My heart leaps into my throat as I think about how fucking crazy that was—
Then, she screams.
And not in a ‘I just hit the big O’ kind of way, and I stop wondering if I’m crazy.
I just smile.
Job done.
Savio
The second the trucks roll in, my stomach turns.
The men are covered in blood and they’re sporting large grins, as if raping villages with Muslim women and girls is something to celebrate.
As if it was God’s will.
Bile burns in my stomach, longing to be torn from my being, but the truth is, I can’t deal with anymore stenches in my prison.
It’s easy to swallow down my horror at my current surroundings, easier to handle a rumbling stomach than to deal with another overpowering odor.
The largest of which is me.
I reek.
I beyond reek.
I’ve never gone without showering for this length of time. My cassock is filthy, tattered at the hem, and so dusty it’s more gray-brown than black now.
When I scrub a hand over my face to wipe away the sweat, it comes back covered in grime, and the prickles of my stubble make me feel even itchier. I’ve been clean-shaven since seminary school, and the beard I’m growing feels worse for how filthy my face is.
My shoulders hunch as the buzzing of the flies competes with the raucous cheers from the rebels as they stroll in like conquerors.
They’ve conquered nothing.
This is a battle they’ll never win.
The Catholic church has been trying for over a century to convert Algeria to our creed, and while these men here are a few of the ‘devout’—yes, I’m rolling my eyes at that—and they wish to spread the word, they cannot.
There will be more death before this is over. More destruction and devastation.
The bowl they gave me to use for my personal needs is practically vibrating with insect life, but it’s better to stare at that, to wonder how I reached this point, than to look at the victors returning home.
It all started with a girl.
Sawa Oshiyan. My mission here was to tend to the poor, to heal the sick, and to bring medical aid in a war-torn country.
I did that.
I did my best. I was no doctor, even if I’m inclined toward healing, but I could swab and clean with the best of them, and I had more skills than most thanks to two years in medical school that I tossed down the drain when I realized that wasn’t my calling.
The priesthood was.
She came, I helped her. Then, when the IFS tore Oran apart? Her brother, Ishmael, came to me, and took me away.
I thought he came to help me.
But he didn’t.
He wants to use me.
The men, the acts they do, the crimes they commit—he wants me to absolve them.
And I can’t.
I just can’t.
I don’t care if I die within these cramped, foul-smelling quarters. I will never condone what they do.
I close my eyes, praying to God for guidance, but he isn’t listening.
No one in this country is.
For the first time in my life, I truly feel like I know what ‘Godforsaken’ means.
I understand it.
It resonates within this miserable cell, within this compound, within this city.
God has forsaken us.
He’s forsaken me.
The cell’s forged of bare, crude bricks that have been piled together haphazardly. It has a rickety roof, which lets in the little rain that’s fallen since my capture, and with my butt on the floor, I could feel everything. From the stomping boots to the trucks that drive down the makeshift road.
Because of the haphazard building, little drafts come in through the gaps in the bricks, and I can see my captors’ movements.
Even if I don’t want to.
My behind is the first to recognize the presence of one of the rebels, and the vibrations beneath me are enough to make my queasy stomach even queasier.
When the door’s tugged open, I squint at the face, which is just as dirty as mine, but there are streaks of blood on Ishmael that tell a tale of their own.
My eyes smart from the bright light haloing around him as I hurl, “I will not.” I know what he wants.
What he’s wanted from the start.
He sneers, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave me alone in this rat-infested hovel. But he doesn’t. He walks into the cell, grabs me by my collar, and kicks me forward. He doesn’t stop using me like a football until I’m out in the open.
I could have fought, and in another life, I would have—I even trained in some mixed martial arts before I became a priest—but that was one of the reasons I changed vocations.
That was what had led me to this point.
Violence is no longer my way.
And the strangest thing of all?
That the pain feels good. Instead of just moldering in there, I’d prefer to die.
I’d prefer to be free from this hellhole that my world has become because the writing is on the wall.
They will no longer take my rejections.
They will kill me soon, and I embrace death. I welcome it.
Only, when I’m in the center of the compound, just a few feet away from the trucks whose fenders still have tiny funnels of heat unfurling from the metal, do I realize that there is something they can do that does not involve my death.
I was short-sighted.
In fact, stupid.
I am. Stupid, I mean.
Why would they kill me when they need me?
There are ways of making me behave, and those ways are not something I can endure.
She’s small.
Young. I don’t want to think about how young, but old enough to be covered. She’s crying, dirty track marks running over her cheeks. Her nose is bleeding, and one eye is swollen shut.
My mouth tightens at the sight of her, knowing the presence of a Muslim girl on a Christian compound does not bode well. Especially not a compound such as this.
I swallow and start praying.
They could torture me, they could hurt me, and I’d never cave.
And somehow, they saw that.
They know pain is not my weakness.
But the girl?
She is.
I want to turn away from her, want to run and hide because I know what’s about to happen.
The only way to stop it is to do something just as heinous.
To a nonbeliever, absolution, penitence, and atonement are just words. But to a devout Catholic? They’re the cornerstones of the faith.
To do something wrong, to ask for forgiveness, that is what we do. What we’re taught to do.
But to be forgiven for rape? For murder?
To be given absolution to the point where the slate’s wiped clean?
No.
Just, no.
And then, in French, Ishmael rasps, “You will take our confessions.”
My throat feels choked. “No! I won’t.”
The girl cries and my gaze cuts to her. My body aches, my stomach and torso bear the imprint of each kick, and my mouth is full of dust from the ground. Overhead, the sun glares down relentlessly, making my skin feel hot and itchy, but I’d stare into the sun a thousand times over before I will do as they demand—
She cries out again.
Her veil’s torn from her, revealing an abundance of beautiful hair.
I look away, close my eyes, and then she screams and I surge to my feet. My training doesn’t allow me to stay passive, to sit idly by while these monsters abuse her.