The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,4

floor, I could feel everything. From the stomping boots to the trucks that drive down the makeshift road.

Because of the haphazard building, little drafts come in through the gaps in the bricks, and I can see my captors’ movements.

Even if I don’t want to.

My behind is the first to recognize the presence of one of the rebels, and the vibrations beneath me are enough to make my queasy stomach even queasier.

When the door’s tugged open, I squint at the face, which is just as dirty as mine, but there are streaks of blood on Ishmael that tell a tale of their own.

My eyes smart from the bright light haloing around him as I hurl, “I will not.” I know what he wants.

What he’s wanted from the start.

He sneers, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave me alone in this rat-infested hovel. But he doesn’t. He walks into the cell, grabs me by my collar, and kicks me forward. He doesn’t stop using me like a football until I’m out in the open.

I could have fought, and in another life, I would have—I even trained in some mixed martial arts before I became a priest—but that was one of the reasons I changed vocations.

That was what had led me to this point.

Violence is no longer my way.

And the strangest thing of all?

That the pain feels good. Instead of just moldering in there, I’d prefer to die.

I’d prefer to be free from this hellhole that my world has become because the writing is on the wall.

They will no longer take my rejections.

They will kill me soon, and I embrace death. I welcome it.

Only, when I’m in the center of the compound, just a few feet away from the trucks whose fenders still have tiny funnels of heat unfurling from the metal, do I realize that there is something they can do that does not involve my death.

I was short-sighted.

In fact, stupid.

I am. Stupid, I mean.

Why would they kill me when they need me?

There are ways of making me behave, and those ways are not something I can endure.

She’s small.

Young. I don’t want to think about how young, but old enough to be covered. She’s crying, dirty track marks running over her cheeks. Her nose is bleeding, and one eye is swollen shut.

My mouth tightens at the sight of her, knowing the presence of a Muslim girl on a Christian compound does not bode well. Especially not a compound such as this.

I swallow and start praying.

They could torture me, they could hurt me, and I’d never cave.

And somehow, they saw that.

They know pain is not my weakness.

But the girl?

She is.

I want to turn away from her, want to run and hide because I know what’s about to happen.

The only way to stop it is to do something just as heinous.

To a nonbeliever, absolution, penitence, and atonement are just words. But to a devout Catholic? They’re the cornerstones of the faith.

To do something wrong, to ask for forgiveness, that is what we do. What we’re taught to do.

But to be forgiven for rape? For murder?

To be given absolution to the point where the slate’s wiped clean?

No.

Just, no.

And then, in French, Ishmael rasps, “You will take our confessions.”

My throat feels choked. “No! I won’t.”

The girl cries and my gaze cuts to her. My body aches, my stomach and torso bear the imprint of each kick, and my mouth is full of dust from the ground. Overhead, the sun glares down relentlessly, making my skin feel hot and itchy, but I’d stare into the sun a thousand times over before I will do as they demand—

She cries out again.

Her veil’s torn from her, revealing an abundance of beautiful hair.

I look away, close my eyes, and then she screams and I surge to my feet. My training doesn’t allow me to stay passive, to sit idly by while these monsters abuse her.

I take them by surprise. One second I’m on the ground, a victim, and the next I’m on my feet, an aggressor.

The guy holding the girl, wearing a filthy makeshift turban on his head to protect him from the sun, his clothes bloodstained, his boots dusty, doesn’t know what hits him when I ram my fist into his throat.

He gasps, horrified, and lets the girl go to clutch at his neck.

I broke his windpipe.

There’s no saving him.

But men surge around me, and one grabs the girl just as four detain me.

“For that, we’ll kill her and—”

I tune out Ishmael’s taunt, and to the