Sweetest Sin(62)

I refused to let myself think of my home, my parents—that nightmare—while in the safety of the church. I suffered enough this morning.

I helped Deacon Smith hang the vestments, but my mind blanked.

Which one was I supposed to wear today?

I stared at the cabinet, at the red, white, and pink robes.

I fought to remember. Green. Today was green. On the liturgical calendar, these days, when not celebrating any feast or moment in particular, were called Ordinary.

But this day was anything but ordinary.

I dressed, and my heart pounded in my chest. The rapturous beating buzzed my ears with the rush of blood. I couldn’t hear my deacons, the organ’s music, or the conversation of the parishioners as they filled into the sanctuary for Mass.

I couldn’t let myself get distracted. Mass was a time of celebration—a few minutes of praise, glory, and gratitude for the Lord and his blessings upon the church.

And yet I could think only of myself—on my own selfish desires and mounting sins.

I deserved to burn myself on the charcoal we used to light the incense. Rookie mistake. I tossed the charcoal into the censer and gave it a quick swing.

Too much.

Puffs of sandalwood escaped in a thick cloud. Deacon Smith and my altar servers coughed. The smoke detector gave a warning chirp.

Not what we needed.

Deacon Smith leapt onto a stacked pile of chairs and climbed to the smoke detector, silencing it with a thud of his fist before the incense forced an evacuation.

“Easy, Father Rafe.” He laughed and removed the battery. I helped him down from the chair. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” I handed the censer to the attendant who promptly adjusted the cage. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Happens to us all.”

Not like this.

Not before Mass.

Not when the souls of my entire congregation depended on me to bless them, honor them, and deliver them to salvation.

As if I deserved that right.

A priest was no different from a lay person—I was in mortal sin, and I was to confess what had happened and beg for my forgiveness. Fortunately, the sins marred only my soul. The communion   I’d offer to the parish was still valid, even when administered by a sinner’s hand.

Even if I had no right to take the communion  .

And I had no idea how to hide that.

Deacon Smith offered me a bottle of water. I chugged without tasting it.

“I can assist you today, Father,” he said. “The choir can sing without my direction. Usually. Most of the times. Somewhat. I don’t think they’ll sing Lady Gaga without me to direct them…”

The choir.

Honor.

Was she here?

My thoughts corrupted images of my sweet, smiling Honor into the memories of her naked, writhing, and impaled upon my cock.

“Go to the choir,” I said. I gestured to the others. “I have my altar servers to help.”

And I’d be fine…provided I remembered my words. The Missal would be before me, the words and actions and ritual instructions were always upon the altar so we did not commit a mistake. But my head clouded as the incense fogged my thoughts. What was once muscle memory and rote memorization faded in the uncertainty of my sin.

I’d never faced a sin I couldn’t conquer. And I never fought so hard only to lose. I suffered in my humiliating, humbling defeat.

Honor was right. I had prided myself on my ability to overcome temptation and sin. My caution became arrogance, and my arrogance my undoing.

I ruined myself. I broke my vows. I damned her.

And still I waited for the moment when the heralds would call and the angels would descend and that fiery sword of justice would strike through my blackened heart.

It didn’t come.

And the congregation awaited me to lead them in a celebration of the Lord.

I marched the processional to the altar. Nearly two hundred good, honest souls in attendance looked to me to guide them during this celebration.

And all I heard was her singing.

Heaven.

She sang in beautiful, pure harmony with the rest of the Choir. Her voice burst over the sanctuary, bright and solemn and angelic.

It haunted me.

The incense swung from my hand. Once. Twice.

Had I swung the third time before the candles?

I couldn’t remember now. The servers said nothing, and I moved to the altar. I bowed and rested for a moment, clearing my mind.

It didn’t work.

My concentration was broken. I listened for her voice above all others.

She wasn’t just a distraction. I never knew an angel could damn someone so completely.

At least I had a chance to cleanse my soul. The Penitential Act was written and spoken to beseech the Lord for forgiveness, for an honest confession of sins and guilt.

My voice led the congregation, strengthening as I spoke the prayer. The words had never meant so much to me.