39. THE MASK FALLS
THE MASK FALLS
HIM
The collar feels tighter tonight, constricting, as if it is alive and aware of every sin I’ve ever tried to bury, cutting the air away from my neck until each breath feels like confession.
I tug at it, my fingers trembling with desperation.
The cracked mirror above the dresser stares back at me, its fractured glass dividing my reflection into pieces I no longer know how to fit together, and my face looks older than I remember, aged by years and the quiet decay of guilt.
Butte wasn’t supposed to have been like this. It was supposed to be a place to vanish, a place to blend in, another sleepy town with too many ghosts to care about mine. But my ghosts always manage to find me, no matter how far I run, reminding me that escape was never part of the deal.
The clock ticks from the far wall. The sound fills the silence until it feels alive, pulsing against the walls, reminding me how much I hate the quiet.
It invites memory, and memory gnaws at me when the darkness presses in.
I thought I could bury it all deep enough.
I thought time would smoother what I couldn’t face, but time, it seems, is no gravekeeper.
It started in Illinois in a town like this one.
All denim and dust and sweet-tea secrets.
The church was an old one, cold in the winter, and thick with mildew in the summer.
But the people came anyway, like they always do.
I was younger then, still clinging to the idea that this collar meant something holy.
That I was chosen, that the ache in my chest was purpose, not corruption.
But even then I’m certain I knew. Deep down, I knew. And then there was her: Annabelle.
She was barely fifteen, too young, too innocent, but to me that was part of the allure.
She was a faithful soul, always sitting in the front pew, her hands folded tightly in prayer, her head tilted slightly as she listened to me speak.
Her eyes shone with that purity, that untainted worship, and as I watched her, it ignited something deep within me.
I told myself it was nothing; nothing but a fleeting admiration for her devotion, but I knew it wasn’t. It was hunger.
The hunger grew slowly. At first, I noticed it only when I caught myself staring at her a little too long, taking in every delicate feature, every hint of her innocent smile. A harmless connection, nothing more.
But soon, I sought her out. A desire to guide her as she navigated her young faith, but when I found myself asking her to stay behind after services, or to help me with small tasks around the church, I couldn’t deny that the time spent alone with her was becoming too precious to me.
It was the way she looked at me, so trusting, so eager to please, that kept me coming back.
It happened on a Thursday, when rain tapped against the stained glass and turned the world beyond it into shifting watercolor.
The candles had long since burned themselves down to soft, wavering stubs, leaving just the two of us in the dim sanctuary.
She stood at the altar, carefully wiping the chalices clean as I lingered in the darker edge of the room, where the light couldn’t quite reach me.
She didn’t know I was watching her, not at first. But she smiled when she caught my eye, like she understood, like she was giving me permission.
I told myself that lie more than once.
I said her name, and she came to me without hesitation, without fear. She stood before me with her hands folded, as she always did, devoted and open.
“You’re special, Annabelle,” I had told her, my voice low, as if I were saying a prayer. “You feel that, don’t you? That pull between us?”
She didn’t answer. Only looked up at me, lips parted slightly, her breath coming a little quicker than before. Didn’t flinch when I touched her face, only blinked up at me, her eyes wide. She let me tuck her hair behind her ear, let me trace her jaw with my thumb.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whispered. “This . . . this is God’s will. You were brought to me for a reason.”
And she still didn’t pull away. That was the moment, that perfect stillness, the point of no return, that I stepped closer and felt the warmth of her breath.
Heard the tiny catch in her throat, saw the way her fingers twitched against her dress.
She stood there and took it. And I told myself that was permission.
I took my time. My hands trembling as they traced the length of her arm, closing around her wrist a fraction too tightly.
When it was over, she remained seated on the pew, knees drawn up beneath her as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear.
Her eyes were fixed on the altar, like she was waiting for some sort of instruction, some explanation for what had just happened . . . for what I had done.
But then the creak of the church doors opening and the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor filled the room.
My head snapped toward the entrance, heart hammering so hard it drowned out the rain.
A shadow wavered against the candlelight, stretching long across the aisle before the figure behind it emerged.
Annabelle’s father stood in the doorway, framed by the stormlight, his face carved into something I couldn’t read at first—until the fury came into focus.
His eyes burned wild with it. “What are you doing with my daughter?”
His words, full of rage and disbelief, echoed through the sanctuary until they seemed to come from every wall at once.
My mind raced, and for a moment, I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.
My mouth went dry, my throat tight. I had been caught, caught in the act of betrayal, caught in my darkest desire.
Every secret I’d buried clawed its way to the surface in that instant, and I understood, with terrible clarity, that there would be no forgiveness waiting for me here.
Annabelle’s father wasted no time. The distance between us vanished in a single, furious stride, and before I could even raise a hand or form a word, his fist was in my collar, the fabric biting into my throat with a vicelike grip.
The force of it pulled me off balance and sent the air rushing from my lungs as he slammed me back against the pew.
His breath was hot, ragged with rage, and his eyes burned with something primal—something beyond words.
Then the first blow came. My head snapped to the side, a burst of light behind my eyes, the taste of iron blooming on my tongue.
He didn’t stop. His fists kept finding me, again and again, each strike breaking the silence into splintering sounds that seemed to ricochet through the empty church.
The world narrowed to impact and breath, the thud of knuckles against skin, the stone floor cold beneath my knees.
I didn’t try to resist; there was no point.
“Stay away from her, you sick son of a bitch,” he growled, his fists still trembling.
The next few days passed in a haze. The town was in an uproar, the whispers spreading like wildfire.
I could hear them in the streets, in the markets, in the back pews of the church.
The accusations grew louder, and it wasn’t just the father’s word anymore—the entire town knew what had happened.
The judgment was swift, and the church couldn’t ignore it. I had failed.
I was called to the rectory, where the bishop and a handful of elders waited.
The doors closed behind me with a soft click that still lingers in my ears.
A handful of elders sat in rigid silence, their faces hard and grim, carved by years of authority.
The bishop sat at the head of the long table, his eyes cold and piercing.
“You’ve disgraced yourself,” he declared, each word striking blow, “and you’ve brought shame to this church. To this town.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to beg for mercy, but the words caught in my throat.
My knees weakened beneath me, threatening to give way, and I could hear the faint, relentless pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, a deafening drum that left no room for thought.
How could they do this to me? How could they turn their backs on me when I had served them for all these years, sacrificed for them, carried their sins as my own?
Another man, one of the elders, spoke up, his voice accusing. “You’ve hurt her, Father. Hurt her in ways that cannot be forgiven.”
The bishop was quiet, voice almost a whisper, as he pronounced my sentence.
“You have no place here anymore, the town won’t accept you.
So, the choice is yours: Leave quietly, or we will expose you to the courts.
Your sins will be laid bare for all to see.
” My mind spun. I knew I had failed, and that the town would never accept me again.
But what of my vows? What of my calling?
The words of the bishop replayed in my mind: Leave quietly or be exposed.
I chose to leave, as if the other option was really a choice.
I ran, as far as my legs could carry me, and I never looked back. But the memories never stopped. They stayed with me, gnawing at me, demanding more, pushing me into darker corners of my own soul.
Now, here in Butte, those memories were creeping back, insidious and uninvited, whispering in the quiet moments, returning in flashes.
And there was one woman in particular, one woman who seemed to see through my carefully constructed mask.
Bernadette. Her eyes, her knowing gaze .
. . she had seen too much. Every time our paths crossed, I could feel it. She knew what I was.
I clenched my fists, resolve hardening in time with the motion. The women in this town, especially those girls at The Oily Cat, they knew. They knew too much, and I could not, would not, allow them to expose me. Not again. Not ever.