.
“Tell me, father,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with unshed tears, “have you ever sinned?”
His words stutter, like the importance of my question finally cracks through the armor of his denial. For a second, reality pours into his eyes, but then he shakes his head—once.
Lying motherfuck.
The look I give him is pure, unfiltered disgust. I can’t fucking hide it.
“Are you sure?” I ask, staring at him with a coldness that could freeze blood, a tear now dropping from the corner of my eye.
He hesitates, but the refusal is still there, thick, and stubborn, as if he can convince himself he’s earned his place in the Lord’s house. I raise a brow, daring him to keep up the charade. Slowly, I turn my face toward the door again, every muscle in me tense, ready to snap.
“I can feel your lies, Priest,” I say, my voice turning lethal, like I’m enjoying the taste of them. “And like me, you’re already damned. You’re going to fucking hell, just like the rest of us. No amount of holy water, no endless prayers, no saviour is going to wash away the dirt of what you did to me.”
Just as his lips part, as if to speak the words that might save him, I fucking crack. My fingers wrap tight around my axe handle as my heartbeat hammers in my chest.
I spin, the blade slicing through the air with a disturbing quickness. It sinks through his neck—like fucking butter. His flesh splits with a sickening, wet sound, and before he can even react, his head is falling from his shoulders. His eyes are still wide with shock as blood squirts from his open neck in hot, crimson waves, spraying and coating my clothes.
His head hits the floor with a dull thud first, rolling away, followed by the collapse of his body, heavy and lifeless. I can feel the rage surge like fire through my veins, burning hotter with every second. Pent up after years of horrifying memories and without a thought, I raise my axe again, my hold tightening, my vision clouding.
The first smash echoes like thunder through the silent church, the blade sinking deep into his body with a nauseating crunch. I don’t stop. I fucking can’t. I bring the axe down again, and again,harder each time, the weight of my wrath slashing through his flesh until it’s a heap of bloody tissue. The sounds of bones shattering, of blood pouring, of my own breath raggedy are wild—it’s all a symphony of my murderous rampage.
“FUCK!” The harsh, pained roar rips through me, echoing off the church walls as I raise the axe one final time.
With every last ounce of my strength, I hurl it across the room and the blade spins through the air before it finally crashes into the crucifix, splintering wood and sending fragments flying.
I collapse to my knees, the force of my defeat crashing down on me. He sticks to my body, to my clothes, a constant reminder of what I’ve done, what I’ve become. My soul, what little is left of it, throbs with an ache so deep it feels like it’s scorching from the inside. My head hangs low, and I can’t seem to stop the uneven weeps that wrack my body. Tears blur my vision—tears I didn’t think I had left.
I thought this—this first step—would give me some relief, some closure. But it’s only made it worse. The emptiness, the hurt, it’s deeper now, a wound that’s been torn wide open.
This isn’t over. No, it’s only the fucking beginning.
I wipe my running nose with the back of my gloved hand, my eyes finding the shattered crucifix, and I tilt up my head, trying to steady myself, trying to get air back into my lungs. Then my bloodied finger rises, trembling, and pointing accusingly.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” I growl, every word like it’s being ripped from the depths of my chest. “This is your fault. You let him in your house. You allowed this.”
I shake my head, sobs trying to scratch at my throat, desperate to break free. More tears flood down my cheeks, mingling with the blood, each drop a sharp reminder of how fucking brokenI am.
“You continued to allow this…” I choke out, a rasping whisper of agony.
My eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the truth—the agonizing truth. I’m nothing but a fucking victim drenched in blood. I lower my head again, every part of me rattling, damaged. I don’t know if it’s the tears, the blood, or just the burden of everything that’s destroyed me, but I can’t breathe.
I’m fucking drowning in the pain.
After some time of letting it all out, a chuckle suddenly bubbles up from my chest, low at first, before it grows, twisting into something loud and unhinged. The kind of laugh that belongs to someone who’s already too far gone.
I throw my head back as the last remnants of it leave my throat and I steady myself, still grinning. I look down at the mess in front of me. His body lies in pieces, hacked apart like a fucking puzzle waiting to be solved. The sight should be horrifying, but instead, it’s almost...artful, to a deranged fuck like me.
After reaching into my bag not too far away, my hand closes around a bottle liquor, and I yank it free, twisting off the cap with a sharp crack. Without hesitation, I throw my head back and take a long, burning chug.