Broken

21. Savio

CHAPTER 21

Savio

Angel - Toby Mai

A s I watch her coat her cheek in my blood, as I watch her hum a hymn that used to be my favorite, something she had to have learned during her ‘tracking’ of me, I can’t deny?—

“You’re truly unique, aren’t you?”

She stills in her bizarre face-painting. “I am?”

I hear the hitch in her breathing.

“Yes.”

And I’ve met some fruit loops in my time.

Sinners and posers, dreamers and hopers—but she was right when she said God broke the mold when He made her.

“Most people who know me say I’m strange.”

There’s no denying that.

But… “You’re an innocent.”

She stills. Again. “I’m not innocent.”

“Your heart is.” The truth almost chokes me. “Your soul is.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Light calls to the dark as much as the dark calls to the light, Andrea.”

“You’re not dark.”

“I am.” Being around her makes me feel it more as well. The ancient slog of hauling around evilness is a burden I never signed up to carry. “I stopped being as purehearted as you when I was thirteen.”

Her leg drifts over the sheets, making a soft whirring sound. I recognize it, even as I wait for the collision of her toes touching mine.

My eyes close at the simplest connection of all.

“What happened when you were thirteen?”

Her whisper has my eyes popping open. “I was bullied.”

When memories crowd me, she hums again, like she knows the past has consumed me.

“I heard that hymn for the first time when I entered seminary.” The humming doesn’t stop, but it’s a silent invitation to carry on. “My parents weren’t happy about me becoming a priest. Mother cried about it for two days and Father’d shake his head at me whenever he saw me.” My wry smile is wasted in the darkness. “ You are at the heart of my life. And He used to be. But now He isn’t. Though I try so hard to please Him, it isn’t enough.” I croak, “Don’t hum that. It’s a reminder of how I used to be and what I no longer am.”

She stops. Instantly.

Like she does every time I ask her to—or don’t ask, just make her. There’s no rebellion.

None whatsoever.

That’s why it’s easy to let my temper fall away.

She’d touched herself.

In my bed.

Her whimper had awoken me, and for a scant second, I’d watched her, heard her. Felt her response.

Then I stopped her. I had no choice. Even as the sound revolted me, I wanted to see more. Wanted to know more.

The thought of the taste of her on my tongue is enough to make me salivate. It’s been so long since I did anything remotely sexual that I can’t even remember when it was?—

“What happened with your bully that made everything change?”

The words are jarring, but I confess simply to know how she’ll react: “I killed him.”

She stills. “You did? Did you…”

“No. I didn’t go to prison. I earned myself a suspended sentence and had a mountain of community service until I was eighteen, when my parents had my record expunged. It was too late, though. I’d met the priest who changed my life during my punishment.”

“Where did you meet?”

“His name was Father Blanc. I had to work at his soup kitchen. After my community service was over, I remained a volunteer.”

For the first time in my life, I had a calling. One that wasn’t a self-insert from either of my parents—be a doctor, go into medicine… Be a farmer, till the land…

I listened to them until I simply closed my ears to their requests and did what I needed for me —left med school and took the first steps to a life in the Church.

Looking back, I should have stuck to the path I was on. God help me.

“I’ve lost you again.”

There’s a sadness in her tone that has me blinking, even as I register that she’s closer than she was. That her warmth whispers against me like her words do.

“I’m here,” I disagree, then I utter disturbingly true words: “I’m found.”

In her eyes.

“I’ve never known anyone as lost as you, Savio.” She squeezes my wrist. “But I see you, and I want to make things better.”

“You want more than you’re telling me. More than you want to say out loud.”

“I wasn’t lying before. I mean you no danger.”

“No,” I agree. “You don’t.”

That was the only reason I allowed her to stay.

After catching her touching herself, after her seeing me during a night terror… well, it changes things.

“Were you really feeling ill earlier? Or were you lying?”

“I told you, I won’t lie to you. I was feeling...” She hesitates, and for a second, I think she’s going to get creative. Instead, she sighs the word: “Fragile.”

I repeat it in my head, frowning over it for a second. “Fragile?”

She rubs her temple with her free hand. “Yes. I pushed it today. I’m supposed to nap and take cabs instead of walking places.”

My eyes narrow as I read between the lines. “Why did you discharge yourself early?”

“My parents returned home to New Mexico to clear up their house because it had sold. I knew if I didn’t leave then, they’d never let me out of their sight.”

Whatever I’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.

“They know where you are, don’t they?”

She shrugs. “I send them texts. I tell them I’m fine.”

“How kind of you,” I say dryly, but even so, I’m taken aback. “Why are you obsessed with me?” When she furrows her brow at that, I repeat, “I don’t think you’re a danger to me?—”

“Good.” She rolls her eyes. “Because I’m not.”

“But why are you here? What about me is so special that I’ve gained your attention?”

I’m not sure she’ll answer, and because I know she responds to sharp, stern commands, I’m about to break out that voice, but she mutters, “Your story connects with mine.”

“Explain.”

She purses her lips. “I’ll explain if you tell me what happened to you too.”

I’d prefer to dance in sulfuric acid than share that particular story, but she’s right. She doesn’t have to tell me anything. Not unless I’m willing to open up to her.

I know I could toss her out, know that I’d be able to discredit every word she could say to the police about Paolo, but something about her... I don’t feel as alone when she’s here.

And I’m not talking physically.

I’ve shared the house before. I still felt isolated.

She tears through that haze, and I have no idea why.

“I’ll tell you what I can bear to share.”

My qualification seems to appease her because she grabs some of the covers off me and nestles them around herself like she’s getting ready for a long story time.

The gesture amuses me.

Even while there are many childlike nuances in her repertoire, she’s the most sensual creature I’ve ever known.

She’s so at ease with her body that I don’t think I’ve met a temptation more powerful than the one she offers without even really offering it. She exudes it, and because I’m so close, all I want?—

“I see things.”

“What things?”

“Details. Stuff most people don’t notice.” She turns her head on the pillow to look at me. A pillow we’re now sharing. When did that happen? “I see someone’s pain. Someone’s fear. Someone’s anger.”

“You’re empathic,” I guess.

“Maybe. But not really. I don’t feel what they feel. I just see it. I notice what they’re going through, and instead of bypassing them, instead of moving on, I figure out what’s happening to them and I help where I can.”

Her words have me tensing. “What do you see in me?”

“All three. Pain, fear, and anger. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?”

“I already told you why—I’m yours.”

“I’m not yours.”

“So stubborn. You are. You just haven’t figured it out yet. But I’m okay with that.” She gives a happy sigh. “I’m with you. I can wait. I’m patient.”

I blink.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“You have a bed down the hall,” I rasp, my body tensing at the notion of us sharing a pillow until morning.

Temptation— I’ll be breathing it in all night.

“But this is nicer. You’re here, and it smells of you.” Her brow furrows deeper than before. “Why does nowhere else smell of you?”

“I clean it?”

“Is the mattress covered in blood?”

The question surprises me, even if I tell her, “There are stains I can’t get out, yes. Whenever I move, I always buy a new one and burn the old one.”

“How are you going to burn it in Rome? Do you have a backyard?”

“No. When that becomes an issue, I’ll have it collected and taken to the dump.”

She pauses. “Do you see yourself being here for a while?”

“I do.”

“You moved a lot before. Why? Because of the…”

“No,” I mutter in exasperation. “Sometimes I just didn’t gel with a parish.”

Who does she think I am—Dahmer?

“Here you do?”

“Yes.”

Andrea rubs her face into the sheets again. “I think that’s why I can smell you here. Your blood is in the mattress.”

“Old blood doesn’t smell.”

“It does to me.” She purses her lips. “That’s why it surprised me how nothing else smells of you.”

I already know she’s crazy, but that confirms it.

Still, I don’t leap out of bed, nor do I drag her off the mattress. “You said you see details and you act on them. How?”

“I notice something in a person. Then, I befriend them so they’ll let me in and allow me to help them. They become my charges.”

“What do you help them with?”

“The source of their fear,” she explains patiently.

“Give me an example.”

Her expression turns mulish. “I have friends all over the world now. I’ve helped a lot of people. Whatever anyone says, they can’t take that away from me.”

I frown. “Why would they try to?” She’s a touch unhinged but it’s not exactly a crime.

“My parents think I’m delusional. But I was just helping out where others were too blinkered to see the truth.” She grunts. “I used to help when I was a child, and they had to deal with the repercussions themselves. I don’t know why they’re acting so shocked now.”

“What did you do?”

“Um, when I was fifteen, I saw a homeless man who had a sick dog. He wasn’t very well mentally, so I befriended him so that he’d let me take his dog to the vet. It was actually a she and she was pregnant. That summer, we had to foster eight puppies until we could rehome them.”

“Eight? I bet they loved that!”

“Hmm. Then, there was that time when I was twelve and I saw a boy being bullied in the class below me. When I stepped in and punched his bully, it turned out the jerk’s dad was a cop. He came to our door and tried to arrest me. Dad put a stop to that.

“Then, until we moved—Dad’s a soldier so we were always moving—I had a mini-stalker.”

“The bully?”

“No, silly. The boy I saved from the bully. Andrew. He still sends me holiday cards.”

Amused and faintly jealous, which, I know, is beyond ridiculous, I clear my throat. “So, what was different this time? You told your parents about what you did and they reacted poorly?”

“They didn’t believe me. But that’s why my father asked to be transferred closer to me. It’s why they were selling their house?—”

“Okay, you’re going too fast. Start at the beginning.”

She heaves out a sigh. “If I have to. I already told you all this in my letters.”

“Which I never received,” I prompt with a small smile when she huffs.

“Annoying. But, let’s take Diana, for example. I met her in college. She was outside one of my classes. I saw her on the phone. I knew she was scared. Everyone treated her like she was a bitch, and they avoided her as if she had the plague.

“Her dad was the mayor of the town where we lived—I couldn’t figure out how he could be so popular and she was the opposite. No one saw the reality. No one but me.”

“He was hurting her?”

“Yes. Badly. So I got close to her, befriended her, made her move in with me.”

“You took her away from him.”

“I did, and we’re as close as sisters now.” She beams with pleasure. “We even managed to get him in jail. She was brave and went to the police. Sadly, they don’t always do that.

“I’ve helped men and women alike, and they all love me. Each of them would lay down their lives for me?—”

“You saved them from themselves.”

“I saved them from their monsters,” she corrects.

“Same difference. Monsters only exist because we let them in.”

“Once they’re in, it’s hard to get them out again. It can be impossible too, depending on how tangled your life is with theirs. If you have a child or if your money is tied up?—”

“I wasn’t arguing,” I appease. “I was just saying... you save them from themselves.”

“And their monsters,” she tacks on stubbornly.

I nod rather than argue. We can agree to disagree on this one. “Were you always this way?”

“I’ve always tried to help, but things got more aggressive when I was seventeen. Before, I just wanted to be a Good Samaritan like they teach you in catechism. But, when I was seventeen, it took over everything. I prioritized helping others over my studies.

“According to the specialists, that’s when the cyst became large enough to impair my brain function.” She makes a scoffing noise. “How is any of what I just said a negative? They’re trying to make it sound like I was deranged or something. As if I made it up?—”

I squeeze her wrist, noting the increase of her pulse as it throbs with her exasperation. “Explain.”

“I was having psych evaluations after the surgery,” she mutters. “They were making me talk about that time. I had to lie in the end. Or they’d never have let me out. They’d have locked me up just to stop me from harming myself.

“That’s how I knew it was meant to be. When Diana found an article that said you were in Rome, I had to come see you.”

“That’s what brought you here?”

“Yes. Not all of your archdioceses would tell me what was going on with you. Some were trickier than others.”

“So the catalyst for you leaving the hospital was me?” I question, aghast at the prospect.

“Yes,” she murmurs, her eyes soft as her gaze drifts over my face. “Don’t you realize, Savio? It’s always been you.”