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persuasivetfs · 17 days ago

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The Prodigal Son Returns

“The future site of Our Lady of Sacred Contentment’s second church. A project funded in part by the Virkov Foundation,” read the sign plastered on the fence that surrounded the closed down Saint Zofia’s Bulgarian Orthodox Church.

Olga Tsanov was conflicted. She was glad to see the male-centered church of her upbringing brought to its knees, even if it was by another male-centered church. When she heard that Father Kiril, the pompous high priest of Saint Zofia’s had even converted to this new Protestant denomination, losing all his priestly status so he could be demoted to the role of a mere usher, Olga had burst into laughter. Yet as happy as she was on the surface, the church’s closure had reopened a fissure in her heart that she once thought closed. She felt it when she saw the icons of the Virgin Mary and Saint Zofia taken down from the comfort of her bedroom window. For at one time in her life, those icons and the saints they represented had been everything to Olga. Foundational even, to the woman she strove to become as an adult: temperate, responsible, compassionate, wise.

So it was a great shock, even to herself, that Olga found herself breaking and entering Saint Zofia’s church in the dead of night. Armed with a pair of bolt cutters, her ex-husband Micheal had left behind in the divorce, she was able to force her way past the surrounding fence and into the back of the church.

Despite every part of her screaming that this was crazy and that there was no point, Olga continued on with her plan, walking through the back office and into the nave.

To her horror much of the renovations had been finished much earlier than she’d expected. The icons as Olga remembered lining the walls had been torn down, and repainted white and beige. The sacred relic, one of the alleged fingers of Saint Zofia herself, too was removed, with only a potted fern left in its place. Even the cupola, the wide dome that had stretched over the congregation, that had depicted Jesus in heaven with the angels and saints was destroyed. Painted white and to her continued surprise somehow flattened despite the lack of long and intensive construction such a job would have required.

It left this church, the site where Olga’s devotion once dwelled into an empty shell, sucked dry of meaning.

At least all the male saints were gone, Olga could be happy with, and even Jesus himself was only depicted by a plain wooden cross rather than the twisted face of pain writhing about like Olga was used to. But without all its art, the church looked like an office building with sandalwood pews and stone altar. What kind of god would be worshipped here?

“Stunning isn’t it?”

A man was standing alone in the darkness, making Olga twist her head around.

“What are you doing here?” Olga asked, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

“Examining the Lord’s fine work in one of His newest sacred places. Same as you,” the man answered, with a thick Italian-American accent, pulling himself away from the wall and walking towards her.

Wearing formal dress shoes and a refined dark suit, the stranger came to stand next to her, his body faintly gleaming under the glow of the moonlight.

“So tell me Olga Tsanov. What are you doing in one of our churches so late at night?” He asked, his eyes casting a fiendish glimmer upon her. She shivered.

“How do you know my name? What are you, a stalker?” Olga asked defensively. The man simply laughed, making her take a hesitant step back.

“The Lord knows all that happens in His churches and all who happens to enter them. And your name and address happened to be on the registry the Orthodox Church left behind,” he explained, his voice shifting from megalomaniacal supervillain to down to earth youth pastor from one line to the next.

It left Olga unsure where she stood with this man. Was he planning on calling the police on her? Or was he just toying with her?

“I was just leaving. I’ve seen what I needed to see,” Olga blustered, walking off. The door to the back office suddenly slammed shut ahead of her. She turned her head back to the priest whose smile filled her with dread.

“Did you really think you could leave that easily?”

“What do you want, priest?” Olga asked, snarkily, trying not to let her fear show. She was used to the old wooden doors of the church slamming shut whenever the wind blew, but this priest was unsettling. She didn’t even hear him breathing and yet there he was, lingering in the shadows as if waiting for her.

“It’s not about what I want, it's about what the Lord can provide you, my child,” the stranger said cryptically, taking a step forward against the polished wooden floor.

“I’m fine, thank you. I was already raised in one penis-centeic religion, I don’t need another,” Olga bristled, turning away from him. She stepped to the altar and wiped her hand along its marble surface. Father Kiril had once struck her on the side of the head for touching it. The act of a woman who didn't yet know her place. Olga gritted her teeth.

Despite her reverence for saints like Zofia or the Virgin, Olga had never fit inside the restrictive environment of her church. For only men and boys were allowed to read the Epistles or hold the communion cloth or serve at the altar. If Olga wanted to serve God, she was told, she should wait until she could become a nun, otherwise her sex had marked her as morally inferior and less “clean” to do the tasks of men in the church. Even female saints like Zofia or the Virgin had to take on the role of a subordinated wife and mother before the power of the penis and this had enraged her.

“But Olga, the word of God is open to all people, men and women. It is only true that we have different roles in the world as decreed by the Lord,” the pastor explained, stepping next to her at the altar.

“Yes, for men are biologically created to be brutish and violent and disgusting and cruel, while women are biologically smarter, kinder, and weaker to men and thus men's perpetual victims. I’ve known enough of that from my pig of an ex-husband,” Olga said bitterly.

“So why did you come here my child? If the ‘penis-centeic religion’ as you called it in your childhood was so distressing?”

“I… I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to serve the Lord. To reach people. To even be a voice for the Wentworth Falls Bulgarian community. It just never felt like I could because of who I was. Because the woman my people wanted me to be, that submissive housewife and mother could never exist,” Olga explained, suddenly feeling more casual and open with this priest about her private thoughts than she had any good sense to.

An oddly satisfying sense of warmth had begun to flow into her, lowering her defences. Her muscles loosened, her shoulders eased. The warmth left her feeling like a ball of wet clay, ready to be remolded.

“While we are all meant to be equal brothers and sisters before the eyes of the Lord, maybe a different path would be beneficial to you. We do need a pastor for this community in line with the Bulgarians,” the pastor said but frankly Olga was finding it difficult to care. The comforting sensations made Olga feel too good to think, too good to protest.

Then as the rivers of comfort flowed in and out of her body, Olga felt from within her a pulsating energy radiating out from her vagina. Her labia throbbed, releasing wave after wave of pleasure, as her clitoris began to enlarge, expanding outward as skin grew in and out over Olga’s lips.

Then with a lurch, Olga felt her vagina close up and disappear and in its place, a penis and a pair of gradually dropping balls.

“This can’t be happening. What are you doing to me?” Olga demanded to know only to quickly become horrified at the deep masculine voice that left her lips.

The priest laughed.

More changes were overcoming her body, twisting and reshaping Olga Tsanov into a form unrecognisable. Her signature long straw blonde hair was shrinking back inside her head, only stopping at the crown of her head before turning a dark brown. Then across her face and forearms, the hair that had disappeared from the top of her head re-emerged, forming a tightly sculpted beard and mustache. As her hair shifted so did the bones in her face, giving her a pointier chin and higher cheekbones, while her crow’s feet and wrinkles wiped away, giving Olga a youthful glow she hadn’t had since her late 20s.

This youthfulness soon extended to the rest of her body, leaving her feeling energized and excited.

Eager to witness what came next, Olga ripped out of her dress shirt to be amazed at the cobblestone abs that were forming. Her breasts, once saggy with fat and age, had in their new youth and new burst of testosterone firmed up with muscle. In fact much of her body, from her triceps to her thighs were packing on muscle. Not enough to make a bodybuilder blush, but enough to gain noticeable attention should she wear a tight-fitting shirt.

“You look wonderful, Olga, absolutely wonderful,” the priest said with a chef’s kiss, before putting his arm around Olga’s shoulders and laughing.

At any other time Olga would have pushed the man away and thought him a pervert, but now his touch had a sense of comradery. Just bros being bros.

“I knew you’d make a wonderful man. I just knew,” the priest positively declared.

“But how is this possible- I-“ the stranger shushed her.

“But first I believe a new name is in order. Let’s try Boris on for size. Introduce yourself,” the stranger commanded with a clap of his hands.

”Hello, I’m Boris Tsanov,” Boris introduced, her voice deep and refined.

It was strange just a moment ago she could have sworn her name was Olga, but that name like much of her past was fading away like a disappearing dream soon to be forgotten.

“Outstanding, Boris. Now, let’s think about your past for a moment. Who is Boris Tsanov?” the priest asked. Boris took a deep breath.

“I’m the head of Women and Gender studies at the Wentworth Falls Community college. I’m 39, divorced, agnostic, and a proud biological woman, or at least I thought I was,” Boris said, confused at how his words were not matching up with his new body.

“No, I don’t think that sounds like you Boris,” the stranger said, shaking his head.

“I think you’re 28, recently graduated from divinity school and ready to spread the true word of God to the masses and trusting me Pastor Agosti as your friend and mentor,” the stranger explained. Except he wasn’t a stranger, was he? He was Nico Agosti, a trusted advisor and confidante, who had guided Boris through years of divine education and study, helping mold him into the proud Christian he was today, eager to save the Bulgarian masses as he himself had been saved. Except, wasn’t he a woman or at the very least used to be married to a man? Wouldn’t that be a sin?

“Pastor Agosti,” Boris nervously addressed. “I trust you and everything you say, but I’m still so confused. I used to venerate Saint Zofia and the Virgin Mary so highly and sought to be like them in every way. How does that make sense if I’m a man?”

“Oh my sweet brother. You weren’t looking to be those saintly women,” Pastor Agosti said, sympathetically, hiding his glee. Boris, unsure, scratched at his temple.

“You were looking to marry a saintly woman: Pious, dependable, temperate, and wise. The perfect wife and mother and you were lucky enough to find her. One of the youngest priests of our congregation but the only one among us bachelors to be married,” Pastor Agosti said, shaking Borris’s shoulder in admiration. Boris Tsanov smiled warmly.

While before when he thought of his spouse, he thought of swarthy and loud-mouthed Micheal, now in his head all he could picture was sweet and homely Miranda. She was everything Boris ever wanted in a woman and he was grateful to have her. At that moment, Miranda was likely asleep across the street, having been saying her bedtime prayers before Boris had left to check on the church. She was so supportive, having dropped everything to take care of the house while Borris continued to work on his divinity degree. He would in return reward her with a lifetime of devotion and many future children who would help spread the Lord’s message as he did.

Still there were a few buzzing questions about his head. How had construction finished so quickly? Why did Boris leave the Orthodox Church for this Protestant denomination? Where did these bolt cutters he held on his person come from?

All these he wished to ask, but Nico waved them all away promising they’d all be answered once Boris was exposed to the “Divinity” as he called it as had all the priests of the church before him. Before they left, Nico was kind enough to make him put on a white dress shirt in just his size, so no one could get any strange ideas of what was going on in there.

Yet while Boris was leaving with more questions than answers he was satisfied knowing he was on the path to lead more people to God just as he had been. There were always more wayward souls that needed saving.

#olsc #male transformation #mental change #christian #jockification #gay transformation #female to male transformation

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allebasimaianunes · 23 days ago

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god (is a) circle ✞ father charlie mayhew & megan duval

one-short ✞ eng. ver. angst & forbidden desire.

it's also on ao3, if u prefer read there :)

i don't fear god, but i fear being rotting myself (inspo playlist)

author's notes: my dear readers, this one-chapter story was born while i was listening to my songs, mixed with a desire to explore possibilities within the characters of grotesquerie - in this case father charlie mayhew & megan duval. with that, i started writing "god is a circle", not only as a tribute to these iconic characters but also to practice my own writing skills, exploring the work of developing dialogues and actions in a story to the fullest. inspired mainly by the song god is a circle, by the singer yves tumor, this story, which has more than 10k words, talks about pasts, fears, beliefs and descriptions.

for those who want to read it, i wish you a great read! constructive criticism and comments are always very welcome <3

words count: 10310 words

✞

"SometimesIt feels like

There's places in my mind that I can't go

There's people in my life I still don't know, yeah

Wander 'round I just feel like a ghost in a well"

(God Is a Circle, Yves Tumor)

✞

The house reeked of death.

Something rotting, embedded in the peeling wooden floorboards, emanating through the cracks in the flaking paint on the walls. Mosquitoes buzzed around the mold that thrived in the damp corners. It was all so dismal—the fragile light of that beautiful Sunday seemed to lose its strength inside the dead house.

Piles of leftovers from the previous night's dinner still cluttered the table—yellowed porcelain plates with streaks of pasty tomato sauce, bits of ground meat now being devoured by flies, dirty napkins folded in disarray, and a melted candle tossed amid the picturesque chaos. A bottle of wine stood in the corner, its cork poorly inserted, while irregular wine stains traced paths across the aged yellow lace tablecloth.

Charlie inhaled the sour, nauseating air, a pang of regret creeping in for agreeing to be there. Yet his empathetic heart and sense of duty overpowered his hesitation when, after last week's morning Mass, the old woman had tapped him on the shoulder, pulled him aside, and shared a sorrowful tale that struck a tender chord in his soul. A modern-day prodigal son story: a young man who left home, returned seeking forgiveness, only to resent his roots, rebel, and abandon everyone again. It was a story of pain, separation, and loss.

Her husband, burdened by resentment, had succumbed to illness. Her grandson, discontent with their simple life, had vanished into the world. And her beloved granddaughter, stripped of her passions, now teetered on the edge of death. Alone, the seemingly sweet woman pleaded with Charlie to bear her burdens, visit her home, and deliver the last rites to her ailing granddaughter, who seemed afflicted by some mysterious illness.

At the time, it hadn’t even crossed the young priest’s mind to ask if the granddaughter had seen a doctor or was receiving professional care. All he had done was sigh deeply, unloading the weight of the world from his shoulders, look into the elderly woman's eyes, lightly grip her shoulder, and promise he would visit soon.

A week had passed, and he had nearly forgotten about the visit until seeing her at the parish again. Her words and his sense of honor pushed the memory to the forefront of his mind. After the service, he offered to take her home, seizing the opportunity to fulfill his promise.

He grabbed his black leather case, which contained everything needed for the last rites: holy oil and water, his Bible, and a set of thin white candles he liked to gift families as a symbol of what he called "faith's endurance." These candles were meant to encourage the family—or the sick individual, if capable—to pray for six days, seeking forgiveness and healing, with the seventh day serving as a moment of peace and relief.

The bag also held a rosary, a small towel, pamphlets with the Hail Mary and the Lord's Prayer on the back, and a box of mint candies he liked to chew when idle.

The ride to her home was quiet, save for the gentle hum of his black Chevrolet Vega’s engine. The old woman murmured what Charlie assumed was a prayer, making the journey down the highway rather... peculiar. The only notable thing she mentioned was that she had to rise early and leave her granddaughter alone to catch a bus to church.

This information filled Charlie with questions and curiosity about her situation. However, he simply nodded, focusing on the road ahead: vast fields, farms, cornfields, and abandoned windmills framed by tall trees along the roadside.

Her house was located off a dirt path branching from the main road. The narrow lane, overgrown with tall grass, led them to an old, medium-sized property that seemed to be an abandoned farm. Behind the two-story wooden house stood a large barn. A massive, twisted tree loomed beside the house, casting a shadowy embrace over it.

Despite the bright sun above, the property seemed to radiate its own darkness.

They walked to the entrance, and through the double doors with transparent screens, Charlie caught a glimpse of the house’s state.

Now, standing in that peculiar room steeped in rancid odors of vinegar, greasy decay, tomato sauce, and sour wine, he couldn't help but notice how clean the old woman herself appeared. From the moment she had first approached him, she exuded the scent of a fresh bath: clean, warm skin, shampoo, and a trace of powdery perfume.

Her cold, wrinkled hand grasped his free hand and gently tugged him toward the staircase ahead.

"Follow me, Father," she urged.

Allowing himself to be led, Charlie's long legs hesitantly climbed the creaking wooden steps beneath his black leather boots. They ascended twelve steps in total before reaching the second floor, which was a rectangular hallway with three doors on either side and one in the middle. Above the staircase was a closed window, and the walls were adorned with striped wallpaper in muted amber.

"The middle room is hers..."

"Aren't you coming with me?" Charlie asked as the woman turned on her heels, preparing to descend. She raised her weary eyes to meet his, a mix of fear and faint irony flickering in her gaze. Smiling faintly, the lines around her lips deepened as she whispered, "This moment belongs to you and Micaella."

Shrugging, she descended the stairs, leaving Charlie startled by her response. He sighed deeply, turning back to face the door where the sick woman lay.

Micaella.

Now there was a name to associate with the ailing figure.

Slowly, he approached the door and instinctively tapped three times. No response. Silence. He knocked again, pressing his ear against the wood to hear beyond it—still nothing.

His hand grasped the heavy, cold wrought iron doorknob, turning it to the left. Through the slight opening, he glimpsed part of the room: floral wallpaper in a burnt pink hue, a beige wooden window closed tightly, and white floral curtains parted, allowing pale yellow sunlight to stream through the frosted glass and cast a faint glow on the floor.

Opening the door fully, Charlie's keen eyes scanned the room, landing on the canopy bed at its center. Translucent fabric formed a tent around the figure resting within.

To the right of the bed stood a dark wooden nightstand with ornate, baroque-style carved legs. It held a glass water jug, a half-full glass, a mug with a partially melted candle, and a small wooden box in the corner. To the left was a wardrobe, a chair, and another window slightly ajar, through which the enormous tree's branches scratched softly against the glass.

Charlie cleared his throat to draw the woman’s attention, but there was no movement.

With caution, he moved to the isolated chair in the corner, bringing it to the right side of the bed. Through a small gap in the canopy, he caught sight of her. The first thing he noticed was her outstretched arm, pale and thin, her delicate fingers nearly skeletal.

Her white nightgown’s sleeve, adorned with lace and tied with a pink silk ribbon, clung to her forearm. As his gaze climbed upward, he noted the stark pallor of her exposed skin, a deep collarbone, red and purple blotches along her arms, and a trembling hand resting on her chest.

Around her neck hung a string of small pearls, no larger than peas, with a silver crucifix at the end.

Charlie’s eyes finally reached her face. Her parched lips, sunken cheeks, and damp forehead framed by her disheveled hair seemed to belong to a living Pietà. Her wide, distant pupils stared back at him with haunting opacity, framed by dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Micaella?”

Her silence was deafening. He raised his eyebrows at her lack of response, offering a gentle smile before turning toward the tightly shut window. With a firm tug, he managed to open it.

"The fresh air will help cool you down!" He turned toward her, breathing in the air that swept into the room through the window, lightly swaying the curtains around him. Everything was observed by Micaella's gaze, which showed no reaction. Charlie placed his hands on his hips, walking toward her. "Do you mind if I open this a little?" He pointed to the fabric covering her bed. Micaella shook her head after a long pause. Charlie took it as a positive gesture from her, maintaining the good humor that suddenly seemed like a good attempt. He opened the fabric a bit to let the natural light and fresh air bathe Micaella's body better and dispel the chilling sense of suffocation he felt just by looking at her bed.

He took his briefcase off the chair and sat down on it.

"I’m Father Charlie Mayhew. Your grandmother invited me to be…" He looked at her suddenly. Despite her inexpressive face, she stared at him deeply, listening to every word. He cleared his throat, carefully choosing his words. "…to see you, bless you, perhaps talk…"

"I know you."

"Sorry? What did you say, Micaella?" Caught off guard, the woman’s voice sounded like a rasping whisper. Micaella finally moved—life ran through her entire body—as she propped herself up on her elbows, leaning slightly against three pillows supporting her frail frame. She pointed to the glass of water, indicating for Charlie to grab it, which he did with deep perplexity.

The touch of her fingers sent something shivering through his entire body—a chilling wave, a staring abyss, death hovering close. Micaella drank the water with the thirst of someone who hadn’t had a sip in days. Drops trickled down the sides of her mouth, dripping onto her chest and the blanket covering her legs. She handed him back the glass, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, showing a timid smile. Charlie took the glass, placing it back carefully.

"I’ve been to a few of your masses. Some months ago… My grandmother adores you!"

"Oh," the man’s cheeks flushed, suddenly warming his face. "I’m deeply flattered, but we should only adore God, Our Lord!" He clasped his hands, smiling broadly, trying to bring some light humor into the room. Micaella looked him up and down, nodding slightly, her hands now resting in her lap. Then, she asked,

"What brings you here again, Father?"

"I came at your grandmother’s invitation. To talk to you, pray for your condition, bless you…"

"Extreme unction, is that it?"

Charlie stopped smiling, caught off guard by the young woman. He could lie—it was obvious he could open his mouth and weave comforting falsehoods. But imagining himself in her shoes—a young person, facing near-death, bedridden in a stifling room in the middle of nowhere with only his grandmother—his heart would break if a strange priest arrived and plainly said he was there to administer last rites, casting an uncertain vote between recovery and death.

But lying went against his principles, everything he had learned during his years as a seminarian. It clashed with his personal beliefs, which upheld truth as one of the main tools of evangelization. It was hard to remain steadfast when confronted with such a delicate situation… Poor creature of God! Unspoiled purity, battered by the affliction of the flesh.

He reflected while pondering the best response. As he opened his mouth to answer, his lips forming the words, Micaella interrupted him.

"I know it’s extreme unction, Father. There’s no need to avoid the obvious."

Charlie looked at her, startled, surprised by her candor. She continued, her cloudy eyes shifting toward the closed door as if seeing beyond it.

"I heard them last night during dinner… They nearly shouted that I’m lost, without direction, without God in my heart, and that’s why I’ve been cursed. God punished me with this affliction of the flesh, rotting without apparent reason, like an apple fallen from the orchard, left to the ground, at the mercy of fate."

Tears welled up in her eyes, small rivers born of intrinsic pain. "They yelled for me to hear that I’m going to die, that this sin born within me can never be ripped out," she said, placing her hands over her chest, near her heart. "Even though I’ve tried to rip it out myself, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I could ever do… My death was foretold from the moment I was born. My grandmother, as much as she loves me and tries to protect me from the world, knows my existence is as finite as hers. I fear for her because I don’t know if she could bear to bury someone she loves so much again.

"And they kept laughing and dancing and celebrating. Until they barged into my room, dragged me from my bed, and forced me to dance and drink wine to celebrate life. Their lives. And my death. My death, Father Charlie, my death!" Her lips trembled, and even though her eyes poured heavy rivers and her skeletal figure seemed to scream agony, her voice remained eerily calm, a perfect line of sound that pierced Charlie's soul. He sat frozen in his chair, simply listening.

"They want me dead because I am the black sheep of the family, the bad omen, the harbinger of misfortune, the apocalypse, the seven-headed dragon come to torment them. I am evil, death, the Antichrist… to them. So last night, I was forced to dance atop my own coffin and drink sacred blood before I die. Die from this illness that came out of nowhere, consuming me, making me weak, fragile, sensitive, saturating the house with death and everyone with a gloomy humor. Do you feel strange, Charlie? Do you feel strange being here now?"

Overwhelmed by Micaella's angelic face contorted in pain and resentment, her smooth brow furrowed, her tearful eyes glistening with bitterness, and her lips curled into a desolate smile, an invisible hand gripped the core of his soul and pulled him closer to her. He lost reason for a few seconds before swallowing incoherent words and a cry that emerged from his depths. He became strangely aware of his body in a way he never had before. He noticed that the room smelled of honey, incense, and fresh wine, mingled with the sweetened scent of Micaella’s sweat and the aroma of myrrh and argan oil. Her breath was incredibly fresh, her entire body trembled, shivering as her words prickled him entirely.

His head buzzed, spinning in circles of morbid thoughts and the words Micaella had said to him.

Did he feel strange?

"No."

The simple, monosyllabic answer seemed to catch the woman off guard. She leaned back, pulling his soul, now connected to hers, along with her. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to see beyond the cemented wall. He murmured,

"God is watching us now, Father."

"I believe He is," Charlie replied.

"That wasn’t a question, Charlie," her sharp gaze pierced through him. "It’s a statement. God is watching us, always speculating about our lives, but absent enough not to save me. Isn’t that selfish, Charlie?"

"I believe we’re crossing the boundaries of a healthy conversation, Micaella. Look, I came here to bring you inspiration and to bless you for healing," Charlie said, hurriedly opening his suitcase with a click, rummaging through his belongings, and pulling out a small bottle of anointing oil and his Bible.

He felt Micaella’s cold hand envelop his, the soft flesh overlaying his warmth, cold and hot blending together. Startled, he lifted his gaze to realize she had leaned closer to him, her body tilting forward.

"Charlie, I don’t want to talk to the priest. I want to talk to you, Charlie."

"Micaella—"

"Please," she interrupted, her body now pushing further forward, her legs moving out of their tucked position. A desperate plea marked her face. "Please. I beg you! I’m tired of justifying myself to doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, priests… I just need someone to talk to before I die."

Charlie sighed, exhaling a weight that compressed his lungs. If he stripped himself of his role as a priest there, in the middle of nowhere, next to a terminally ill woman, no one would ever know… Well, at least this conversation would stay between them, the floral-patterned walls, and the Omniscient Divine.

And God would not punish him if, for once in his life, he set aside his clerical persona and exposed the side he kept hidden, whether in flawed thoughts or moments of deep silence and darkness in his room. It would be a relief to speak, just as Charlie Mayhew, without the burden of "Father" before his name. It would allow him to share his bottled-up feelings and human fears that, as a pastor, he was never supposed to express to his followers. It would be something Micaella would take to her grave—just as he would. A secret lost six feet under.

God will not judge me for being honest and weak just this once. Sometimes, misery and ignorance are divine blessings.

Nodding in agreement, Charlie gave his answer, leaving the woman relieved. She released his hand, and he felt a strange emptiness as she pulled away, settling back against her pillows. Charlie placed the Bible and the small bottle on the nightstand.

"You haven’t completely given up on anointing me, have you?" she asked.

"Let’s make a deal," Charlie said, pulling his chair closer to the bed until his long legs pressed against its wooden frame. He looked at her seriously. "We’ll talk about whatever you want, without masks or pretense—just me as Charlie and you as Micaella. Then, when we’re done, I’ll give you the last rites, and you’ll be healed."

"Deal. Though I’m certain that nothing in this world can heal me."

"How can you be so sure, Micaella? Your lack of faith intrigues me."

"Because… well… we’ve tried everything. Everything. Even alternative treatments. My grandmother spent a small fortune, almost ruining our family’s inheritance. And nothing worked. As I told you, this is inside me in such a way that only death will be able to remove it. Eradicate it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I must be honest—your prayers won’t heal me either."

"Miracles exist, Micaella," he retorted, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair, raising both eyebrows at the woman, who smiled challengingly.

Charlie saw a vibrant spark ignite within her, and it stirred in him a pleasurable sense of fulfillment. The more he could make her feel comfortable and alive, the better he felt about himself, with a sense of accomplishment.

"I doubt it."

"Then you doubt me."

"What do you mean?" Her curiosity lit up her face, and she sat up fully in bed, all ears for Charlie, who shook his head, holding back a laugh.

"I am a miracle. A living miracle, if you will!" Opening his arms with a pompous smile on his face, his expression lit up, igniting something warm in Micaella’s chest as she watched him, intrigued. Taking her sudden silence as a cue to continue, Charlie said:

"It all begins before I was even born. My dear mother married very young. I believe she was much younger than you… How old are you?"

"Twenty-four. I’ll turn twenty-five in July."

"Exactly! She was much younger than that, around sixteen years old. Then she got pregnant with me—this was twenty-five years ago as well. She was a very young girl living in the middle of nowhere with my father, a rough, ignorant man of little faith. It was a miserable, difficult life. A very complicated pregnancy, almost without medical care, isolated from her family, stuck in an unhappy marriage. Then I came into this world. On a spring night," he said with a nostalgic smile, almost with pride in his birth, "after a very, very long labor. And then I was born. But I was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, suffocating myself." Charlie placed both hands lightly around his neck. "My mother told me I was already purple. She was desperate, lost. The midwife they had called with great difficulty had to act quickly to revive me while my father called an ambulance. Imagine how long it took for help to arrive. So, my mother began to pray. She got down on her knees, even after just giving birth, and prayed. Prayed with all her faith, her soul, and every fiber of her being… And God heard her."

His voice was now a whisper, his gaze dark and serious, captivating Micaella entirely. She barely blinked, completely drawn into the abyss of the priest’s eyes. Charlie smiled.

"He heard her, and when she least expected it, she heard a faint cry from the other room. She knew then that I had survived—that I, her son, her firstborn, had survived. A miracle!"

"Did she make any kind of vow?"

The sudden question snapped Charlie out of his flow of thoughts. He blinked seven times before fully focusing on Micaella’s face, her raised eyebrows emphasizing her curiosity. His voice came out confused:

"What do you mean? A vow?"

"Yes, a promise! Like, in exchange for your life, maybe she never cut her hair again, stopped drinking alcohol… Or maybe even promised you to the seminary, essentially placing you in this position forever?"

"No," he said, shaking his head vehemently. Reaffirming again, "Definitely not."

"Then what made you want to become a priest?"

"Are you trying to steer this conversation away again—"

"No, Charlie, I understood what you meant with this touching story about birth and suffocation. Fine, miracles might exist, but you have no idea of the gravity of my case, and I hope you don’t want to know either. I’m just curious about what led you to the cassock…” Her eyes traveled down his face, taking in every detail of his features: the broad forehead, the scar that creased his skin, the thin, upturned nose, the slightly full lips, the square jawline and chin, the trace of freshly shaved stubble on his upper lip and chin, the smooth neck where his Adam’s apple moved up and down as he spoke, the black shirt collar, the white plastic clerical collar signaling his profession.

From the size of his torso and the way his pants clung to his legs, Micaella deduced that Father Charlie Mayhew was a robust man. His hands were large, with long and slender fingers, trimmed and clean nails. They were soft to the touch, like a warm ball of yarn. He carried a woody incense scent that reminded her of the damp tree bark beside her window, a nearly earthy and comforting smell, mixed with clean clothes, lavender soap, and a freshness coming from his breath that seemed like a sweet mint candy. She lingered, disturbingly observing every detail of him, from the deep dark eyes resembling tilled earth to the way the veins wove across his jugular and the backs of his hands like a map’s lines connecting points, more absorbed by him than by what he had to say, with that husky, soft voice caressing an unknown spot within her. Yet it was pleasant enough for her to feel comfortable.

The man shifted in the chair, furrowing his brow, organizing his thoughts. He wetted his lips as if it would help the words come out better, crossed his legs, clasped his hands on his knee, and finally broke his silence:

“Well… I just felt it was my calling. Something natural to me, a summons that came from the depths of my soul as something I should fulfill. An innate path to follow. God is that path.” The conviction pouring from his voice made his chest swell with pride; he harbored a certain vanity when it came to his designation, his vocation, which he deemed predestined.

Micaella wetted her lips with her tongue, drawing her thin knees up to her chest, causing her nightgown’s hem to ride up slightly, bunching at the edges of her thighs, revealing a hand’s width of smooth, pristine skin with a strange pallor. Her feet were thin, bony, and her toenails were cut close to the line of flesh—details devoured by Charlie’s eyes before he slowly returned to look at her long face, a question forming an interrogation on his lips before she asked:

“If God is the path, then why choose the most winding one?”

“Winding…? What do you mean by that?” Curious about the word choice, the man leaned forward, hands clasped on his lap, an interjection creased between his brows, pulling at the scar on his forehead. She smiled with pride behind her teeth of grayish enamel, as if the color had faded gradually, from the inside out:

“Charlie, priests take vows of chastity. They have a series of rules to follow… Restriction, penance, prayers, and more prayers. The pursuit of chastity and eternal virtues… Doesn’t that tire you? Especially being so young?”

“Hmn.”

It was the first response he managed to formulate from the depths of his throat, pausing to sit upright in the chair, his hands loosening as he relaxed. He scratched his chin with his thumb, analyzing the way the wallpaper was old and peeling at the edges of the doorframe, searching for an honest answer to her question. He returned his gaze to the woman, seated with the bare minimum of life she clung to for continuing that idle conversation. He smiled with pressed lips, sweet memories flashing in his mind like an old film being rewound.

His voice carried a vague and distant tone as his gaze wandered into Micaella’s:

“I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old when I fell in love for the first time. I always judged romantic love because, deep down, I knew that with the vocation I was to pursue in my life, I couldn’t even consider nurturing these kinds of carnal feelings for someone… But it was such an overwhelming passion, something that went beyond myself, spiraling out of control, and I became obsessed with this person. Deeply. I spent twelve months chasing them like a madman, because I had never experienced such feelings, so to me, at that age, losing sight of them meant I would never again have that explosion of good feelings I cultivated for them. Twelve months obsessed, because I only know how to love this way: with all the depth of myself. And it hurt. How it hurt… Spending vacations away, as it was someone from school, having to listen to my classmates sharing summer stories where half had lost their virginity and the other half had tried some hallucinogen at a music festival… And there I was, in the middle of nowhere, like you” — he pointed to her, wetted his lips again, sighed deeply, trying to contain the past within him: “I spent the whole summer on the farm with my parents. On the one hand, it was good because I learned to value moments of loneliness and solitude, to stay centered on my purpose, to pray and be grateful for the daily bread God allowed us to make… To be close to my parents. But it was obvious that the temptation to go to the big city and enjoy myself like most of my classmates and meet that special person again spoke louder. And I believed that staying away from everyone that summer would help… When I returned to school, the feelings were worse. Sharper, heavier, more… Turbulent.” He blinked. The memories that hit his mind danced between scenes of a teenage Charlie smiling at classmates mocking his “overly country style” and moments when he cried hidden in the school bathroom.

He looked to the side where the water jug was still half full, and the glass had a finger of liquid, probably warm. Yet he took it, turning to the side, avoiding the woman’s gaze, taken by shame. Through the veil, with a cold gust of wind that lowered it slightly, Charlie felt as if he were in a confessional. His large hand held the glass of water, drinking it in large gulps, savoring the alkaline taste mixed with Micaella’s saliva on the rim. An indirect kiss.

When he finished, he continued holding the glass between his legs, gripping it as if relieving everything compressing his soul.

“I was mocked by my classmates, all because I walked in a "country bumpkin" way, spoke differently, and wore simple clothes. Some even said I smelled like manure. That crushed me. Every night, I prayed to God to take away the mark of who I was. To stop me from screaming in the night, waking up from nightmares to a bed soaked in urine, and, most of all, to make me stop liking the person I was completely in love with. Until one day, things became truly hellish..”' He took a deep breath, filling his chest with the courage he had lacked to confront those memories years ago. “I was fifteen. I remember that clearly. A skinny boy, a kid from the countryside going to the Winter Ball. My mother had arranged with her sister, who lived in town, for me to have a place to stay the weekend so I wouldn’t have to take the intercity bus late at night to get back home. So there I was, alone, in a suit and tie, filled with anxiety... until I saw him arrive with his date, and I was completely devastated. That intimate feeling of loss over someone I never even had.”

"She must have been really beautiful for you to feel so affected," the woman remarked, looking at him through the veil.

Charlie raised his head, which had been lowered, and his eyes locked on hers—a glassy pair revealing the most intimate corners of his soul. His voice came out soft when he answered, “He. He was the most beautiful being I had ever laid eyes on.' He paused, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Until then.”

Micaella was silent, absorbing the unexpected response, piecing things together. She wanted to make a snide or even derogatory comment about it, but she held back. Charlie was opening up to her in a way no one else ever had, and it would have been foolish to squander such a chance by being an idiot.

The priest summoned a strange courage that arose along with those memories. He stood up and climbed onto the woman’s bed, sitting in front of her, leveling their positions but keeping the hierarchy firmly in his hands. Now face-to-face with her, eye-to-eye, under the veil that fluttered in the fresh breeze pulling gray clouds closer from the horizon, Charlie felt at peace as he unraveled his story.

“I went to cry in the bathroom again, and he came after me again. Concerned, he thought I was upset because I didn’t have a date, which, in part, wasn’t a lie. But what he had no idea about was that the company I longed for was him. His words were always so comforting, like the Biblical Psalms I read seeking solace. His hands were soft and wiped my tears, like the woman who dried Christ’s feet with her hair. His presence was a warm ray of sunshine that made me believe in the goodness of man, in the infinite goodness of God and His Son, our Savior. That night, he was so handsome—an angel! His hair slicked back with gel, a white suit, a serene smile. He was so close to me that I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

He stopped suddenly, a gleam in his eyes making Micaella’s heart skip a beat. A faint smile formed on his lips. “I bit the apple. I devoured it hungrily, and he did the same. Everything became one—my spirit... it felt as if it left my body and was embraced by Him... Oh God, how I loved that moment. Until the door burst open and voices came at us, followed by punches, kicks, and horrible words. A pandemonium. My heart was shattered, as was I. I left there with a serious rib fracture, teeth that needed silver prosthetics at the back of my mouth, and this ugly scar on my forehead, like the wounds of Christ. My stigma for being who I am. For my story.”

"Wow. Charlie, that’s really…” Micaella struggled to find the right words. Instead, she squeezed Charlie’s hand gently, offering warmth and kindness.

The priest smiled tenderly, covering her hand with his, caressing it. “It’s okay. I’ve already paid for my past mistakes. I’m at peace with God... And it doesn’t hurt anymore... Not like it did that day or in the years that followed.”

“You.”' she began uncertainly. She stopped, the words on the tip of her tongue, biting her lower lip. Charlie tilted his head, his gaze encouraging her to continue. Micaella finally let it out. “Do you still have contact with him?”

The curious question could have shattered the tender moment between them, but Charlie knew how to separate things. The mention of his first love apparently didn’t faze him as much anymore. With a simple shake of his head, he gave her the blunt reality: no.

Micaella nodded, trying to imagine who that boy could have been—the one this beautiful man had once loved. She pictured him as someone even more handsome than Charlie. Her mind conjured an image etched from a story she’d seen long ago: David and his soulmate Jonathan. She then replaced that image with Charlie Mayhew himself, with his pompadour, tall and sturdy, his penetrating gaze, and the posture of a warrior of faith standing next to a beautiful man dressed in the fashion of the time: shoulder-length hair, bell-bottom trousers, a vest exposing a defined, tanned torso, and the sweet gaze of someone deeply loved.

Strangely, her mind couldn’t help but paint herself into the image of one of David’s favored wives, the mother of wise King Solomon. Healthy and radiant, she imagined herself with an arm wrapped around her husband, naked, bathed in cinnamon oil and damask rose water, just as David had first seen and been enchanted by her. Could Charlie Mayhew ever be enchanted by her?

“But unfortunately, we don’t control our hearts, and I found myself tempted again.”

That sudden confession yanked her out of her waking daydreams. Her eyes landed back on him ...immediately to the man who shook his head repeatedly, as though denying something, before vigorously rubbing his eyebrows.

"It was a huge mistake."

Micaella looked at Charlie, startled by this new revelation that landed in her lap and shattered into a thousand fragments of doubt. That servant of God was surprising her. Charlie, for his part, smiled sheepishly at his own story, fragments of memories tearing through his brain, shredding soft flesh, exposing the rottenness of his past. A decayed gray mass. Rotten—he had once been rotten. He scratched the corner of his chin with his thumb.

"I was in seminary, young and immature. Reckless in my actions, even with everything that had happened to me since the… unfortunate incident." His teeth clenched, a transparent bitterness marked his expression, revealing a disgust for himself. "I was still learning to deal with myself. With the inner beast that always pursued me, always made me its hostage: the beast of temptation. I was serving God, my only refuge, when suddenly I was temporarily transferred to a convent due to structural issues at the seminary where I lived. There, I met a nun. She was five, maybe seven years older than me… Experienced. Very beautiful—her face reminded me of the angels I saw painted in chapels. At first, everything was very polished, very formal between us. She always seemed very willing to assist with my education, saying that as she was a philosophy and catechism teacher for young people in the community, she could help me with my studies. Enamored by her kindness and beauty, I let myself be carried away by her eloquence… And we began to study at night in my improvised room. Always with the door open, with a set time to retire, and formal goodbyes, of course."

He paused, sighed, his right index finger touching the clerical collar that seemed to strangle his neck, tugging it slightly.

"Until that fateful day when she brought us wine. I had never had wine in my life—not the way she wanted us to drink it. I could have simply refused… I could have said no. But I accepted, with open arms. Foolish, fragile, impressionable…" Charlie stopped, his voice gradually diminishing as his eyes settled on Micaella’s face. His dilated pupils nearly consumed the irises in his sockets. "You remind me of her."

That sentence set Micaella ablaze, a flame coursing through her entire body. She felt as though she were burning alive, her blood flowing through her fragile body, revitalizing the decay she felt within herself. Her pupils dilated, her lips moistened, her thin cheeks flushed. She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling in slow movements, warm sweat beading on her forehead. Small details of life on her fresh flesh were devoured by the priest’s nostalgic eyes.

Charlie swallowed the words that recounted obscenities caused by the wine and the dim light of that night. He swallowed the desire for soft flesh between his teeth, nails digging into warm skin, sweat that glued bodies together, and the entire union between creature and Word that happened that night. His memories were a tangle of bodies merging, where the nun’s face—she who led him astray—did not appear clearly to him. Only fragments formed from broken bone in his hand, like Adam’s rib being removed to create Eve. He hurt himself to create his Eve from within.

A sharp pain struck his right rib. A reaction of the flesh to the sin committed. A permanent reminder that haunted him whenever he was tormented by his lack of chastity.

"What happened afterward?" Micaella whispered, resting her hands on her knees, crushing her thighs together, her fingers pressing against her full lips. Charlie tilted his head almost onto his own shoulder, a distant compassion in his voice.

"The bishop found out about the sister’s frequent visits to my quarters at suspicious hours. He set a trap, caught her leaving my room, and…" He raised his head, serious, the image of the old man emerging from the shadows in his mind, his hostile eyes gripping the woman’s arms. Even so, Charlie couldn’t define the man’s face. In his memories, she was a faceless woman, crying and struggling to break free from the man’s grip. His voice turned acidic, contorting his face into a grimace as he spat the words. "Well, it ended everything. I was given a new chance, transferred, and since then, I’ve focused entirely on penitence and mutual surrender to God."

"And her?"

"There is no her."

The curt response yanked Micaella from the fiery state, plunging her back into that cold, empty condition.

Their perpetual silence was interrupted by soft knocks at the door, which then opened slightly to reveal the elderly woman’s white head peeking through. Smiling timidly, she pushed the door open further, holding a large tray in her trembling hands. Charlie shot a serious look at Micaella before jumping out of his chair to help the elderly lady, who smiled gratefully and announced, "It seems the father will be taking a little longer in conversation with Micaella, and it’s already lunchtime, so I thought it wise to bring you both a freshly prepared meal." She looked at the young woman through her veil, emphasizing her words between her teeth. "You must eat, Micaella. There’s no use feeding the soul if the body is neglected! Isn’t that right, Father?"

“Absolutely, Mrs. Silas.”

The man’s gaze fell on the wine bottle. He looked at the woman suspiciously, and she smiled:

“A little wine won’t hurt anyone! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chores to finish…”

She turned away. Before leaving the room, she paused at the door, hand on the doorknob, casting a sad, weighty look at Micaella, then at Charlie, standing in the middle of the room with the tray in his hands. She smiled wistfully:

“Enjoy! And make yourself at home, Father. You will always be very welcome in our home.”

She left before Charlie could thank her.

"I've never had wine."

Micaella's voice spoke from behind him. Charlie turned to her, his face momentarily confused before softening, trying to recapture the good humor he'd brought with him during the first minutes of their conversation.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, Micaella!"

Charlie served himself warm bread and slightly vinegary but drinkable wine. Micaella watched him warily with her glass, half-filled with the purple alcoholic liquid, observing him drink it eagerly. A desperate thirst seemed to rise from deep within him.

Micaella stood frozen, the glass of wine in her hand. When Charlie finished his long sip, draining half of the wine, his eyes shone with the serenity brought by the drink's taste as he looked at the woman before him. Raising an eyebrow, he asked curiously:

"Aren't you going to drink your wine?"

"I was just wondering… if I drink it, would it be like drinking the blood of Christ?"

"No," Charlie shook his head, a proud smile lighting up his face. This was, by far, one of his favorite topics to debate.

"Then I don’t want to drink this wine!" Micaella stated firmly, extending the glass toward the man before her. The priest responded only with an amused look.

"You wouldn't even drink it if I turned it into His blood?"

The sly question struck something at the center of Micaella's tormented soul. Something awakened within her, a sudden thirst drying her throat. The mere mention of drinking pure, divine blood provoked a spiritual ecstasy in her. Smiling broadly, she nodded affirmatively. Charlie cleared his throat, pulled the tray to the center of the bed, and emptied it of the items atop it to place the two glasses of wine, the wine bottle in the center, and the plate of homemade bread beside them. He knew it wasn't the ideal setting for a divine transmutation, but given the delicate circumstances, performing the ritual seemed like a way to bring the Savior into a home destined to decay.

His voice emerged softly:

"When we talk about transforming wine into blood," he pointed solemnly at the glass, "and bread into flesh, we are not speaking in mere metaphors. This is a reality, something mystical that encapsulates the mysteries of our faith. Indeed, we are consuming Jesus Christ. His body and soul, within our mouths, dissolving on our tongues, with our saliva, becoming one with our flesh. We drink of divinity and chew His infinite forgiveness. We merge our bodies and become one. One body, one spirit. That is the meaning of the Eucharist." He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, holding the piece of bread between his hands. "It is through it that we partake in Jesus Christ, God, everything and everyone. And we become something infinite."

Micaella was enthralled by the priest's words, her chest swelling with grace and passion that burned through her soul, touched by the Word. Charlie had a gift—the way he expressed himself was profoundly captivating for any living being. Listening to him impart his knowledge was an honor.

"Then Jesus Christ took the bread and said: 'Take and eat; this is my body.'" He raised the piece of bread, staring intently at it, murmuring words that were uncertain noises to Micaella's ears. After taking a bite, chewing, and swallowing, he set the bread aside and took Micaella’s glass—still fuller than his—in hand, raising it and proclaiming:

"'Take and drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant, poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins…'" He raised the glass higher above them, murmuring again the uncertain words: "'Do this in remembrance of me!'"

With that, he drank the wine.

Drank the blood of Jesus Christ.

He looked at the woman, offering her the glass.

"Drink the blood of Our Savior, my sister."

Surrounded by a unique atmosphere that embraced them between the wine and the cold wind whistling outside, Micaella took the glass, positioning it exactly where the man’s lips had touched, kissing him once more by drinking from him and Jesus, tasting the sweet, slightly vinegary wine sliding down her throat. She felt her body now merging with the two—both Father Charlie and Jesus Christ—becoming part of something far greater than she could ever imagine belonging to. A drop of wine escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a thin line down to her chin before dripping onto her chest, catching the priest's dark gaze.

In a fervent gesture, Charlie ran his thumb along Micaella's chin, watching the wine stain her skin. Their eyes locked, and though she finished drinking the wine, she was still consuming him. Charlie then took his thumb moistened with the wine that spilled from her lips, pressing it against his own lips, endorsing that divine kiss.

"Let us partake in ourselves, Father,"

Micaella whispered, watching him move away from her.

With slow and heavy steps, his mind lost in reverie, Charlie went to get some air at the open window where the wind made the curtains sway. Micaella lowered her gaze to the Body of Christ bitten by the parish priest, taking its other half, chewing and swallowing it with relish, completing her celestial supper. A feeling of satiety overtook her body, filling the voids in her spirit. Dining with Charlie alone gave her a sense of belonging. Belonging to him. To Him.

Charlie, standing by the window with his hands on his hips, watched the dark clouds heavy with water draw closer above him. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the wind hissed, signaling an approaching storm.

"Damn, I’ll have to wait out the storm."

"Well, at least you're safe," the woman commented, catching Charlie's attention as he looked at her curiously. "With me. With us, here at home." She smiled at him.

The priest returned the smile, nodding in agreement, feeling droplets of water against his body. Outside, a heavy rain began to fall, round drops lashing against the window frame and splashing on him and the floor. With a jerk, he lowered the window pane halfway, stopping the small flood. He crossed the room to close the other window. His steps were meticulously observed by Micaella, whose mind felt light and blank.

When Charlie sat down in the chair once more, grabbing his glass, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle with his teeth, pouring himself a glass—nearly emptying the bottle—and leaving the rest in Micaella's glass, he commented after dropping the cork on the tray:

"Are you feeling well? With the blood in the form of wine?"

"Hmnnn," Micaella picked up her glass, raising it to the light. "It’s really delicious! I didn’t know Jesus could taste this good!"

Charlie laughed. Micaella looked at him with a proud smile for making him laugh so genuinely.

"My God, what a sin!" she commented, covering her mouth. "But I agree. It’s delightful!"

Both drank from their glasses, smiling. A pleasant silence hovered in the room, which now felt to the man as familiar as his own.

"Charlie—"

"Yes?"

"Do you believe in love, reincarnation, and life after death?"

"That's a very specific question. Do you?"

"My beliefs today are yours, Father. Yours."

That word reverberated in Charlie’s mind, like the drops repeatedly tapping against the window sill. A sweet stupor of dominion filled his soul. He liked hearing that. Having someone else’s beliefs in his hands gave him a sense of power and vanity he tried to fight every time he stood before the pulpit. A vain smile escaped as he took another sip of wine before responding:

"Of course I believe. To some degree of credulity... I believe in something."

His eyes were burning embers. His smile was serene. He had full conviction of what he spoke. Micaella wanted more. More of him. She wanted his voice to envelop her, for her soul to be embraced by his ethereal wisdom:

"How would you explain that belief to a layperson, Charlie?"

"Well," he began, scratching his chin with his thumb, searching with his gaze for a point to rest his thoughts. "I’d explain that without love, we’re just empty sacks swirling in the wind. That without belief in resurrection, we don't hold faith in one of the key mysteries between human flesh and soul. And without faith in life after death," his eyes rested on Micaella’s fragile figure, "there’s no justification to keep us aligned with God."

"What do you mean?" she questioned, a sparkle in her eyes fixed on Charlie. "'No justification to keep us aligned with God'?"

"What I mean, Micaella, is that without a creed, we wouldn’t walk the line of human civility. Without a god, we’d just be rationalized animals fighting over a piece of hard, rotten bone. Understand?"

"I understand..." she murmured back, reflective. He could see through those large frightened eyes the moment the gears clicked into place, and everything seemed to smooth out and make sense in her mind.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, through the glass of the window, at the heavy, cloudy sky, the rain falling and pattering against the old wooden house, the scent of the room becoming fresh and alive, mixed with the smell of earth and grass coming from outside. Trying to figure out what time it was, he sighed, turning to the woman.

The silence between them could have been awkward, but for Micaella, it was pleasant enough to prompt a wide, toothy smile toward Charlie, who was surprised to see that her teeth were not even slightly yellowed. Reflexively, he ran his tongue over his own teeth, recalling the countless times his mother would load him into the family’s old truck and endure hours of driving to the big city just to take him to the dentist, investing considerable money in her son's dental care. According to her—and this was a lesson he carried with him to this day—"healthy teeth are the gateway to a long life!"

He shook his head to dispel his mother’s voice, looked affectionately at Micaella, a little smile on his lips provoking curiosity in the woman.

"What is it?" she asked, smiling at him as well. Charlie shrugged, commenting lightly:

"Nothing... I just feel like I’ve talked a lot about myself and heard nothing about you," he spread his arms. "Which is the main reason I’m here!"

"Oh, Father! There’s not much to say about me..." Suddenly, a sense of shame overtook the woman, who shrank, capturing a thick strand of her curly red hair in her finger, slowly twirling it.

With the same gentle eyes, Charlie raised his hand to lift her chin with his index finger and thumb, leveling their eyes, whispering with enthusiasm:

"That’s already a start, my dear! I’m all ears for you now; tell me anything."

"Anything?" she repeated, feeling her cheeks warm under his light touch and his dark eyes fixed on her.

Charlie widened his smile, nodding, repeating:

"Anything, Micaella."

Micaella saw before her eyes the few memories she truly deemed worthy of sharing. A handful of scenes where she was the protagonist of her own story—like those in the books she always read at the public library during her afternoons in the big city. Most of the time, she saw herself in other people’s lives, classmates invited to dances, or moments when she was merely a shadow in her absent father’s life. It wouldn’t be hard to tell the priest about the moments she took the spotlight and lived something interesting.

Charlie withdrew his touch, leaving her with a sense of emptiness against her skin. But she decided to muster courage and let her voice take the shape of the thoughts wanting to escape:

"I’ve been kissed once," she said, glancing sideways at the priest, who raised his eyebrows, a shadow of a smile on his lips, a genuine curiosity on his face. She continued: "But it wasn’t really a kiss! More like a peck. Something so brief that I didn’t even feel it properly... Unfortunately. But it was almost like a glimpse, a taste of Paradise." She smiled, daydreaming about the almost-kiss.

Strangely, her mind now only projected a scenario where she and Charlie were sealing their lips in a kiss. The man cleared his throat in the background, waking her from her daydreams.

"So you think kissing someone is the same as having 'a taste of Paradise'?" He made air quotes, perplexed by her analogy. Micaella nodded vehemently.

"Well, curious," he said, diverting his eyes from the woman.

"Don’t you think so, Father? Isn’t that what happened in your pri—"

"Not exactly, Micaella," he quickly interrupted the woman. "Unfortunately, I didn’t have my moment of ascension to Paradise... Which is sad for me, seeing as I am a servant of God." He chuckled dryly, making fun of himself. Micaella tried to join him, but she didn’t feel the same amusement; in reality, she felt a great desolation emanating from him.

"And I doubt I’ll ever have another chance to live like any normal person, Charlie. The last time I had a worldly experience, I went with a friend of mine—the only one, actually—to this bowling alley, and it was so much fun!" Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "I swear to God, if there’s one thing I yearn for the most, it’s going somewhere that serves greasy food, has loud, upbeat music, and where I can laugh, dance, and throw heavy balls at those wooden things over and over until my arms can’t take it anymore!"

"That sounds wonderful, Micaella!" Placing a generous, warm hand over the woman’s, Charlie smiled warmly, wanting to convey peace to the young woman. Outside, the storm softened as the sun began its descent on the horizon, signaling that evening was approaching. Euphoric and feeling comforted, another memory surfaced in the gaps of her mind, prompting her to speak again, more emphatically:

"I also have a good memory from when I was younger! It was on a sunny day with my father, when we crossed the city to go to the lake. It was such a nice afternoon; I remember the ducks swimming, the other kids playing, while my dad taught me how to swim. It was one of the only times we ever had something like that..." She shrugged, averting her gaze.

Charlie noticed how sensitive she became when mentioning her father, like an open wound she didn’t like to touch. He glanced over his shoulder toward the window, already realizing the veil of night was covering the sky.

"How time has flown... Wow, that was an interesting conversation, my dear!" he remarked, clasping his hands together under Micaella’s attentive eyes. Smiling sweetly, he stood up, placing his hands on his hips and directing a gentle look toward her.

"Before I leave, I would really like to offer you the anointing, young lady. So I can go in peace, knowing I’ve blessed you."

"All right," she confirmed, serene. She seemed to have accepted her fate, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting to be anointed by the man who had shared her most intimate secrets on that unusual Sunday. Charlie sighed, took the small bottle of anointing oil—an ochre-yellow, greasy liquid—from his bag, opened it, and let the pleasant scent of olive mixed with myrrh waft through his nostrils. Sliding the tip of his thumb over the neck of the bottle, he tipped it to moisten his finger with the oil, then moved closer to the woman’s body.

Under the light of the room and the angle he was in, he noticed through the fabric the outline of her nipples, the shape of her breasts, and a faint crease between her legs. He immediately averted his gaze, starting to pray in hopes that God would hear him:

“...that this young woman may find Your light, my Lord! May she be healed of all evil, and may her flesh and spirit be purified so that she can find in life the small pleasures You left for us.”'

He made the sign of the cross on her forehead, sliding his thumb over Micaella's smooth, slightly yellowed skin. He was bent over her. Before he could straighten up, the woman’s hand gripped his wrist firmly, holding him in that same position—nose to nose, eyes to eyes, lips to lips. She took a deep breath, enough for her warm, sweet breath to brush against the man’s face, causing him to furrow his brow in utter confusion at her sudden movement.

She then murmured, pleadingly, “Father… Charlie… Could you grant me one last wish?”

“Yes, of course, Micaella,” he whispered back, smiling tensely. The grip on his wrist tightened, forcing him to use his other arm for support, leaving him almost lying on top of her. Micaella closed her eyes to summon the courage for her final words:

“Could you kiss me?”

The simple but dangerous question struck the man like a spear through his chest. Before him lay this bedridden woman, with anointed oil drying on her forehead, her large eyes filled with desire and fear—for both life and death—and her parted lips longing to be touched one last time. Oh, God, grant me discernment, he pleaded silently, closing his eyes. Once more, a whispered request came:

“Please, Charlie. I just want to be kissed by you.”

Charlie brought his free hand to her face, cradling it like a rotten apple—pale yet with flesh tempting in its forbidden poison. He licked his dry lips, swallowed the bitter emotion, and once again lamented to God: Lord, do not let me fall into temptation; give me a sign.

When he felt her hand slide up his arm, reaching his shoulder and then his neck, his skin bristled at the cold touch of her palm, which cradled his jaw. They were so close their breaths and thoughts were already mingling. Their lips were almost touching, their breaths already merging, when Charlie suddenly diverted the kiss to her forehead. A slow, lingering kiss, savoring the taste of her slightly sweaty skin mixed with the anointing oil. In that tender kiss, there was God and her.

He gently pulled away from her touch, looked at her one last time with a serene smile, grabbed his bag, and turned around. At the door, before closing it, he looked at her once more.

“May God heal you, Micaella.”

He left, shutting the door behind him.

✞

Swallowed by the silence of his own room, immersed in darkness and chaotic thoughts, Charlie Mayhew could only think of the angelic face of Micaella in her foreseen death. With a searing pain in his heart, as if a crown of thorns encircled it, burning in the fever of an overwhelming passion, he knelt beside his bed in tears, pressing his palms together to pray once more—for forgiveness and the salvation of that poor creature’s soul.

Confused by the delirium of this immaculate fever, he felt fear.

“I do not fear God,” he whispered to himself in the empty darkness of his being, “but I do fear rotting away entirely.”

✞

“Father Charlie?” Sister Marie appeared at the door of his office on that normal Monday morning. It had been seven days since he visited young Micaella, and there had been no news—no calls, no letters, not even her grandmother’s presence at weekday masses. He looked at the nun holding a piece of paper in her hand and smiled warmly.

“Yes, Eunice, how can I help you?”

“A telegram for you!” She approached, extending the paper with a printed message. He thanked her, waiting for her to leave before reading what had been sent.

His eyes scanned the note carefully:

"Mr. Mayhew,

Your blessing! This is Mrs. Silas, Micaella’s grandmother. I just wanted to thank you for your visit and the anointing! My little girl witnessed the miracle of life and woke up just a few days ago completely healed! Even the doctor is baffled by her sudden recovery, but I know it was because of you and your faith that healed her! Praise be to you, Father, and praise be to God! If you would like to speak with my granddaughter, I’m leaving our phone number here. You are always welcome in our humble home, Father.

Once again, we will be eternally grateful for your mercy and the miracle you worked! May God continue to guide you, young man. Micaella said it was your words that saved her from imminent death.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Silla.

Phone: x-xxx-xxx-xxxx."

Charlie couldn’t believe it. He read it again aloud, feeling his heart race with a joy he hadn’t realized he could feel. He glanced at the office’s landline phone, read the note once more, and picked up the receiver, dialing the number hastily.

Tum… Tum… Tum…

He was about to hang up when the line clicked after a few seconds, followed by static and then a serene voice that startled him:

“Hello, this is Micaella Silas speaking. Who is this?”

“Micaella…”

“Charlie, is that you?”

Silence. She repeated the question again, confused. Charlie sighed before finally letting the words escape his heart:

“Yes, Micaella, it’s me. Now I understand God’s signs… And I no longer need to fear anything.” His eyes lifted to the image of a crucified Jesus Christ in front of him. “Because now I am certain that you will be the miracle that saves me from my own decay.”

END. (...)

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