His head is in for a world of pain after all that cheap wine he drank at the bar.
A part of me wonders if Savio’s intent is to beat the shit out of him, but when he grabs Paulo and drags him so his back is to the wall without kicking him?
I’ll admit to being disappointed.
And a little more confused.
What on Earth is happening here?
In the inky shadows, I struggle to see, and I squint a bit until I hear the sound of a switchblade.
Taken aback, I surge forward, uncertain and needing to know more.
The closer I move, the more I see. Paulo is slouched over, butt to the ground, legs splayed before him, his eyes closed, head bobbing like it doesn’t belong to his neck.
But Savio, crouching over him, has his sleeves pulled high with leather gloves on his fingers where they’d been bare before. He’s shoved Paulo’s cuffs high up on his forearm too, and his knife?
Aimed at the soft flesh of Paulo’s wrist.
I watch as he goes to push the knife into the man’s arm, and I freeze.
I know this is a ‘flight or fight’ moment. A true ‘kill or be killed’ decision. Except, this isn’t my life on the line.
But Paolo’s.
He just confessed to hurting his niece.
He said she tempted him.
Temptation doesn’t go away.
You have to move temptation out of your life.
Even as I see Savio’s reasoning, something in me feels edgy. Like this is wrong. The violence that brewed inside me coagulates to a point where I have no choice but to grab his shoulder.
And I do it in the nick of time.
He flinches, his head twisting around to stare up at me. When our gazes connect, my heart begins to pound, and just like at the church, it feels like a wildfire soars between us, but he freezes it with ice.
“Stop,” I rasp.
He jerks at my words then leaps to his feet. The knife’s pushed into his pocket as he begins to walk backward, running from me.
From me.
Not to me, like he should.
I frown at the sight, because doesn’t he know I’m not his enemy?
I’m here to help him.
Paulo moans, making me jolt in surprise. When he surges forward, suddenly wide awake, I rear back, then he pukes between his legs, and I know I can relax. Though I grimace at the sight, I walk away, cautious with each step I take, not wanting to alert him to my presence. Sure, he’s as drunk as a skunk, but I don’t want him to think he got here by any foul means.
Though his retches make me gag, I force myself to focus on Savio. I’d love to run after him, but I don’t. Not only because I physically can’t, but also because he’s fast.
By the time I make it out of the alley and onto the main street just beyond, I can’t even see him anymore. He’s blurred in with the rest of humanity.
But he can’t run from me.
Not forever.
I won’t let him.
Savio
My heart’s pounding, and it has nothing to do with how fast I’m running. People look at me in surprise, aghast at a priest doing something so vulgar in public, but I ignore them and their scolding looks.
Every day, I run through these streets, but I don’t wear a dog collar, and I slip under the radar.
Now, I stand out, even as I try to bypass the crowds. Sweat slicks my palms, coating my temples as I dart through the masses of people returning home for the evening and toward my church.
Vespers calls me, but how can I just carry on as though nothing happened?
She saw me.
She saw what I was about to do, and Paulo is only alive because she stopped me.
The second I make it across the river, I find myself braking to a halt. A tourist screeches, “Whoa!” at me, like he thinks I’m going to crash into him, but I’m always aware of my surroundings. Always.
Except where she’s concerned.
I didn’t hear her.
Didn’t feel her.
The hair on the back of my neck didn’t stand on edge at her presence, making me aware she was in the alley with me.
My throat tightens at what that might mean. Hell, I don’t even know.
I shoot them an apologetic, “Sorry,” before swerving around the irate tourist, who’s glowering at me like I tried to do to him what I was about to do to Paulo, and start to head for my church.
I have service to attend. But she saw me there, she knows me. She’ll know where I’ll be.
Will the police come for me?
There’s no proof.
There never is.
She saw me, but it’s my word against hers, isn’t it?
She just had brain surgery. Who are the cops going to believe? Me? A priest? Or a...
I feel guilty even thinking it.
Just because she was sick doesn’t mean she’s addled, or that her wits aren’t there.
I scrub a hand over my face, somehow finding myself in the middle of a crowd and feeling utterly isolated.
But then, there’s no real difference, I suppose. Aren’t I always alone?
No one sees the real me.
No one wants to.
And even as the melancholic thought crosses my mind, I recognize how things were different when she looked at me after this afternoon’s service.
Somehow, she didn’t see me as a priest.
She saw me as a man.
God, it’s been such a long time since that happened.
I pass one of the smaller stores where a homeless guy lives—his name is Gianni. He refuses to wear shoes, has feet blacker than soot, stinks worse than a sewer, but his smile?
Genuine.
Honest.
I always slip him five euros whenever I see him, and he’s there, touting for coffee.
It’s frigid in the shadows, and I’m not even sure why he refuses the boots I offer him, but even though I’m in the middle of a crisis, I hover by his side.
“Gianni, come to the church. I have another pair of boots for you.”
He grins at me, and his teeth are somehow perfect. In stark contrast to the mouth of the wealthy parishioner, Lara.
Isn’t fate strange sometimes?
“My feet are fine, Father.”
I scowl down at them. “How they’re still attached to your legs, I don’t know.”
He winks. “Never had a Father been so concerned about my feet before.”
“That’s me, I have a fetish,” I tell him dryly, making him cackle.
The homeless around here aren’t used to me or my humor. They laugh, but they’re always taken aback, and I can’t blame them.
The last Father needs shooting for the state he’d left the soup kitchen in. It was critically underfunded, and the food bank was just as sparse. I’ve spent most of the past twelve months seeking ways to improve both, but it’s hard going.
I might be at the center of the Catholic world, but somehow, these people are more forgotten than most, and I’m only one person. I can only do so much.
Giving Gianni five euros, I tell him, “You’d better come by later. That coat is threadbare.”
“I don’t feel the cold, Father. I told you.”
I’m not sure how he doesn’t, but he’s always perpetually cheerful, so I figure he isn’t lying. I’m miserable when I’m cold. Could he be so cheery if he wasn’t telling me the truth?
“If you say so,” I say dubiously.