14. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Roman
S ix Weeks Prior
Welcome to Idlewood.
Population: Twelve thousand.
Nestled in the Rocky Mountains, this small town feels like it’s been swallowed whole by the forest—thick, unyielding trees that make it damn near impossible to remember there’s a world out there beyond the pines. The mountains are beautiful, sure, but they’re also a trap, locking you in with no way out. Life here drags on, slow and suffocating, like you’re stuck in some kind of purgatory.
The people here are friendly enough, but they’ve got a taste for gossip that never quits. Every little secret is like gold, and they’ll dig until they’ve unearthed every bit. It’s strange, really—I’ve been in some hellish places, seen things that would turn most people inside out, but there’s something about this quiet, stagnant life that feels like its own kind of hell. Like I’ve traded one war for another, only this time, the battles with the silence, the sameness, and the ghosts of what I left behind.
But this is my home for the foreseeable future.
Enjoying the piping hot cup of dark roast, I watch the people of Idlewood roam the streets, each face giving me some new insight into the people here.
There’s a woman who glides out of the boutique across the way, her blonde hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. She’s got a purse that probably costs more than most people’s rent, and she’s walking like she’s got somewhere important to be, even if it’s just the café for a latte. She’s one of those who’ll show up at church dressed to the nines, all smiles and grace, but I can see it in her eyes—there’s something darker underneath, something she’s trying to bury under all that polish.
As I take another sip of my coffee, I notice a man in a worn denim jacket, boots scuffed from hard work. He stops to chat with an older woman, probably a neighbor, tipping his cap, his smile warm and genuine. There’s a kindness in his face, the kind you don’t see much these days—a real, honest warmth that comes from living a life grounded in something real. This is the kind of man who doesn’t need to flaunt his faith; it’s written in the way he lives.
In Seminary, no one tells you how hard it is to truly stay judgment-free.
Kevin warned me not to explore Idlewood, saying the charm of living here would grow on me through my service in the church.
Bullshit .
The best way to understand this town is to see it for what it is, not just through sermons and sacraments. Tolerating the fake smiles and questioning looks is easier when I feel like I’ve figured these people out.
In a month, I’m supposed to start my work, proving my worth through the followers I can gather. But sitting here now, I wonder what made me step into this line of work. My relationship with religion was always shaky at best, never fully committed.
If it weren't for the church at basic training, I'm sure I’d have turned away from religion entirely.
Initially, the idea of giving myself up to any religion felt odd.
Snorting coke off my barracks coffee table while learning how to kill a man as efficiently as possible seemed like the way to go.
Fuck women, go to work, and pummel a man bloody for looking at me the wrong way.
You tell me, does that seem like it would end well for a man with urges as violent as mine?
There’s something about watching your fellow soldiers bleed out in front of you that makes it hard to believe God is real. I strayed from His light, ventured into the darkest parts of my soul, and indulged every sinful urge. Facing death forced reflection I didn’t know I needed.
When there’s nothing left, you reach out to the big man upstairs—it’s instinct. But pretending I’m a man void of sin? That’s almost laughable. Listening to confessions, offering absolution as if it can erase the burden of evil—it’s always felt a bit ridiculous to me.
Yet, here I am, ready to cleanse the conscience of anyone willing to waltz into Saint Michael’s .
In Seminary, they made it sound so easy.
Serve God.
Repent Sin.
Lead a life of virtue.
Spinning the gold ring around my finger, I’m reminded that the weight of my promise to God can be suffocating at times.
A life void of sin.
Is any man capable of turning a blind eye to their deepest desires?
Does Kevin struggle with his own temptations? He never lets it show, always presenting a calm, unwavering front. I wonder if behind closed doors, he battles the same demons I do. If he’s found a way to quiet them, or if he’s just better at hiding the fight.
I almost wish someone would sin right in front of me just to prove they’re human.
It's really all an act if you look at it from my perspective.
I play the role of God’s hand while struggling with my own demons behind closed doors. They come to me for absolution, only to fall back into the Devil’s grasp by next week. It's all one big game.
The prize? Hopefully, an afterlife.
Many would think it's odd how I choose to view my own religion.
I see Catholicism as a tool to find peace, nothing more, nothing less.
If I die and there is nothing, at least I lived trying to be a better person.
Tried being the distinguishing word .
Pretending that I’m perfect, like some of these rich assholes, is impossible.
I lower my head as someone walks by the table I’m sitting at, trying my best not to be seen.
A new face like mine in a town this small?
They'd have my whole life story figured out from a few phone calls, I’m sure.
It’s almost hypocritical for a war veteran like me to preach about God’s will.
I stand at the pulpit, condemning death and sin, all while knowing what it feels like to take a life with my own hands.
What kind of man does that make me?
Am I as fake as the rest of the people of this town?
Taking in a sharp breath, the chill air hits my lungs, signaling the oncoming Autumn season.
I fidget with the cross around my necklace, feeling the areas where my skin has begun to rash from the friction.
Pain is good.
It's a reminder I feel anything at all.
Watching the leaves blow across the road, I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out as I can, rolling my neck to try and ease the soreness from the long drive here. Everything I owned was packed in my 4Runner at the hotel.
Rolling my finger over the circular burn marks up my arm, I scoff at the look of them.
If my dad were alive, what would he say now?
Would he scold me for leaving the Army? For choosing a religious path instead of the one he forced on me ?
It’s hard to say. Knowing him, he’d probably beat me either way.
That’s the sick part. A man like my father—vile to his core—could beat his son and his wife and still show up in church every Sunday, somehow convincing himself he’d make it to heaven because of God’s grace.
That’s the flaw in the system.
No matter how awful you are, I'm supposed to believe if you give your life to God, you deserve forgiveness.
Bullshit.
Evil people deserve to be punished.
Maybe that's why I chose to become His hand.
Staring into the bottom of my cup, I feel a surge of frustration. The drink’s empty, just like this moment. I toss the cup in the bin and decide a walk might clear my head.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I veer toward the park in the middle of town. I’m still lost in thought when I hear a whimper, faint but unmistakable. It stops me in my tracks.
The noise grows louder, a mix of gasping and sniffling that sets my senses on high alert. I glance around the empty park, trying to locate the source.
There, in a more isolated part of the park, I spot a figure on a bench, hood pulled up, back turned. The whimpering is high-pitched, the body too small to be male.
Walk away Roman.
I keep moving forward on the path, but the stifled cries escalate, causing the hair on the back of my neck to rise.
The sound pulls at something deep inside me—it's just like my mother’s voice when my father had gotten too rough with her. The pain in the woman’s sobs is unmistakable, her voice trembling as her body shakes.
Biting my cheek, I close my eyes, taking several deep breaths.
Just walk away Roman.
The cries get worse.
Just walk-
Before I know it, I’m veering off toward the bench, my feet carrying me across the dying grass. The sobs drown out the sound of my footsteps, and I find myself creeping closer, stopping just short of her. I lean against a nearby tree, keeping a safe distance, close enough to observe without intruding.
Observing is fine.
We’re in a public space after all.
"Ivy, that's not what I'm saying," The woman sobs, her phone pressed to her ear, her face angled away from me.
She’s wearing a dark hoodie, too thick for the warm weather, with a backpack slumped next to her. Her foot taps rapidly, a clear sign of her anxiety.
"Who the fuck cares what Eric said. I'm telling you that's not what happened," She cries, her voice trembling. "How many fucking times did you meet him? Maybe three times when he happened to come to our dorm room when you weren't busy fucking some random guy? I knew you for months, and not once did you ask me my side-"
Stopping her tangent, she looks at her phone, tapping the screen.
"Ivy?" she yells. "You did not just fucking hang up! "
She tosses her phone across the grass. Her hands cover her face. Her screams become muffled by the sleeves of her hoodie. Her sobs are strangled, her voice ragged from crying for so long.
"None of you were fucking there," She sobs. "No one but me and him were there," She cries. "And now I'm alone in all of this."
I take a step closer, and she shifts slightly, just enough for me to get a full view of her face.
Beautiful, rich eyes swollen from tears, rosy cheeks, dark brown hair framing her face, and a full pout that looks almost angelic. She’s too focused on rummaging through her bag to notice me, pulling out a small cloth with trembling hands.
This is none of my business.
I should just leave her alone-
But then I see it, the glint of sunlight reflecting off the blade, and my stomach drops as she rolls up her sleeve, revealing fresh lesions on her skin.
All straight cuts.
All by her hand.
I watch in shock as she slides the blade across her wrist, the cut leaving a trail of red, the pain silencing her sobs.
She adds another set of marks, her face twisted in pain. The sight of someone so beautiful choosing to hurt herself ignites a deep anger within me.
"Do you fucking hear me now?" She hisses, yanking a necklace from her throat and tossing it to the grass.
She stares at her bloodied wrist, her fingers slowly turning the blade, and my heart pounds as I realize she’s no longer holding it horizontally.
"D-Do you," She chokes out, "hear me—"
"Stop," I hiss as I press myself against her back, my hand closing around her bleeding wrist, my other hand grabbing the blade, ignoring the sting as it cuts into my fingers. I toss it away, watching it land next to her cross and phone.
"Oh my God, don't-" She sobs, her voice trembling with fear. "Please don't tell anyone."
She almost killed herself, and she’s worried about what people will think?
How fucked up is this town?
I continue to hold her in place, her body trembling beneath my touch.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper, trying to keep my voice calm. "But you were going to hurt yourself." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "What kind of person would I have been to let that happen?"
She laughs, but it sounds defeated. "Either you’re from the church, trying to kiss my dad’s ass," She sobs, "or you’re not from here. Anyone else would’ve let me do it," she hisses, the self-hate in her voice cutting deeper than any blade.
I hold her tighter, feeling the blood sliding down her wrists coat my fingers.
"Yeah? And what if you did it? Then what?" I ask, trying to redirect her thoughts.
“They always told me in Catholic school that suicide’s a mortal sin. So, I guess a spot in Hell would be it for me.”
She's Catholic.
The only Catholic church in Idlewood is mine.
Perfect.
I stopped one of my future disciples from committing goddamn suicide.
"I call bullshit on that," I sigh, keeping her still. "There are far worse people than you deserving of a spot in Hell," I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
"Yeah?" She questions. "You don't even know me."
"Why are you crying?" Her bottom lip starts to tremble.
"What is this, fucking confession?" She snaps, her anger flaring.
"Here’s how I see it: you’ve got two options. Tell me what happened and get it off your chest, or sit here and wallow in it, see where that lands you. If you really wanted to die, you would’ve started with the vertical cut." She scoffs when I call her out. She knows I’m right.
"How would you know-"
"Roll up my sleeve," I snap, cutting her off.
"What-"
"Roll up my sleeve," I demand again.
Reluctantly, she begins to roll up my sleeve, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. The jagged vertical scar running down my wrist is an ugly reminder of a past I can't escape.
She gulps, her fingers lightly grazing the scar, her touch surprisingly gentle.
"I know because I didn't go for the horizontal cut," I whisper. "And guess what? It didn’t make the pain go away. It changed nothing. My problems were still my own. So why don't you tell me what's wrong before you bleed out in the park-"
"I was raped," She sobs, my heart filling with pain. "He bruised my ribs, broke my collarbone, recorded all of it, and showed it to his fraternity." She moves her uninjured hand to her bleeding wrist. "I thought college would be my escape, and instead, I walked into a nightmare worse than the one I lived in here. I reported him, but his fraternity brothers destroyed the evidence, so all I could do was come back home to this hellhole. Everyone just thinks I’m psychotic and that I had some sort of mental breakdown.”
"What's your name?"
"Eden. Won't take you long to figure out my last name in this town."
Holding her still, I take a shaky breath.
"I'll be seeing you at church, Eden," I whisper, her name rolling off my tongue and stirring something inside of me.
"I'm not-"
"You want a solution? Go to the church and let God give you a guardian angel."
“God’s never helped me. I don’t know why he’d start now.”
I tighten my grip around her waist. "Then why am I here?" I ask, something about her pulling me in deeper that I can’t explain. I guide her free hand to her open wound. "Put pressure on your wrist," I urge.
"Now tell me you'll go home. And you won’t do that again.” Maybe it’s my calling to God, or just because I can feel her need to rebel against me, but having command over her choosing to live has me hanging on to her every word.
She shakes her head. "I'll go," she sobs. "But it won’t change anything.” I scoff, holding her steady.
"I promise you, Eden. This won’t be the last time we meet."
Before she can get a good look at me, I release her and turn on my heels, lowering my head as I shove my bloodied hands into my pockets. I move quickly, slipping past the shrubbery to conceal myself from view. I make my way back to the streets, heading straight for my car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I lean back, watching through the window as she steps out onto the street, her arms hidden beneath her hoodie. She looks around, confused, but now wearing her cross again. A small sense of satisfaction settles in my chest.
I watch as she runs a hand through her hair, sighing in defeat. Even in her broken state, there’s a striking beauty to her, something raw and real that pulls at me. I glance down at my hands, still smeared with her blood. The bright red nags at me, a reminder of the deep pain she’s carrying.
Pain like that consumes you. It eats you alive.
Maybe another outlet could ease her suffering.
The thought slithers into my mind, and I tense my jaw, trying not to focus on the blood on my skin. But the need creeps in, unbidden—feral, insistent.
A need to see that blood again, but in a different context.
One from pleasure rather than pain.
Block it out.
You helped her. You brought her back to the church.
"Fuck."
I grab my phone, hating myself for what I’m about to do. Regretfully, I open social media, narrowing my search to Idlewood, and type her name into the search bar.
It doesn’t take long to find her. I scroll through her page, seconds turning into minutes and want turn into need .
By the time I turned my phone off, only one name consumed my thoughts.
Eden Faulkner.
There's no harm in knowing her name... Right?
Philippians 4:19 (NKJV) “And my God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus.”