Primal Pursuit

My head throbs like a thunderclap that rattles my bones.

I’m wracked with sickening waves of shame and a brutal hangover. No matter what that incessant ache down between my thighs says, enjoying Davian’s cock has humiliation tied around my neck.

I throw myself out of bed on trembling legs and force on my clothes. I can be anywhere but here, alone with my thoughts and no distractions to keep my mind from going to dark corners where I end up like I did last night. A crying, sobbing mess, drowning in a pool of pity.

I need to get the hell out of here and dosomething.

I grab the half can of Pepsi from the fridge, down it, and toss it in the trash before heading out the door. I don’t even bother checking myself in the mirror because my reflection would only confirm that I look how I feel.

Like complete and utter shit.

Curbing my nausea and taking deep breaths, I take a walk around the city, trying to soak up some sun, hoping it’ll make me feel better. But there’s this storm inside me that won’t be settled, and for some reason I find myself outside a small Catholic church. St. Brigid.

It’s not far from where I live, and I’ve been here once or twice. As a beyond-lapsed Catholic who’s pretty much an atheist, the little church appeals to me. It’s something my mom—a devoted Catholic—would have liked. Sometimes I come in to feel closer to her.

I pass the statue in the little courtyard and go in. No feeling of peace or higher beings giving me a celestial hug comes over me, but it’s nice.

An old man comes out of the confessional kissing his rosary, and you don’t have to be a priest to see how heavily his problems are weighing him down.

I’m alone in this world—no family or close friends, only work buddies who would never in a million years understand. Maybe I should speak to someone. Maybe getting a few things off my chest will help—even if it only eases the storm a little, it’ll be worth it.

I stare at that confessional. Then I look around. Apart from some decrepit old priest in that box, I’m alone in the church, so I head on in, and there he is—the ultimate someone to talk to. A priest in the sanctity of the confessional. It’s perfect.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned?” I say when I sit.

There’s what feels like an amused silence.

“Bless you, my child,” says a smooth, low, huskyvoice. “You can talk to me. How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Forever.” I’ve never been, so it’s the truth. Then I add, “I’m Penelope.”

We sit in silence a few minutes, and I start talking, telling him about this and that and then I blurt out, “I fu…er… gotinvolvedwith the man responsible for my parents’ deaths.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence before he says, “We all blame people for things, but something drew you to this man. Perhaps God wants you to forgive him.”

Forgiveness? Fuck that.

I’m still hurting, still wobbly, still weirdly fractured by what happened, and the fact I enjoyed it has me rubbing my hands together as a savage bolt of heat shoots through me. It swarms over my face and chews through my filters. And I’m left an exposed, heaving mess of fury and confusion.

“There is no forgiveness for him,” I snap. “He’s a murderous thug who deserves to die just like my parents. I want him to pay for what he did. I want—” I take in a loud breath that’s studded with pain. “I want him to pay.”

“But you aren’t God. He is the one who makes the judgments, who brings down justice. Not you.”

“There is no justice in this world. If there were, my parents would still be alive.”

“I know it can seem strange, how things play out, but?—”

“Please, Father,” I interrupt. “Don’t you dare say God moves in mysterious ways.”

“I was going to say that maybe you’re just blaming thisman for something out of his control, out ofyourcontrol. Maybe you need to talk to him about your feelings. Get his side.”

“I was twelve when he came into my home and executed my parents. I hid in the closet while I watched him forcing them to kneel so he could execute them. That isn’t something any child should witness. Not only has he ruined my life, he turned me into a monster who is out for blood. And to top it all off, he has somehow manipulated me into thinking I enjoy fu…being intimatewith him.”

“Manipulated you?”

“How else can you explain it? The fact that I hate him with every fibre of being, yet I seem to desire him more.” I cross my arms and lean back. “It’s witchcraft if you ask me.”

“Or maybe it’s a signal God is there, wanting you to help him.” The priest’s words are measured.