Dove
T he room is dim, the air thick with incense and dread, a single flickering candle casting jagged shadows on walls lined with crucifixes. I kneel on the cold floor, my hands numb against the ground. My mind drifts, detached from the sinner's lust pressing against my lips. My movements are mechanical, devoid of desire. This is what I’ve been taught—to empty myself, to erase any notion of will or want. The Prophet says this is my duty. Born from sin, I must absorb theirs to purge them clean. But redemption feels like a distant shore I’ll never touch.
The Prophet calls me corrupted. Yet it was his teachings that twisted me into this, his hands that forged me in this fire. His voice became the law of God, telling me I was marked by sin, tainted before I even knew what sin was. I learned submission. To be pure, I must serve. To be cleansed, I must endure. It’s a cycle I’ve come to accept because escape is an illusion. I’ve learned that lesson well.
The sinner groans softly, and though I quicken my pace, it’s not out of desire—it’s because I know the Prophet expects it. His voice taught me how to turn my body into a vessel for cleansing the wicked. This is a ritual I endure but never embrace. My body shudders, not in anticipation of pleasure, but with the knowledge of what comes next. The soft sobs of the man before me fill the air.
“With fervent pleas for your salvation, beg for redemption, sinner!” The Prophet’s voice booms, a terrible authority that reverberates off the walls. I flinch, my heart tightening at the sound. The sinner, a man still clinging to some semblance of dignity, trembles before me. His bound hands brush against my legs as he collapses to his knees. His fear seeps into the air, mingling with sweat and desperation.
The Prophet steps back into the shadows, his presence lingering, always watching but never intervening. The man before me is handsome in a way that seems incongruent with the filth and shame that clings to him. He trembles, his body betraying him, responding to my touch despite the weight of his guilt. His sins are etched into his flesh, and it’s my role to cleanse him.
I reach out, fingers brushing his tear-streaked face. His wide blue eyes—terrified, pleading—meet mine. He searches for something in me, perhaps mercy, perhaps absolution. But I have none to give. I am not his savior. I am merely the tool through which his sins will be purged.
“You will beg for forgiveness,” the Prophet intones, his voice rich with dark promise. “Through her, you will be made clean. The fire of your sin will be extinguished. Accept her. Surrender to her. Only then can your soul be saved.”
The man’s body quakes with terror, caught between shame and the Prophet’s cruel promise of salvation. I harden my heart. It will soon be over, and I can retreat into the silence of my room until the next sinner is brought to me.
The sinner mutters broken prayers, his voice barely a whisper. He clings to the idea of God even as his body betrays him. I am his salvation now, not God. His guilt clings to him, and I can taste it as I work to draw out the weight of his sins.
The Prophet’s voice cuts through the silence again. "With fervent pleas for your salvation, beg for redemption!" The man’s sobs grow more desperate, his body trembling beneath my touch. His face twists with agony and shame, but his body continues to respond, his need overpowering the fear that grips him.
“Submit,” I whisper, echoing the Prophet’s teachings. His blue eyes lock onto mine, filled with a desperate hope for something I cannot give. He shudders under my touch, and I command him to close his eyes. His lashes cast shadows over his cheeks as he surrenders to the moment.
I pull away from him, offering false comfort. “Shh,” I murmur softly, “you will be forgiven. ”
I climb over him, straddling his shaking form. He clutches at me as if I am the lifeline to his salvation, his body shaking with fear, desire, and regret. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he succumbs to the ritual. His hands grip my hips as I lower myself onto him, his body tense beneath me.
“This is so messed up,” he gasps, his voice thick with regret and anguish.
“Redemption is never simple,” I murmur, grinding my hips against him, feeling him harden within me. The Prophet watches from the shadows, his approval heavy in the air. I feel none of it—only the cold weight of obligation pressing down on me.
Behind me, the Prophet’s voice rises in a chant. “Guide him to the light, my . Deliver him from evil.”
The sinner’s hands tremble as they clutch my waist, his body teetering on the edge of despair and desire. “I... I don’t want this... please,” he stammers, tears filling his eyes. His body jerks beneath me, panic clear in his every movement.
“Shh,” I soothe him, though the words are hollow. “It’s almost over.”
With a final shuddering gasp, the sinner’s body tenses beneath mine, his climax breaking through him like a wave of release. His essence spills into me, hollow and broken. I can feel the demon within him recoil, driven out momentarily by the ritual, but I know it’s not gone—not truly.
I’m proven right when his eyes darken, his fingers turning to claws as they dig into my flesh. I wince, biting back a gasp of pain as the demon fights back, rearing its ugly head once more.
The Prophet steps closer, his voice growing darker, more commanding. “Let her consume your sins,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Let her purify you, demon. ”
The sinner bucks beneath me, his body trembling with fear and desperation as the battle rages inside him. But it’s not him I care about anymore—it’s the Prophet. I need this to end. I need the peace that comes from his approval, however false it may be.
“Give in,” I whisper, forcing my body to move faster against the sinner’s, pushing the demon closer to the surface. “Release.”
His eyes meet mine, pleading, filled with the same desperation I feel inside. But I cannot save him. I can only finish this.
With one swift motion, I reach for the blade hidden in my hair. In a blur of movement, I slice it across his throat, feeling his blood spill over my hands. His body convulses beneath mine, a final, guttural cry escaping his lips before silence falls.
The Prophet groans in satisfaction behind me, his own release following as he anoints the room with his approval. “He is free,” he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence. “The demon has been banished.”
The sinner’s body goes limp beneath mine, his soul finally released from its torment. I sit in the eerie quiet, my hands covered in blood, my body still trembling from the weight of what I’ve just done.
The Prophet steps closer, his eyes softening with satisfaction as he gazes at me. “You have done well, ,” he purrs, pride thick in his voice. “You are blessed. Come, let us purify you.”
I take his hand because I must—because there is no other choice. He leads me to the bathroom, washing the blood and filth from my skin with careful precision, his lips whispering prayers over every inch of my body. His touch is a mockery of tenderness, his cleansing another layer of control.
“You are chosen,” he murmurs, his voice filled with conviction. “God’s work is never easy, but you were born for this. The daughter of Lilith, destined to purify the world. ”
The weight of his words presses down on me like a heavy chain, suffocating and unyielding. I am not chosen. I am trapped. But I do not fight him. I let him finish his ritual, washing away the remnants of the demon, though the stain on my soul remains.
The Prophet gently cleanses my body, praying over me with each deliberate stroke. I close my eyes, surrendering to his ministrations as his lips move reverently over my skin. His hands roam with a feigned tenderness, cleansing us both of the darkness we have partaken in. I am carried from the tub to his room, now naked in his bed. He continues his ritual, praying over me with each touch, his hands and lips offering false comfort.
As he enters me, I force back the bile rising in my throat, the revulsion threatening to overwhelm me. My body stiffens, resisting the violation, but I fight to focus on the sensation of his hands and lips. His breath is hot and his voice a soothing murmur, repeating the mantra of purification and redemption.
“…” he whispers, his voice blending with the rhythm of his movements. I’m here, but my mind drifts away to thoughts of Matheo, desperately clinging to the memory of his touch, his presence. Matheo, who represents a world far removed from this torment. I envision him inside me, his weight above me, not the Prophet’s.
Suddenly, the Prophet bites my shoulder, pulling me back to the grim reality of our ritual. His satisfaction is a hollow sound, void of any true connection. I close my eyes again, seeking refuge in my own mind. The room blurs around me, a foggy veil separating me from the present.
“… You are mine,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my skin. But I am no longer . The girl who once willingly submitted is gone. I only belong to Matheo. I chant his name in my head, trying to drown out the Prophet’s guttural sounds. The room fades as I immerse myself in memories of Matheo, allowing the Prophet's actions to become a distant, painful echo. But he pulls me back... dragging me back to this hell. My body rocks and his voice grow more urgently, the chants of purification bl ending with the physical sensations. But I endure his pleasure as though it were my penance, a twisted form of redemption. His grip tightens, his thrusts growing rougher and more desperate. I am nothing more than a vessel for his release.
“You’re a good girl…” His praise sends shivers down my spine. His movements quicken, his body pressing against mine with increasing urgency. I accept his weight, his final thrust within me marking the end of the ritual. His seed fills me, and the act is completed.
He collapses onto me, his breath slow and heavy against my skin. His kisses become softer, less fervent, each one a silent prayer of thanks for the ritual we have completed. The room is thick with the mingling scents of blood and sweat. As he withdraws, a fresh wave of disgust overwhelms me. I roll to my side and retch onto the carpet, the contents of my stomach spilling forth.
“,” he murmurs, his voice a soft echo as he gently strokes my back. “My salvation… your father’s greatest sin.” I heave again, his prayers for our souls and his desire for me to bear him a child resonating through my mind. Soon I would be done with birth control, and he would swell me with his child. I sigh. This has been my existence since childhood—preparation for this role, a life destined to be bound to the Prophet’s will.
Victor Morales. My father.
My time as his chosen one came after my mother's death. In our community, when the matron dies, the next in line must fulfill her role until the man of the house marries. But Victor never married, and now I am his , prophesied to purify the world as his bride.
He slumps against me, exhausted, and then moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on my naked form.
“We must prepare for another sinner,” he says solemnly, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness .
“Another so soon?” I ask, my brow furrowed as I prop myself up on my elbows. My hair cascades over my shoulders, and his gaze remains unwavering.
“Yes, ,” he replies, his voice tinged with bitterness. “A priest who has succumbed to earthly temptations. We must guide him toward salvation. He defiles this town.”
My heart sinks at his words. The Prophet’s role extends beyond mere guidance; he seeks out those who misuse his teachings, and it falls to me to deliver their salvation. His hands move to my leg, and I fight back the bile rising in my throat. I had always known this would be my fate, but the reality of it is crushing. The priest of the Catholic Church doesn't belong here, but the question remains: can I truly go through with it? Could I end my only source of solace?
“I can’t help but wonder,” I whisper, struggling to keep my voice steady, “why must it always fall to me? Why am I the one to cleanse these sins?”
The Prophet’s gaze is unyielding as he leans closer, his voice a cold whisper. “Because, my , it is your role. You were chosen. You are the instrument through which these souls find redemption.”
“But what if...” I start, my voice trembling, “what if the salvation we offer is just another layer of suffering? What if I’m causing more harm than good?”
He chuckles darkly, a sound devoid of warmth. “Doubt is the weapon of the unfaithful. Your purpose is clear, and you must not falter. Remember, it is not for you to question the divine plan.”
With that, he moves back towards me, his presence dominating as he claims me once again. His thrusts are relentless, his breathing growing heavy with exertion. I close my eyes, forcing myself to shut out the revulsion and the pain. My thoughts drift back to Matheo, the only person who has ever brought me true happiness. I envision his touch, his voice, trying to find solace in memories that now seem so distant .
The Prophet’s grip tightens as he drives deeper, his satisfaction palpable. He mutters prayers and chants, each word a cruel reminder of my role. “Through your sacrifice, we cleanse the world. Your suffering is not in vain.”
As he reaches his climax, I feel a mixture of disgust and resignation. His body presses against mine, heavy and unyielding. His breath becomes ragged, and he finally falls asleep, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of my duties.
The room is silent except for the sound of his deep, satisfied breaths. I lie there, still, the pungent mix of blood and sweat hanging in the air. I am left to grapple with the haunting memories of Matheo and the grim reality of my life. I run my fingers over my sweat-soaked skin, feeling the emptiness that comes with being used as a vessel for someone else’s sense of purity.
I climb out of bed and stumble towards the door, my feet barely carrying me. The air outside the room feels cooler, less stifling, but it does little to alleviate the weight pressing down on me. I make my way to my dimly lit bedroom, where I can still feel the echoes of the Prophet’s voice ringing in my ears, his words a constant reminder of the twisted reality I’ve been forced to accept.
Collapsing onto the bed, I curl up into a ball, my body still trembling. The tears that I’ve been holding back finally spill over, hot and relentless. I’ve been doing this for so long, playing the role of the Prophet’s , his obedient servant, but with each passing day, the facade cracks a little more.
Matheo. His name reverberates in my mind, the one bright spot in the darkness that surrounds me. He’s the only thing that keeps me going, the only thing that reminds me that there’s more to life than this suffocating existence. But even the thought of him is tainted by the knowledge of what I’ve become, what I’ve done .
I wonder if Matheo would recognize me now if he would still want me after everything I’ve done. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder that I’m too far gone to ever truly be free. But for now, all I can do is close my eyes and hope that sleep will offer me some respite from the twisted reality I’ve been forced to endure.
In the darkness, the Prophet’s words echo in my mind, a twisted mantra that I can’t escape: “Your father’s greatest sin.”