Rage floods me, and I know I won’t be able to settle until Diana publicizes the truth of her ordeal, makes them pay for their sins.
But she’ll never, and I mean ever, have to deal with them on her own again.
We sit in silence, both of us processing how this conversation has come about. I’ve been building up the nerve to ask her to move in, to be my roommate, but this has blossomed from out of nowhere. I thought it would take a few more weeks, maybe a month. Instead, it’s going down tonight, and I’m glad for it.
She’ll never spend another night under his roof again.
I press my head against hers, tightening my hold on her so she knows she’s safe, then we focus on the TV we’ve had on in the background throughout this entire conversation because, at that moment, the pair of us are beyond words.
When a ragged face pops up on the screen, I feel myself tense.
“What is it?” she whispers, surprised at how I’ve frozen up on her.
“Those eyes—” I break off and stop hugging her for a second so I can lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table and turn up the TV. “He’s a priest. I’m sure of it.”
She snorts. “He doesn’t look like a priest to me.”
No, he doesn’t.
And somehow, though he’s different, harder, he’s definitely something.
Sheesh.
How is he even more handsome than he’d been the last time I’d seen him?
And, God, is it fate that I see him today? Just as I saw him back at the hospital with ‘the boy I failed?’ Yes, I’ve helped other people—like getting Judith Foster to admit she was addicted to weed—but the way I’m going to help Diana? No. She’s a first.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I process the news report, and a swirling kind of pain fills me at the revelations.
In the aftermath of the hospital incident, I lived on my nerves for a while, fully expecting to get blamed for the fire alarm—rightly so—but it had never come to pass.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t terrified it would though.
And, with the blur of rage over what had happened, then a strange misery that had befallen me after the kid’s passing, I’d just forgotten about Savio Martin—the priest who’d been kidnapped by rebels in Algeria.
Free at last, the TV declares, and I have to shake my head at the news.
He’d been a captive for two years?
For two years, he’d been locked away? Made to... what? What did rebels need with a priest?
“Are you okay?” Diana questions me softly, and I know she’s probably freaking out.
No one ever sees my serious side. I guess I play a role sometimes. Everyone gets to see the playful Andrea, the cheerful girl who makes friends like flowers that have bees dancing around them. No one sees the depths of me, the heart of me that I know is a little twisted.
A lot unusual.
She sees me being quiet when I’m reading or studying, but somber?
No, that’s for those moments when I’m alone.
“I just remember when he was first taken,” I murmur, shaken at the amount of time that’s passed, time he’s spent in captivity. “He’s been held captive a long time.”
“I can’t imagine what he’s been through.”
Her words strike me as odd.
Hasn’t she been a captive, in essence? Her father the jailor?
I don’t say that. Don’t say a word. If anything, I just tuck myself tighter against her, only this time the comfort is all for me and not aimed at soothing her.
Savio Martin.
Inside, I whisper his name.
Savor it, really.
What has he been through? What has he seen and endured to come out on the other side looking so much harder?
Three years have passed, but it might as well have been a decade.
His eyes, no longer windows to his soul, are harsh and shielded. His face is lined, and there are several scars along his cheeks and about his eyes. His nose is broken in two places—nasty breaks, too, by the looks of it.
He has a scruffy beard and, to be honest, he looks like he’s escaped from jail.
My stomach turns, and I feel horrible, but I reach over and switch off the TV. I can’t deal with that. Can’t deal with learning what forged that man into this one.
I can only save so many people at once, and this is Diana’s turn.
She needs me.
And, like she knows I need her at that moment, she hugs me harder and whispers, “Did you know him? Was he your priest or something?”
I guess, from my reaction, that’s a sensible question.
Yet my answer is anything but sensible.
“Yeah, I did. Once upon a time.”
Savio
“I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The grate in the confessional separates me from the man whom I’m coming to loathe.
He comes every day, wailing about his sins. Begging for forgiveness.
I give it to him.
But I make him pay for it.
Everyone knows not to expect leniency from me. They forgive me for it, ironically enough, but I know there have been complaints to the archdiocese.
Still, what could they say?
That I gave them too many Hail Marys? When each punishment is justified?
Just because they’ve had weak-kneed priests in the past doesn’t mean I’m doing my job wrong.
But this one?
There’s just something about this parishioner that gets to me. And he’s proved me right.
He’s gay—he admitted that to me a long time ago. Only, I don’t care who he screws. Don’t give a damn. Maybe the bishop would care, but I don’t. What occurs within this box is between me, Dirk Benson, and God.
But today, things are different.
Dirk isn’t here with a tale of woe about how hard it is trying to follow the Christian path, trying to stay straight, while intermittently admitting to me that he pays male prostitutes to ease himself.
No, today, he’s here with blood on his hands.
After my experiences, I know that I hate weakness. Not when someone is too frail to protect themselves—be it in spirit or in body—I mean people who are too fucking weak to admit to what they are.
There’s strength in owning what makes you you.
And everything about Dirk is weak. To the bone.
I’ve known for a while it would come to this. He’s admitted to beating the guys he’s paid to service him in the past, and though it’s irked me, I’ve listened to him.
But I’ve been waiting.
Judging him.
Seeing where he’d go, which path he’d take whenever he hit a crossroad.
At first, it was whether or not he’d come out as gay.
He did, after a year of confession.
I forgave him for that, especially because this small town in Gronigen is particularly devout. Someone who is gay definitely doesn’t stick around long. They head to Amsterdam or one of the bigger cities to live their lives in freedom.
Dirk, however, owns the local hardware store. His family has run the same place for four generations, and he’s proud of his roots.
He has a wife and two sons.
He’s ashamed of who he is.
But his admission of being gay came as no surprise. The man is repressed beyond belief, and while I’ve often seen marriages with no chemistry, the interactions between the family are awkward. Almost like he has no place with them.