Page 11 of Acts of Contrition
“Father,” I greet him politely. “What has sent you here this afternoon?” Being albino, he usually avoids the daylight.
“I would like you to take over for me tonight, ministering to the lost in the city,” he says. Falling into step with me, we head back to the residential section of our compound.
“Am I ready for that, do you think? To lead the others alone?”
“You’ve been Pastor-in-Training for six months; I believe you were ready when you began,” Oliver admits. “God is telling me you are needed there more than I am.”
Unlike a lot of pastors who start these sort of communities, God doesn’t speak to Father Oliver that much. When He does, it is usually something monumental, like when Oliver started the community, rescued his wife Catherine, and set the rules for us who choose to surrender ourselves to God and forsake the outside world and its growing evils. God tells him who to choose to study under him — me — and how to properly indoctrinate rescued spouses. Also what punishmentsfit each broken rule a community member makes, and who can mete out said punishments.
So if Father Oliver says God is telling him I need to go minister to the heathens, who am I to argue?
I admit I am good at public speaking, and I can be convincing. In my former life, I could have people eating out of the palm of my hand right before I ended their miserable lives, and they’d thank me for the privilege.
Of course, that life and all its perks are behind me for the most part. However, I retained my deliberate charm, which makes me an excellent Pastor-in-Training.
I choose my fellow church members, Brother Joseph and Sister Lisa, and we leave for the city after dinner, when the freaks truly do come out.
Since one prostitute for some reason seemed to take too much of a liking to me, I usually stick to the homeless and the youth who could easily have been me when I was their age. Before I surrendered my sin to the church, I was as wanton as these women; who am I to tell them to stop? And how much temptation can I take before I take one and kill them, going back to all my former sin and erasing my progress?
But this is God’s will, not mine. And so we go, tracts in hand, God at our backs.
By the way, if an attractive person tells you they don’t know they’re good looking, they’re lying. We all know, and we all use it to our advantage. Especially somewhere like this, where my appearance gets me all the attention I could want. I never paid for a woman, though, and even if I wasn’t in the church, I would not start now.
I could get these sluts to let me sleep with them and kill them if I wanted with just a few words and a smile.
“Lisa, cinch your jacket a bit more before some passing creep thinks you’re one of the whores,” I scold my older sister when she gets out of the car.
She rolls her eyes at me but does as I say, and of course she begins to tease me. Being my actual sibling, she gets a pass at what would usually not be allowed.
I am not listening. I can’t listen. My attention has been completely arrested as my eyes land on the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen.
A few things about her stand out: her thinness, as if she is overcoming a long illness, the fact that her slim body does not diminish the round swell of her breasts in her corset top, and her eyes. Her eyes are wide and deep brown, expressive and bright. These are not the eyes of a whore, a sex worker. No. They are innocent.
That is what strikes me most of all, this air of quietness, of almost childlike wonder.
My heart and soul have wholly been possessed in this moment, and I forget where I am and why I came.
“Little brother dear.” Lisa snaps her fingers to get my attention. “What happened?”
I shake my head, unable to speak of it now. “Nothing. Let’s begin.”
I walk purposefully to this sweet little sinner I spotted, knowing one thing as a sure fact. This woman came from God, just as He speaks to Father Oliver. He sent her to me, or rather, He sent me to her.
This girl belongs to me, and I will save her.
Chapter Seven
Diana
Two weeks later…
IT FEELS NICE to have extra cash and pay rent early so I can take this weekend off and catch up on things I like, things I didn’t have a chance to while Mike held me captive.
Today, I'm watching the official uploads from a music festival overseas. I had no idea until today that the bands I liked when I was fourteen are still going, and I settle in with a blanket and a cup of coffee, ready to relax. Maybe feel like a normal almost-nineteen-year-old for once.
Until a door slams across the hall, so hard the building shakes. I close my eyes, sighing. Was it Mrs. Thompson or the other guy I haven’t officially met?
When a tentative but frantic knock comes at my apartment door, I get my answer. When I open the door, Mrs. Thompson has a vicious bruise across her eye and cheek. She’s holding an ice pack to it.
