Redeeming Rhys (11 page)

Three chairs were to the right of the table that provided the bible, which the priest would read of the gospel during Mass. Those chairs were where Father Sullivan would sit alongside his altar boys and girls. The taller, more ornate chair was his. The two on each side that were plain and dull belonged to his helpers. Rhys recollected back to those horrible white robes and pulling them over his clothes, being so hot and exhausted during the summers when he was certain he would faint from a heat stroke. He made the mistake of spilling the Blood of Christ on his robe one time during Mass. He wouldn’t forget his punishment for that instance… ever.

Whispered footsteps threatened his ability to stay in the current and not lose his shit, he wanted to run amuck through the church and destroy everything sacred and beautiful. The very place that people were supposed to go for solace and peace, he felt disorder, pain, and unworthy.

He felt unsafe.

Now that the reaping was near, he would torture those that fucked his mind. Because mental pain is worse than physical. He had been locked in the basement, smacked around and beaten more times than he could count before that fateful night, but the ghosts of what rained down in his mind, the aching his poor mind endured, was far worse than any physical pain he had ever sustained.

The light footsteps were familiar; full of intent and regard. With each movement of the step, the floor creaked. Rhys could feel the church move as his heart sped up in his chest while he regressed back to being a lost boy that couldn’t get help.

He looked over to his left to the ominous confessional booth. Two doors. Two sides to a story. Two ways to look at a confession; one version gets you to heaven, the other gets you to hell. Rhys’ vision looked up; Father Sullivan hadn’t come from the front of the church. His steps were echoing from the back. Rhys tried to relax his shoulders, but the tension was building and his muscles were getting harder than rocks with each passing second. The air was thick enough to crack; a total conundrum when one is supposed to be at ease in the house of the Lord.

Rhys eyed the confessional booth again, remembering how he used to appreciate its beauty with intricate carvings on every surface of the door like an exquisite treasure. The movements of his legs were quiet, like a jaguar creeping up on its prey, though this time Rhys wasn’t the predator. He was the prey just like all those years ago.

He was coached to believe he could go to Father Sullivan to seek redemption, when the fact of the matter was the girl who held it was the one he let go. He should have taken her with him. Rhys thought he should have grabbed her hand in that second, telling her that they could escape a world that had washed their brain and flooded it with mockery of faith that didn’t exist. His secrets were safe with her, but what Father Sullivan didn’t understand was one major factor.

Wren’s secrets were safe with Rhys, too.

He sped up his pace, the thumps of his heels on the floor matching the tempo of his increased heart rate. Sweat misted every inch of sculpted body as his white T-shirt clung to his build. This was the final farewell. It was a second time over. He would be ridding the world of evil once more, though the soul he would remove wouldn’t go to Purgatory no matter how much he prayed for it.

He would go to hell.

Rhys allowed a chuckle to escape his lungs as he thought back to the day when he ran to Father Sullivan to seek peace. He was coached, holding onto the idea of decency. Of forgiveness. Of his faith, when the reality of it all was his faith had been the culprit of what had failed him.

He opened the confessional booth door, sitting down on the hard wooden seat, feeling relief and pride for declining to kneel before the single pew in front of the black screen veil that separated him and the mighty one who would forgive him for his transgressions. The steps continued to pepper across the creaking floors until the other door opened quickly. A shadow appeared behind the black screened veil, one that was familiar to Rhys.

Father Sullivan assumed his position behind the screen on the wooden seat, his face partially obstructed by the veil between him and Rhys. His breathing was slightly labored and he rested both hands on his knees as if he was out of breath from his walk to the booth.

“It has been some time, Rhys. Do you want to confess your sins and ask for mercy for the destruction you have caused?” Father Sullivan stated sternly between panted breaths.

Rhys allowed a grin of malice to splay on his face, the stubble from his lack of upkeep dusting his face and giving him a hardness and edge that was lethal.

“Ah, Father Sullivan. I was just about to ask you the same thing. Have you prayed away your pain and sins to God?”

Father Sullivan’s breathing slowed, then halted for a moment as Rhys’ words stung him like a venomous spider, leaving him paralyzed with fear. Father Sullivan was a man that thought he had everything where he wanted. His people would never waiver. They would never question him. He sat there for a few seconds, counting in his head,
one, two, three, four, five…
until he finally found the courage to reply.

“You do not defy me, boy,” Father Sullivan replied, anxiety harassing him again, threatening to freeze him with horror and insecurity.

He was sure that when Rhys left ten years before that he would run away, accede to the elements of the world, and eventually die for what he did. He was wrong. Father Sullivan didn’t like being wrong. He didn’t like his secrets being uncovered. He didn’t like that at all.

“I answer to no one, Father Sullivan,” Rhys retorted, laughing at the man before him.

“Tell me something, Father Sullivan. You teach the word of God. You were ordained as a Catholic priest, sworn in to obey the vows of priesthood. When did you break your first one?” Rhys demanded, his tone condescending and authoritative. He was the man in charge of the conversation.

“My wrongdoings are between myself and God. I will not answer to you. There is no reason to. You need counsel and prayer. You need help, Rhys.”

Father Sullivan knew that his secrets were on the precipice of a huge release. He couldn’t allow it, but he wasn’t sure how to make it go away either.

“When did you first break your first commandment? Was it before or after my mother was your altar girl? Was she the first or fiftieth?”

Father Sullivan felt his chest tighten, threatening his existence. He was nearing the age of sixty-nine and retirement was in the near future. His good name would be ruined soon. Everything would be derelict.

“You need to release your lunacy as a sin, release it to the servant of God and pray for penance, Rhys. Pray for forgiveness. Pray for the lies you spill from your tongue,” Father Sullivan returned, trying his best not to stutter his words.

Rhys cocked his head to the side, bewildered at his response. Perhaps Father Sullivan was suffering from insanity just as he was, believing what he spouted off, thinking that his wrongdoings were okay. At least Rhys knew that he wasn’t right. He was going to hell. He had accepted that long ago. But, before he received the news of Wren, he had to hear it for himself.

He needed the words spoken from the martyr himself that he, Father Sullivan, was the man that was responsible for the downfall of the lost boy, Rhys O’Brien. He never belonged to anyone. The man that his mother married who he “thought” was his father was forced to marry her, a good Catholic boy that could fix her. The church made him do it. He didn’t have a problem, but Julianne became so fucked up after having Rhys, she turned to the bottle and wine was one of her only loves, and Rhys wasn’t one. Julianne would often cry out for Langston Sullivan in a drunken stupor, and by accident one night, she begged him to be a father to her son. The pieces that Rhys had been searching for fell into place. It was time for the secrets to free themselves.

And the man that showed her what sex was. He would be the only one to have her heart. But it was wrong. So wrong, she was just a teenage girl with hopes and dreams, and Father Sullivan obliterated them. The cyclic events of tragedy would never stop, all at the costs of a holy man.

One that was supposed to help spread love. Faith. Restore humanity and broken people.

“I know who you really are,
Father
.”

Father Sullivan’s chest pained, leaving him winded and aching. His mind flashed back to every moment with the teenager, his mortal sins bathing him with ugly. He leaned his forearms on his legs, his wrinkled and aged face hung between his thighs as he struggled to get his breath. His white hair fell slightly over his forehead, splayed with sweat from his unease and Rhys’ discovery. His legacy would never be what he dreamt of. No one is ever who they seem.

“You speak of insanity, son… You...” Father Sullivan stuttered.

“I speak truths, not lies. Pray away your pain,
Father,
if that is all you believe in now.” Rhys seethed, disgust hugging him.

“You know not what you do!” Father Sullivan yelled, his voice echoing through the entire church.

Tears welled in his eyes, and before he realized, they were running down his face.

“How?!” he yelled at Rhys.

“How do you hurt people? Or how do I?” Rhys responded, leaning towards the veil, slipping his hand to the side to open it to see his face.

He slid the veil open to see the face of his accuser. The murderer of his future. The man that fucked his whole life up. But, it was just a matter of time before things got worse.

“I, I…” Father Sullivan muttered again, “I loved her,” he finally admitted.

“No, Father Sullivan. You love no one. You are a selfish man that takes. You steal from the innocent. You have created hell. You have created a monster. The heaven that you hoped for is nothing. It is black because it doesn’t exist. I am the result of you. You made them horrible people. You made my mother mad. You made them hate me. How does it feel knowing such a holy man created a devil in the flesh?”

“You cannot tell anyone. Please, I beg you!” Father Sullivan cried, tears and snot covering his wrinkled face. His arthritic knees crunched onto the pew before the open veil as he begged for forgiveness.

“You pray away your pain? I have a different method,” Rhys said smiling.

He reached for his knife on his side, wanting every dark and dirty detail, every cover-up, before he got the information he needed about Wren. He knew that Father Sullivan wouldn’t keep a secret like that so far away. He knew where she was and he was going to find out.

“And you are going to find out how I get rid of my pain,
Father
…”

Death knocked on his door, and the lost boy enjoyed playing his Lord.

TAP. TAP. TAP.
Rhys took the blade of his serrated knife to the door of Father Sullivan’s confessional booth, the sharp vane sending shockwaves of dread through every bone of the priest’s body. The very man that was ordained to lead the faithful had created irreparable havoc, murdered the futures of many, and disregarded human life.

“Knock, knock, Father. Are you ready to come out and bathe yourself free of your sins?” Rhys whispered, leaning his sweat-misted body against the cool wood.

The humming of the aged air-conditioning units sputtered to life in the large church, making Rhys remember the dilapidated motel and the life he took. He didn’t often wonder about the girls he had taken, eleven to be exact. The others were let go. But for some reason, he found himself thinking of what kind of person she was. If she was good or bad. A mother or sister. A lover or wife. Pondering such things angered him deeply; forming connections to humans was not something he had been capable of, ever. What in the hell was happening to him?

Rhys briefly parted his mouth, taking a sharp intake of air between his lips. It was him, him! It was all his fault, and he was about to show him what the results of such sins were.

Rhys furrowed his brows, bringing his ear down to the door to listen. His previous worries went absent as he heard faint cries from Father Sullivan. Pride swelled so large in his chest, it could burst. Pride for his ability to affect a man that had left a wake of damage that could never be fixed. If anyone could attempt to survive, it would be Wren. He needed her. He would find her. Rhys wasn’t sure what his plans would be beyond that, he only knew he had to get her.

Make her understand that not everything that happened was his fault.

The swing-set incident.

The basement.

The night their parents were taken away.

The night he took something from her.

Fuck, thinking of it made his cock swell in his pants. He wasn’t able to control it much longer. He had to get to her.

He took his free hand and opened the door to find Father Sullivan on his knees with his hands clasped together, praying to a God that he no longer believed in.

“It’s time to set the truth free, Father.”

Rhy’s features were hard enough to cut glass, loathing covering his heart, preventing it from feeling life.

“Don’t do anything you will regret. You need to think about your eternal resting place, Rhys! Heaven!” Father Sullivan cried, bending down to the wooden floor of the confessional booth.