27. Chapter 27
Harley
“Okay, God, I need You to tell me what else I can do.” I grabbed the stack of magazines from my coffee table and stuffed them into the trash bag.
Worship music played over a Bluetooth speaker, the noon sun flooding my apartment through the two living room windows.
I’d been ravaging my place for the past hour, ridding it of everything that could make me stumble.
“I can’t be around people twenty-four-seven.
There are moments when I’m alone and will feel lonely and get tempted to do stuff. ”
A wave of defeat swept over me, and I sank onto the patchwork carpet.
The colorful squares couldn’t have contrasted the blackness inside of me more.
Yet another week had passed, but the Kingsley-sized hole remained in my heart.
After seeing the video on Velvet Drive, I had toyed with the idea to visit Saint James and tell Father Cruz it was my fault.
And then tell Kingsley how sorry I was and find out how he was doing.
And ask if he could still become a priest.
Which I doubted.
But no. He probably didn’t want to see me after I’d pretty much destroyed his life.
I honestly hadn’t expected Craig to be serious about the threat.
Boy, had I been wrong. I had no words for what he’d done except that it was a brilliant and deadly move.
At least now that he’d executed his revenge, no one needed to fret about my safety anymore.
Although it had taken me a while to convince Rome to let me move back into my own four walls.
He was still searching for evidence to bring Craig to justice.
I appreciated it, but I was so over everything.
My mind wandered back to Kingsley as it did every five minutes. Pictures of the nights we’d spent together flashed before my inner eye. They were my comfort and demise at the same time.
“Make it stop, Lord,” I grumbled. “How am I supposed to keep my thoughts clean if those memories keep assaulting me? And can you please take away this overpowering feeling of need?”
I stood and tied up the garbage bag. At least I had all triggers removed.
I’d deleted all dating apps and numbers of guys I used to fall back on whenever I felt lonely.
I’d deleted my gaming account, tossed out magazines and adult toys, and anything else that could make me stumble.
The Bible said to flee sexual immorality, which, in my opinion, also counted for temptation—so, flee temptation rather than fight it.
That’s why I had to get rid of all triggers, because once I got triggered, chances that I lost the battle were high.
Something inside me prompted me to sit down on the sofa and pause. Listen to God.
Rest in My presence.
Was this Him? Or my own thoughts? I could never tell if He was talking to me or if I just thought He did.
But it made sense. Resting in His presence, spending more time in His Word, would transform my mind.
Not that I wouldn’t get tempted anymore.
Unless God miraculously healed me, it most likely would always remain a struggle.
But filling my mind with His Word would leave less room for other thoughts.
Coco had been right, it was much more of a spiritual battle than a physical one.
So I needed to fight with spiritual weapons, namely Scripture.
I pulled up my Bible app and started searching for verses about temptation.
I found several and copied them to my notes app for quick access for whenever temptation or lust hit me.
2 Corinthians 10:4-5 especially filled me with hope: The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world.
On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds.
We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.
I locked the screen and gripped my phone. The enemy wanted me to believe that I was ensnared by sin. But God was bigger. Yes, with His help I could do this.
Now it was time to throw out the garbage. With the trash bag in hand, I stepped out of my apartment and jogged down the stairs, my slippers slapping against concrete. I had to grin a little. Hopefully no one would peek into this bag. They’d be clutching their pearls for the remainder of the day.
Even as I lifted the lid of my apartment complex’s trash can, a familiar vehicle snagged my attention. Craig’s cobalt Charger pulled away from the curb across the street. The sun glared off the windows, not allowing me to see inside. I didn’t need to—I knew it was him.
First he just rolled into traffic, then gunned it until he disappeared around the next block.
Heart racing, I stood rooted to the asphalt, still holding the lid open. Rome had been right—Craig wasn’t done playing games.
I was still in danger.