Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross
Dean sat in the small confessional booth and listened as yet another sinner spewed their, please forgive me for my sin story. As he scribbled down the name and sin committed by each person, he would picture the best way to punish them for their atrocity and then told them that God forgave them—what a load of bullshit.
First, there was no God, and even if there was, just saying I’m sorry wasn’t going to cut it. But he wasn’t going to complain because hunting sinners had never been so easy. His favorite prey: the sexual predators—they really got his juices flowing. Turning the tables on them was more rewarding than punishment for any other crime. The only challenge to his confessional hours was the memories of his father that tried to tickle at the perimeter of his mind. He’d consistently pushed them away thus far.
As for today, he wanted this shit to be done because this last sinner was safe. He had no interest in killing someone because they had sworn and swatted at a neighbor’s cat for shitting in their garden.
Suddenly, a loud bang of one of the pew seats slamming closed sounded in the main area of the church, and an instant stabbing pain erupted in his head. The small black notebook tumbled from his hands to the ground as he gripped his temples, trying to stop the inevitable.
“No, no,” he whispered as the flashes began appearing, clouding his vision.
The thrumming of helicopter blades, accompanied by the rapid popping sound of bullets, invaded his brain. Screams of those dying rang so loud in his mind that he physically jerked and smacked into the side of the confessional.
Dust billowed down the street as another building exploded, sending rocks and dirt flying in all directions. Women and children screamed as they ran from the terror that was raining down on them. A smoke so thick it stung his eyes even with his goggles on, they burned and itched, but he knew better than to take them off to rub.
“I’m over here!” He yelled and waved his arms at the fellow members of his unit running down the street toward him. The smoke clogged his throat, making him cough. He pulled his bandanna up from around his neck and over his nose, but it did no good.
“This way!” He waved and yelled over the rumbling explosions too close for comfort. A shrill whistling noise had him looking up to see an RPG coming right at them.
“No! Watch out!” He watched in horror, unable to do anything as the missile landed directly in front of his running unit members.
Boom!
The impact sent him flying backward. He landed hard, smacking the back of his head off the ground. Dazed and unable to see through the thick debris, he rolled onto this stomach. His ears rang, and he tried to shake it off, then remembered his men.
“No, no, no.” He crawled, pulling himself along the ground, arm over arm until he reached the deep depression in the dirt. Perez’s arm was sticking out of the deep crater, and as he reached the lip of the hole, he grabbed his friend and pulled.
Tears streamed down his face as he stared into Perez’s eyes.
“I don’t feel so good.” Perez coughed.
Dean looked down the length of Perez’s body, blood seeping into the sand and painting it a vibrant red.
“I can’t feel my legs. Where are my legs?” Perez said, over and over, becoming more hysterical by the second. He tried to sit up.
“No, don’t look.” Dean tried to block his friend’s view but was not fast enough. Perez gripped the front of his vest, his eyes wide with panic.
“Where are my legs?”
Dean held his head to his chest and rocked his friend until he passed out from the blood loss, and he knew the sound of Perez’s sobbing would be lodged in the recesses of his mind forever.
“Come on!” A hand gripped his arm and helped pull him to his feet. He couldn’t see who it was that had him, as he was dragged away by his savior. He stared over his shoulder at the body of his best friend, his blank eyes staring back.
Dean launched himself for the heavy velvet curtain and tossed it aside. His long strides ate up the ground as he bolted for the door. He ran as he did that day and countless other days—taking lives, saving lives, protecting lives, too many fucking lives.
“Father! Where are you going?” the parishioner from the confessional called out, but he didn’t stop or answer. He couldn’t.
The massive wooden door felt weightless as he pushed it open and gasped when the cool winter air hit his lungs. His racing heart was still hammering as he instinctively kneaded the scarred area of his shoulder, a constant reminder of what he’d seen, of what he’d lived through on that day. He still had no idea how the few of them managed to get away. Or maybe they didn’t really get away—the ghosts and the questions from that day haunted him even now.
Gripping the dog tags dangling around his neck, he rubbed them between his fingers.
“Perez, Scooter, Mel, TK, Ringo, Jimmy,” he softly chanted the names of those he had seen murdered from that mission—a mission that never should’ve happened. They lost more than their lives that day. Most of them lost a part of their soul. One by one, they were picked off like in a fucking video game. It had been the longest mission of his life and the one that changed him forever.
When he’d returned, he was just another lost soul in the sea of all the other soldiers that no longer fit in until The Righteous approached him. They gave him purpose, they showed him that his skills were still useful, and he swore to them and himself that he’d bring justice to all those that deserved it.
“Father O’Sullivan, are you alright?” A hand touched his shoulder as the angelic voice of the woman he’d know anywhere reached his ears.
He opened his eyes, and there she was—Yasmine. She was staring right at him, concern written all over her dainty features. Those mesmerizing, big doe eyes of hers looked adorable behind the slim wireframe glasses she wore from time to time. As usual, her hair was up in a messy bun, and the flowery-scented soap she used filled his senses. If he didn’t believe in God, he would’ve said this woman was an angel dropped from the sky.
“Yasmine, Hi. I’m sorry, I—” Dean stopped, not sure how to answer.
“Having a panic attack? It’s okay. It’s very common. I’d panic too if I had to listen to that lot babble on all day,” she teased.
Her mouth pulled up at one corner, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to grab her and kiss her senseless. It had been increasingly more difficult over the last few months to keep his distance. Shit, he almost kissed her at Mabel’s the other day.
“Yes, that’s probably what it is, but we better not tell them. They all think their woes are world-ending.” He inclined his head toward the small group that had gathered on the walkway, their eagle eyes watching his and Yasmine’s every move. “Before I go back inside, was there a reason you dropped by?”
She held out a plain black tin. “I wanted to say thank you for all your help with the funeral last week. Your concern meant a lot, and you were right. Laying down for a nap did me a ton of good.”
He vividly remembered how much it had helped as the image of her on the bed flashed through his mind, his body instantly growing hot. He gently took the offering and pulled the lid off to find it full of chocolate chip cookies.
“I know that you love them, so… it’s not much, but—” Yasmine stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat, her eyes averting to the snowy ground.
“They’re perfect, thank you. I didn’t expect a gift, but I very much appreciate the delicious offering.” He scooped a couple out of the tin and shoved one in his mouth, making her smile. Her eyes lit up, and he could spend a million years staring into them just like this.
“Great, awesome, fantastic, I’m happy you love them, I ah, I better get back to work. Unfortunately, death is far too common. Have a good day, Father,” she rambled. Her cheeks flamed a beautiful red, and he smiled at her genuine nervousness as she started to leave.
“Dean,” he said.
She spun around and looked at him, her eyes wide.
“P-pardon?” Yasmine stuttered, and Dean almost laughed. She was trying too hard not to seem nervous, and a devilish voice in his head wanted to push her buttons—to see how red she could get, to see what other adorable things she would babble. The fact he had this effect on her pleased him more than he could put into words.
“Call me Dean, and that’s an order. I don’t want to have to tell you again.” He closed the distance and leaned down just enough to whisper in her ear as he passed. “Or you may need to be punished.”
He distinctly heard her sharp intake of breath. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have even slightly nudged that proverbial door, but he couldn’t help it. She simply did something to him he couldn’t explain.