Sinner
Some days later….
“B less me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was last month. I confessed my urges with the neighborhood kids.” My muscles go taut as I hear the man in front of me, Devon Decker. Thanks to the gossip in town I know all about Devon. A high school teacher with a penchant for pedophilia—men like him are the reason why I do what I do. “Continue, my son,” I instruct, keeping my voice steady despite the repulsion bubbling within me.
“Speak your sins, Devon, and seek absolution from the Lord.” I don’t wish to hide my disdain, but I must. This is my role, after all. The cloth is just a mask to hide my true nature.
“I… I have not acted upon these urges, Father. I’ve been avoiding the children. But it’s hard. It’s so hard, Father.” Decker’s voice trembles with strain, his words seeping through the lattice like a poisonous fog. It takes every ounce of my restraint not to reach through and strangle the monster that lurks behind the curtain of penance.
I try to sound compassionate as I speak, hoping to convey my understanding. “God knows your struggle, Devon,” I say, “and in times of temptation, we must lean on Him.” My voice shakes slightly with anger as I continue, “Have you sought professional help for these feelings? It’s important that you do.” I swallow back my frustration and anger—it doesn’t matter now. He is beyond repair. Corrupted . A vessel for a demon.
Many become priests out of faith, but not me. My purpose is unique: to serve as a tool for casting out the wicked and cleansing this world of demons. And this one in front of me is among the worst—those who harm the innocent and exploit the vulnerable.
“Yes, Father, I have,” he replies, his voice barely a whisper. “But it’s not helping. I’m… I’m scared, Father. Scared of my mind.” I find myself clenching my fists, pursing my lips to maintain a calm veneer. This is not the time for anger. “You must understand, Devon,” I respond, my tone as comforting as I can muster, “that fear can serve as a catalyst. It can lead you towards change and fortitude if you let it. Where there is fear, there is the capacity for bravery. Let your fear drive you to remain strong, to seek help, and turn away from these dangerous urges.”
He is silent for a moment, and I can almost hear the gears grinding in his mind. “What if… what if I can’t, Father?” His voice is small and broken, like a child’s. The irony is not lost on me.
I respond, “We’ll deal with that when we get to it,” even though I know we’re already there. This man will cause harm, and I will have to rid him of the demon inside. It’s no coincidence that Devon is now living with a single mother in town; I’ve been keeping track of his movements. I fear it’s only a matter of time before he harms the child, and if I can prevent it, I will. After all, this is my duty: banishing those who have fallen under the sway of evil.
As I stand in silence, waiting for Devon’s response, a sense of finality settles over me. His voice trembles as he draws in a breath, and I can almost hear the rustling of his clothes as he wrings his hands together. Finally, he speaks again, “Thank you, Father. I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” I respond, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what is to come. “Trust in God. Trust in His protection, Devon. And remember, you are not alone.” But as I leave the confessional, the silence of the empty chapel is oppressive, and I find myself excited for what’s to come. My heart pounds in my chest as I consider snuffing the life out of him. Devon is a man on the edge, teetering on the precipice of damnation. His inevitable fall, unless intervened, will ravage not only his soul but others in its wake .
Descending the steps of the pulpit, I feel as though I am descending into a battlefield. And indeed, it is just that. His demons are too great to allow him to live, and I will do what is necessary to prevent him from harming a child. Tonight, Devon Decker dies.
I make my way back to my quarters, the silence of the chapel replaced by the distinct echoing of my footsteps. I reach for the worn Bible on my desk, its leather cover cool under my fingertips and think back to the tale of David and Goliath. Small as I feel in this mammoth battle, didn’t David manage to conquer his seemingly invincible opponent? Inspiration wells up within me, warming my heart and steeling my resolve. I am a servant of God, tasked with the protection of His children. The path ahead is filled with danger and uncertainty, but I know I can’t falter.
The moon hangs heavy in the night sky, casting eerie shadows on the quiet town as I stalk the demon. I watch as the lights go out in the house, and the woman leaves for work, leaving her child with a demon. But it’s okay, I will stop him. The silhouette of Devon walking toward the room where the little girl sleeps. Taking a deep breath, I walk towards the small house. As usual, the door is left unlocked because the woman left in a hurry to her diner job. Slowly, I walk towards the room. Stepping lightly on the worn-out wooden floor, careful not to make a sound, I pass through the modest dining area and head straight into the narrow hallway. The scent of lavender and old books fills the air as I approach the child’s room, an odd comfort in stark contrast to my task.
Devon stands before the child, stroking his cock as he watches down on her. So engrossed in his actions that he never sees me coming when I emerge from the shadows and prick him with enough tranquilizer to immobilize him. I don’t want him dead yet. He’s a big one and I rather not fight and make unnecessary commotion. His body stiffens as the tranquilizer takes effect, a strangled gasp escaping his lips before he crumbles onto the floor, helpless. Devon’s monstrous intentions have been halted, but I am far from done. With a grimace of disgust on my face, I bind his hands and feet with wire. Once I am done, I drag Devon away from the doorway and carefully close the girl’s bedroom door. I need to ensure she remains oblivious to the horrors lurking in her world. Even through it all she remains fast asleep, but I welcome it. It’s better this way, it gives me time to give him peace.
My heart pounds in my chest as I swiftly move back into the living room, dragging Devon’s limp form away from the child’s bedroom. He is heavy, his skin clammy under my touch, but the knowledge of his intentions fuels my resolve. Just because she is safe tonight doesn’t mean she will be tomorrow. I won’t rest until Devon is no longer a threat. The room spins around us as I heft him onto my shoulder and make for the back door. The cool night welcomes us, the wind whispering through the nearby trees accompanied by the faint hoot of an owl. The garden is overgrown, a reflection of the neglect that has fallen upon this household. I settle for the small shed out back and drag him to his final resting place; an old, dilapidated structure barely standing amidst the wild tangle of weeds. The rusty metal door creaks open, announcing our arrival to the spiders and small critters calling this place home. With a final push, I throw Devon’s incapacitated body on the cold, dirt floor, his face twisted in a grotesque imitation of peaceful slumber. His breaths, shallow and ragged, cut through the silence of the night. I look down at him, my heart cold in my chest. I’ve seen too many like him to allow myself any sympathy.
I tear a piece from the bottom of my shirt, soak it with the bottle of whiskey I’ve snatched from the kitchen, and jam it into Devon’s mouth. I need to keep him quiet for what is coming next. The alcohol will not only serve as a gag but will help dull the pain, not that I particularly care about his comfort .
Retrieving a small, black bag from my pocket, I rummage through its contents. The glow of the moon offers just enough light to make out the outlines of the objects inside. Two syringes, a coil of thin wire, a small pair of pliers—tools of my trade. My heart pounds even harder in my chest as I grasp one. I was born a child of neglect… unloved… damaged. From a young age I was disturbed, only finding peace with death until I met Father Guzman. He taught me all I know. But unlike him, it wasn’t God who I served, it was myself. My need to rid this world of evil. My need to kill. I hate sinners, but men like Devon are the true evil. There is no curing them… no fixing. I pull the small pair of pliers out of the bag, moonlight glinting coldly against its steel. My mind floats back to the countless times I’ve used this tool, yanking the very essence of evil from pitiful creatures that wear human skin just like Devon.
His eyes flutter open, shock and terror dilating his pupils as he takes in his surroundings. His gaze lands on me, and I see a spark of recognition in the haze of his fear. He tries to speak, but the whiskey-soaked rag muffles his pathetic whimpers. His eyes glisten with what might be tears - evidence of the terror creeping into him. He is beginning to understand why I am here and what I will do.
I yank down his pants, exposing his tiny, limp dick. Devon's muffled screams bounce around the dingy shed, but out here, no one’s nearby to hear him. I can tell he wants mercy... but it's too late for that. There's no pity for the ones I’ve decided to purge. I dangle the pliers in front of his face, making sure he gets a good, long look at them. The metal catches the dim light just before I press it against his skin. That first touch—cold and sharp—sends his whole body into a wild spasm, like he thinks he can just shake himself free.
I grin. He can’t.
So, things for Devon would look like this. I'm going to take his cock, his tongue, his teeth—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left of him but pain and regret. Then, he’ll die .
Gripping the pliers tighter, my pulse steady while his pounds under my hand. His neck's going wild, heartbeat racing from pure terror. His eyes go wide as hell, bulging. It's like he's seeing his death. But his pleas are pitiful whimpers through the whiskey-soaked rag I shoved in his mouth.
“Remember,” I whisper coldly, “you brought this upon yourself.” His pleas grow more desperate but remain ignored. I press the pliers against his flesh, and he shudders. The blood-curdling scream that erupts from him is a symphony of retribution. The scent of copper fills the air, electrifying the room with fear. I revel in his suffering, each cry and tear a testament to the justice I’m delivering. The pliers bite down, and with a twist of my wrist, I hear the sickening pop, causing another scream of agony. Devon’s body thrashes wildly, but the restraints hold firm.
My heart pounds in my chest as adrenaline surges through my veins. With a cruel smile, I toss the excised piece of flesh to the side. His eyes follow it, wide with terror and disbelief. Then I move on to his tongue.
I enjoy watching the play of emotions on his face. He is begging now, though his whimpers are nearly incomprehensible through the rag. A light sweat has started to prickle at my brow, and I can feel the heat swelling in my body as my pulse quickens in time with the frantic thrashing of Devon’s body.
“Shh,” I whisper, my voice sinisterly soothing in the midst of the chaos. “This will be over soon.” It isn’t a lie; once I sever the lingual artery, he will be as good as dead. I wipe away the sheen of sweat that has collected on my forehead with the back of my arm. The pliers shine ominously under the harsh fluorescent light as I move them towards his mouth. His eyes are now glassy with pain and fear. “The worst is over,” I whisper, and that isn’t a lie. The worst is over, now is the time for peace.
My free hand reaches out to caress the side of his face, the rough stubble scratching against my palm. His lips move weakly as I remove the gag from his mouth, releasing muffled sobs and pleas. “Please,” he tries to form words, but his tongue is swollen and bruised, distorting his speech into unintelligible whimpers. It isn’t the begging that makes me hesitate. It’s the look in his eyes — a raw, primal fear that I find so arousing. So perfect. The sight is gruesome yet oddly satisfying, an artwork of pain and penance.
I love seeing the torment etched deep within those eyes, those irises dulled by pain and hopelessness. This is justice, I think, as I raise the pliers once again. He musters a pitiful scream, but I merely shush him, threading my fingers through his hair like a mother comforting her child. “Sshh,” I shush, my voice just above a whisper, the barest hint of tenderness lacing my words. The metal of the pliers is cool against his tongue, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body. He shakes violently under me, his sobs turning into choked gurgles as I grip the tool tighter. The smell of iron and fear hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. His body convulses beneath me, a feeble attempt at defiance that is quickly extinguished as I bear down harder.
“Quiet now,” I murmur, my voice like a lullaby in the room. “The best is yet to come.” A guttural whimper escapes Devon’s throat as I go in for the kill. His body stiffens unnaturally, a reaction to the horrifying mixture of pain and fear that courses through his veins.
The thrashing ebbs to a mere shudder, his fight waning as reality slips further from his grasp. He can’t escape, he doesn’t have the strength left. He is mine.
I can’t just leave his body here, and I also can’t take it with me. Sometimes, fire is the only way to cleanse the soul. In Revelations, fire is viewed as the final curse, a purging, a way to cleanse the unholy and dissolve sin. Devon will be baptized by the Holy Spirit and by fire. Looking around the small shed, I find a small gallon of gasoline—this will do. Grabbing the gas, I begin to spread the liquid around until the smell fills the room. I pull out my lighter from my pocket, pick up pieces of newspaper scattered around the shed, and light them up. Making sure the fire burns the hottest on Devon, I watch as the flames pick up and he thrashes as his body begins to be engulfed by the flames. But no one will help him; by the time the fire is noticeable, he will be long gone. I take one final glance into the house, where the little girl should be safe from him and the flames. Disappearing into the shadows, I make my way back to the quiet streets of Taos.
I go back to the motel room I rent for nights like this. Walking into the room, I begin to undress before heading to the bathroom. Stepping into the tub, I turn on the faucet, letting the hot water fall on me as I use the cheap all-in-one shampoo on my hair and body. After the shower, I walk around the room, looking at the files sent to me from Vincent. Pictures of over twenty underage girls living on Victor’s church grounds. Sexual pictures of them, and then fury consumes me when I see a picture of a young Marisol. On her knees, bound to a cross, naked. Snatching the picture from the file, I look for any identifiable items on the hooded men who surrounded her. One, in particular, has a scar on his cock. Possible teeth marks. That one will die first.
Tossing the file to the side, I begin to dress myself—a simple black shirt, blue jeans, and some Vans. While I might be a priest, I don’t live under their rules. I have my own rules and my own needs aside from the church and my duties. Tonight, I will indulge in one of those needs—Zia. Walking to the bar, the streets are busier than usual. Victor’s church zombies scatter all over, heading to what I can assume is the compound. From the outside, I look in, but I don’t spot her there, and disappointment washes over me.