HEALING WITH THE PRIEST — PLEASE MAKE ME FORGET FATHER
1101 Words
Chapter 1
I'm not a church person. Never have been. I don't believe in priests. I don't believe in God, or the lie that any man alive can fix the mess James spent three years leaving behind.
But Aunt Clara cried on the phone until I felt like a complete asshole, and Demi wouldn't stop calling my phone until my head ached, so here I am—standing in a lobby that smells like nothing but old wood and the heavy sweetness of melted wax.
The receptionist gives me a soft, practiced smile that makes my teeth grind before she leads me down a narrow hallway.
She knocks on a heavy door and disappears, leaving me standing there like an i***t.
I'm already heading for the exit when he opens the door.
The man who opens the door looks entirely wrong for the collar. He was nothing like what I expected.
He is tall, his shoulders broad enough to pull the black fabric of his shirt tight, with dark hair, a sharp jaw, and eyes that seem to change from grey to green depending on how the afternoon shadow hits his face.
He looks like he was built for a completely different kind of life, a man who forced himself to choose this quiet room instead of the world outside.
He steps back to let me in, and my legs carry me past him before my brain can even come up with a reason to stay.
The office is small and quiet. Just two chairs, a low table, and a single window letting in the fading daylight.
He sits in the chair opposite mine, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, just waiting.
"Tell me why you're here, Child." I should have gotten angry that he called me a child but it was opposite because the sound of his voice did something to me.
It wasn't just low, it was thick, like it came from deep down his throat. Slow and steady, as if he refuses to rush a single word.
There is an easy weight of authority in it, without him even trying. My stomach drops, a sudden, unwanted heat bloomed under my skin, and I hate myself for the reaction.
"My aunt sent me," I say, flattening my voice into a cold, dull tone. "She and my friend think you’re some kind of miracle worker."
"Do you?"
"No." A tiny twitch catches the corner of his mouth... just a small, knowing pull, like he’d already expected that answer.
"Then why come?" I look away this time because I can feel him watching me and it's a different kind of attention than I'm used to.
Marcus watched like he was hunting, cataloging my weaknesses for future use. This is different... like he's waiting for me to choose to speak instead of waiting for me to slip up so he can punish me for it.
That patience feels dangerous in a way I can't articulate.
"Because they wouldn't stop asking," I say finally, my voice steady even though my hands are gripping the edges of the chair. "And I figured it couldn't hurt since I don't believe in any of this anyway."
I can feel his attention settle deeper, like he's stopped listening to the words and started listening to something underneath them, some frequency I'm broadcasting without meaning to.
"Tell me what happened to you," he says, and it's not a question, it's a gentle command, the kind of thing that sounds like an invitation and feels like an order.
My first instinct was to lie. My first instinct has always been to lie, to make things smaller and more manageable, to protect men from the full weight of what I was carrying.
But sitting across from the priest in that quiet room, I found myself telling him everything about Jame.
About the first time six months into the marriage when I told myself it wasn't what it was.
About how it became normal, how his hands became something I learned to brace myself against instead of fight.
I told him about his voice, how he would say things while he was inside me, things that were worse than the pain because they were designed to stick, to make me believe I deserved every bit of it.
I told him about the night I called my aunt from the bathroom floor at two in the morning, my wrist already swelling, knowing that if I stayed one more day something in me would break in a way that couldn't be fixed.
I said all of it in a flat voice, the one I've been using since the divorce, the one that doesn't shake because I trained it not to, the one that separates me from the actual feeling of what I'm describing.
And when I finished, the silence that stretched between us was so complete I can hear the blood moving in my own ears.
He's quiet for a long moment, his expression unchanged, and then his voice comes again, softer this time but somehow harder, like it's speaking directly into the empty space inside me.
"I'll ask you again, daughter. What do you want?" He stared into my soul like he could see what words couldn't say.
And I stared back at him, unashamed.
"I want you to make me forget. Can you?" I clear challenge, I know. But I didn't care.
"Forgetting won't fix what happened," he says carefully after a long pause. "But I can help you stop letting him take up space in your head. I can help you crowd out what he left behind."
My eyes track the absolute stillness of his hands—no fidgeting, no nervous movements.
His white collar stands out sharply against the tan skin of his throat, and right above it, I can see his pulse beating, steady and calm.
I stare at that small movement like it’s the only real thing left in the world.
Every smart thought tells me to stand up, grab my bag, run out into the sunlight, and tell Demi I gave it a shot. Instead, my mouth opens without my permission.
"Same time next week?" He nods once, his gaze locking me to the chair once again. "Same time next week."
When I stand and brush past him to get to the door, the scent of him catches me off guard... clean soap and a sharp, warm heat beneath it that makes my lungs lock up before I can stop it.
I don't look back. I just step out into the hallway and walk.
- Writer
