…I WOULD MUCH RATHER BE THE PREDATOR
HIM
From the moment I saw her, I knew I wanted her. She looked untouched by the rot of this world, like something God had crafted in a moment of indulgence.
And I knew I had to be the one to have her.
Despite the sanctity of the moment, my body betrayed me.
Beneath the vestments, beneath the collar, the beast stirred.
I had spent hours, hours, last night and this morning on my knees, begging for deliverance.
Pleading for the Lord to burn the wickedness from my bones.
My Father in Heaven, thanks to You for this chance to begin again.
Cast out the demon that lives in me. Make me clean, make me untouchable.
But I knew better. Even then, with bloodied palms and a voice hoarse from whispered prayer, I knew I could never outrun the thing inside me. Not completely.
The journey to Butte had been long, but not unusual.
These things, transfers, recommendations, the quiet reassignment of sin, happen without much noise in our world.
There is a kind of unspoken mercy among men of the cloth.
We protect each other and we absolve one another long before confession is required.
No priest is ever cast out, not truly. Not when we carry His name.
When Father Cyrus extended his invitation for me to lead Mass this morning, I accepted with the same gracious humility I’d practiced for years, voice soft, eyes shimmering with gratitude.
But beneath that calm, I was overflowing.
This was my redemption. My resurrection.
The sacred ritual of dressing, the tactile comfort of it, never failed to soothe me. “Give virtue to my hands, O Lord,” I recited, scrubbing them raw under the cold tap, “that being cleansed from all stains I might serve You with purity of mind and body.”
The amice, the alb, the cincture, the stole, each layer slipped on like armor, each prayer a ward against the darkness that still lingered within me.
“O Lord, who hast said, My yoke is easy and My burden light . . .”
Amen.
St. Ann’s was modest, worn but proud. The stained glass shone color across the pews like spilled wine while the air carried the scents of incense and age. The church was quiet when I arrived, almost reverent in its stillness.
Until she walked in.
At first, I thought she might be a trick of the light.
The kind of distraction the devil sends just before Mass to test a man’s resolve.
But no, she was real. More than real. That updo, carelessly perfect.
The strands that defied gravity and fell like whispers over her shoulders.
The curve of her neck, the quiet arrogance in her posture.
She didn’t fidget, she didn’t smile, she didn’t ask to be seen.
And so, of course, I couldn’t look away.
I tore my eyes from her long enough to reach the pulpit, but every word I had written now felt stale and lifeless in my throat. I forced my voice to steady.
“Good morning,” I began. “Today, we gather to reflect on the theme of redemption.”
Redemption. The irony tasted bitter.
I delivered the sermon like I always did, confidently, articulately, and steadily. I quoted the Psalms, I spoke of the mercy of Christ, I gave them what they came for. But under it all, my mind spun with impure thoughts, with devious thoughts.
Thoughts of her.
I imagined the silk of her dress between my fingers, the small gasp she might give if I whispered scripture against her neck. I imagined her eyes, those piercing, devastating eyes, darkening just for me.
The things I could do to her.
I felt the heat rise beneath my garments, the cruel trick of the body at odds with the spirit. I pressed my thighs together and shifted behind the pulpit. The robes, bless them, concealed my shame. I clenched the sides of the podium and pushed the fantasy down.
“Forgiveness is not earned, it is given. And we must learn to give it to ourselves, as He gives it to us.” The words came easy, the lie came easier.
When Father Cyrus appeared at the end of the service, his presence grounded the room in a way mine could not.
He smiled that unassuming smile of his, offered a warm explanation for his brief absence, and welcomed me with a grace I neither deserved nor returned.
We descended the pulpit together to greet the congregation.
I said all the right things and smiled at all the right times, but my eyes kept slipping toward the back, toward her.
I couldn’t stop watching her.
She lingered with the other girls, laughing and speaking in hushed tones. But there was something . . . commanding in her silence, something that made her more dangerous than any woman I’d ever met. “Father,” a voice interrupted my thoughts.
Mrs. Henderson. Sweet, wrinkled, and ever faithful. “That was a lovely sermon,” she beamed, “You have a way with words.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. You’re very kind.
” But I’d barely heard her. My mind was across the room, locked on the woman who had ruined me with a single look.
The church emptied slowly, and the air grew lighter.
I held my breath as I closed the distance with my new obsession, finally allowing myself to take a deep inhale as our bodies were only inches apart. As if I could simply breathe her in.
And then, finally, she stood.
Closer now, close enough to smell her. Sandalwood and lavender, clean but sinful in the way purity sometimes is.
I tried to not let the images that danced in my mind show on my face, but the woman before me, the one who I now knew as Bernadette, seemed to sniff out my sinister craving for one of her own rather quickly.
Her gaze met mine and didn’t flinch, and there was something edged behind her eyes, something that told me, clear as day, that she saw through me.
She knows, I thought. She knows what I want.
She turned slightly, gesturing behind her. “And this,” she said, “is Violet.”
Violet.
My fixation, my punishment. And, if I could have my way, my salvation.