The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,25
laugh from the booth, and it whispers through me, making me shiver. It’s so wrong, but my nipples peak, and I close my eyes, relishing the husky sound.
I know it isn’t something he does often.
Of the many lines on his face, laughter didn’t cause one of them.
Strain, pain, fear, and rage did that.
He exudes each emotion. It floods from him, making me wish I had the right to soothe him.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
The boy who shuffled in after his father pushed him toward the confessional seems to make Savio smile. I watched their interactions earlier on, saw he was refraining from grinning, before he wandered on, caught my eye, and I watched him come to attention.
It reminded me of when a deer flinches, hearing something, sensing something—unknowing they’re in the hunter’s crosshairs, but somehow still aware that everything has just changed.
He didn’t look at me after he paused at the door, saying goodbye to everyone as they left the church, and he strode into the confessional like I wasn’t there.
It hurt.
A lot.
I’ll forgive him in time for not recognizing what I am to him. That he recognized something means more than he can even imagine right now.
A few laughs have escaped him since the kid went into the booth, and I can see the boy’s father grumbling under his breath every time he hears Savio’s amusement.
But when he shuffles back out, the father’s shoulders slump like he’s tired, like he really wants a good nap, and then to wake up and for this day to be over.
I heard what the kid did—messed with his teacher’s chair. Seems tough to bring him to confession for something like that, but hell, my parents were the same.
Anal-retentive dad was one of the worst when it came time to putting the fear of God into me.
Not that it worked.
Not wholly.
I mean, I’m not a bad person, but still, I’m just not that driven.
As I sit there, listening to the sacrosanct confessions that spill from people’s lips, I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but technically, I’m not.
I’m listening to him. Not to them. They don’t interest me.
Not until something happens to Savio’s voice.
It goes from soft and almost caring to hard. Cold. The chill is enough to make me shiver.
It has me tuning into the confession, but it’s difficult to hear because the guy is speaking so softly that I have to strain my ears. Maybe it’ll give me a headache later, but it’ll be worth it. I crave knowledge where Savio is concerned. I want to know what makes him tick.
“I didn’t mean to.”
That’s like a running theme in confession, I think.
We never mean to do something, yet somehow, it happens. Sins occur, souls get tarnished.
And this guy?
He’s crying.
My brow puckers as Savio bites out, “What happened, Paulo?”
“S-She wore such a short skirt,” he whispers, and inside, I just die.
I know where this is going, and my heart starts to pound in my chest like I’ve been running a race.
And yeah, at the moment, I can’t run anywhere. Never mind take part in a race, so my face starts to feel clammy, and my body tenses up in a weird way.
Not a good way, at that.
I’ve heard this story from the other side of the fence so many times that I recognize it, that I know what I’m about to hear, and it sickens me before he even continues with his confession.
“Short skirts are not a crime.”
“If she dresses like a slut, what else am I supposed to think of her?”
A tense silence seems to charge the air, and I feel it. It’s strong enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge.
“You dare use that word in my confessional?”
His words aren’t what I expect, but I wait for the guy’s reply with bated breath.
“Forgive me, Father—”
“I don’t. I don’t forgive you.”
The man falls quiet, then, his tone more modulated, he states, “She—”
“Before you carry on with that sentence, she can do whatever she wants, it is you who sinned. It is your sins I want to hear, not hers. And if she did sin, I’m sure she’ll come here and tell me herself. She can ask for forgiveness and I can give her absolution.
“What she did has nothing to do with you, Paulo. So, before you utter another word, before I toss you out of this booth, you will stop right there and reconsider your confession.”
The strength in his voice, the passion, it’s there all of a sudden.
Where