Chapter 7
DAMIEN
The chapel is cold, a hollow, echoing ribcage of stone that has never known the warmth of a sun that didn’t feel like a spotlight. It’s always cold here. The candles don’t warm it; they only cast long, flickering shadows that look like reaching hands.
The prayers don’t soften it; they are just more noise to be swallowed by the high, vaulted ceiling. The walls don’t keep anyone out—they only keep us in.
Raven’s fingers braid my hair, tight and neat like always, her small hands moving with a frantic, rhythmic precision.
I can feel the tug on my scalp, a grounding pain that keeps me from drifting away into the grey.
She counts in a whisper while she weaves the strands, her voice a thin silver thread in the dark.
“One, two, three…”
Her breath is close to my ear, smelling of the peppermint sweets she stole from the sacristy.
“If you stay quiet, he won’t pick you.” I nod, a small, frantic movement, chewing the inside of my cheek until the copper taste of blood fills my mouth—anything to keep from crying. Anything to be the good lamb.
“You have to be good.” Her hands shake, but she doesn’t stop.
The braid is a tether. “You have to stay quiet.” Her voice cracks, and then I hear it: the soft scuff of polished shoes echoing behind the pews.
The heavy, asymmetrical drag of his left foot.
The cane tapping out a rhythm I know too well.
Father’s steps are slow, measured, kind.
“Where are my little lambs?”
His voice is velvet, but it feels like it’s choking my ribs. Raven’s hands tighten in my hair, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “Stay here,” she whispers. “You’ll be safe in the quiet place.”
My throat closes, the air turning to dust. “I don’t want to stay.”
“You have to.” Her fingers press against my lips, sealing the protest. “You have to stay quiet.” Her palms are damp with sweat, trembling as the cane taps closer, closer, until I hear him kneel behind us. I feel the weight of his breath on the back of my neck, a cloying warmth.
Raven’s hand covers my mouth. “Stay still. Don’t cry.”
His fingers sink into my hair, his thumb dragging over the crown of my head—slow, soft, careful—the way one might pet a favourite dog.
“A good little lamb,” he breathes. My pulse slams against the cage of my chest. Raven’s hand is shaking so hard I can feel her teeth chattering, but she doesn’t move.
“If you’re good,” she whispers, desperate now, “he’ll pick someone else.”
Father’s other hand presses to my throat, gentle, warm, and terrifyingly familiar. His rosary dangles, the wooden beads dragging across my ribs with a sound like dry bone. “Let’s pray,” he murmurs.
Raven’s grip tightens. Her breath breaks. Her braid slips loose, the strands falling over my eyes. “I’ll come back for you,” she says fast, her voice cracking like it’s the first time she’s ever lied. “I’ll come back.”
The cane taps away. His hand slides down my back, and Raven’s hands leave me. She runs. I hear the chapel door slam, a final, heavy boom that echoes for eternity. I scream under the phantom print of her hand, but the quiet place keeps the sound inside.
Father’s thumb drags over my lip, his breath softening. “Good boy.” The rosary beads clink against my ribs. “You stayed.”
I don’t know how long the quiet place keeps me. I don’t know how long I waited for her to come back. I don’t know if I ever left. But I know she promised. I know she left me there.
And I know she forgot.
Father’s hand drags lower, his thumb tracing the hollow of my throat, circling, pressing just enough to make my pulse stutter.
“Quiet little lamb.” His breath is soft, his words careful.
His cane taps once against the floor, a rhythm only I know.
His fingers slide beneath the collar of my shirt, his nails scraping the edge of my ribs. “You pray so beautifully when you cry.”
I choke on the sound caught in my throat. The scream Raven told me not to let out. I press my hands flat to the cold floor. Stay still. Stay good. Stay quiet. Father’s thumb presses to my lip, dragging it down, slow, soft, the same way I touch Raven now. “You’ll let me keep you, won’t you?”
I nod. Small. Frantic. Because if I’m good, he’ll stop. If I’m good, he’ll pick someone else. If I’m good, Raven will come back.
His other hand pushes the fabric higher, cold fingers pressing against the scar on my ribs, the one Raven kissed once when we hid behind the altar, the one she said would keep me safe. He drags his thumb across it now, slow, filthy, claiming. “You’re mine,” he breathes. “You always were.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The quiet place.
The counting. The braid. I count the wax drips on the floor.
I count the cracks in the stone. I count the beats of his breath against the back of my neck.
His rosary beads clink as they fall against my ribs.
The crucifix dangles cold over my skin. His breath sharpens. “Keep your eyes closed.”
I do. I press my hands harder to the floor until my palms burn.
I chew my cheek until the taste of iron coats my tongue.
“You’re praying so well,” he whispers. I feel his weight.
I feel his breath. But I stay quiet. I wait for Raven.
She promised. She told me if I stayed still, he’d pick someone else.
But he didn’t. He picked me.
His hand slides lower. His breath sharpens.
His rosary wraps around my wrist like another lock.
Like another chain. “You’ll let me keep you,” he murmurs again, but he doesn’t wait for an answer.
He never does. The chapel door never shuts.
The sound of my own heartbeat drowns the counting.
The braid slips loose. The candles flicker. The quiet place hums.
I press my face to the cold stone floor and pray for the sound to stop. Pray for her to come back. Pray to be good enough for him to leave. But he doesn’t leave. Not that time. Not the next. The quiet place keeps me. The quiet place keeps him. And Raven never comes back.
His rosary pulls tighter around my wrist, the beads biting into my skin with every shift of his hand.
“Stay still, little lamb,” Father hums, dragging his breath over the back of my neck, the cane tapping once, twice, against the stone.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I don’t cry. I know what happens when I do.
His fingers push beneath the waistband of my uniform trousers—cold, slow, deliberate.
His breath sharpens. “You always let me keep you.” My throat locks.
My chest caves. His other hand presses to the base of my spine, pinning me, holding me down.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I press my hands harder to the floor until my palms burn, until my fingernails splinter against the cracks in the stone.
“Good boy.” His voice cuts soft against my ear. “You know how to stay quiet.”
The weight of him covers me. His fingers press between my thighs, sharp and rough and wet.
The rosary slides against my ribs as his hand shifts.
I clamp my teeth into my cheek, hard enough to tear the skin, hard enough to taste the copper flood.
His breath shudders. “You’re perfect when you don’t fight. ”
The words burn. His thumb circles the soft skin where I’m not supposed to be touched, dragging the slick from his hand across me, marking me.
“You’re always so pretty when you’re quiet.
” The burn sharpens as his fingers press harder, deeper, violating me, the stretch biting, tearing. “You’re praying so beautifully.”
I choke on the sob that won’t break free.
I keep it buried. I keep it trapped. Because she said if I was good, he’d stop.
But he doesn’t stop. His hand wraps around me from the front, stroking me, forcing me to harden under his grip, forcing the shame to pool in my belly.
His breath chokes against my temple. “You love this, don’t you? ”
I shake my head frantically, tears soaking into the stone, but no sound escapes me.
“No?” His tongue drags over the curve of my ear. “You always love this, little lamb.” His thumb presses under my lip, dragging down until my mouth parts. “You love the way I pray with you.”
His pace quickens. His hands force the betrayal out of my body.
“You always cum so sweetly for me.” I slam my palms harder to the ground, but the tremble in my thighs betrays me.
The twitch of my hips betrays me. The sob trapped in my throat betrays me.
His breath sharpens. His grip bruises. His voice breaks into something reverent, something filthy. “Such a good boy.”
The forced release hits me—sharp, sick, shameful.
I sob into the stone, into the cracks, into the quiet place that holds me here.
His body shudders. The rosary clinks. His breath slows.
His cane taps once more against the floor.
Twice. Three times. The braid slips. The candles burn low.
His hand drags over my ribs, over the scar Raven kissed, over the place I thought would keep me safe.
“You’ll stay for me next time, too.” His breath is gone. His steps retreat. “You always stay for me.”
The cane taps toward the door. The echo fades.
The silence thickens. The chapel stays cold.
The rosary digs into my wrist. The quiet place hums. I stay on the floor, breathing into the cracks, praying to something that stopped listening.
Praying for her to come back. But she doesn’t.
Not that time. Not the next. And I keep waiting.
Because she promised. She promised she wouldn’t leave me.
But she did.
The chapel stays cold. The stone floor sticks to my skin where his hands touched me, where his breath coated me, where his rosary chained me. I don’t move. I don’t cry. I don’t make a sound. Maybe if I stay still long enough, I’ll stop feeling him there.