Tempted By My Sister's Boyfriend

Adrian’s POV

Would you agree with me if I walked up to you screaming like a woman in labour while trying to explain that somehow, the absence of sadness breeds joy, but the absence of joy doesn’t equal sadness.

I arrived in Edeville with one suitcase, my Bible, and a letter from the Archbishop; the train station was small and smelled of rain and smoke, but no one spoke to me or walked up to me after I stepped down from the train.

 The people watched from a distance, their faces unreadable, though I wore my cassock on purpose to avoid any identity mistakes, and it seems it was a good idea because with the way I was being looked at, no one would have come to my aid. The driver who picked me up didn’t ask questions, he only nodded when I said my name and took my suitcase.

The road Into town was long and empty, and the fields stretched for miles, gray and lifeless, with just a handful of green scattered around the barren land. The driver said Edeville was quiet, a good place for reflection, but I said nothing, for I didn’t come here for reflection, I came because I was tired of hearing people confess things they had no intention of changing.

In Los Angeles, every day was the same, as someone came into the confessional to talk about cheating, stealing, hurting someone, or watching someone die, and they would say the words, recite the prayers, wait for forgiveness, then go back to their same sinful lives. Some came back the next week with the same sins; I used to believe repetition meant they were trying, but later, I understood they just wanted to feel clean without doing the work.

One night, a man confessed to beating his wife so badly she couldn’t walk; he said he felt guilty, but he also said she deserved it, and when I told him guilt without change was pride, he didn’t like that and threw holy water at me on his way out.

That Sunday, he came from Mass with his wife, who looked like she had gone through hell, and I could see the smug look he gave me while I gave the final blessings, which was when my patience cracked. I was done with this cursed place, so that night I wrote to the Archbishop asking for reassignment, telling him I couldn’t keep listening to the same lies, and ten days later, I got a letter and he sent me here.

The rectory beside the church was cold and old. The floors creaked loudly like they would cave in at any time, and the furniture smelled like mold and harsh soap. I unpacked my clothes and laid my Bible on the desk; there was a medium sized bed, a wooden cross above it, and a window that looked over the graveyard.

 I didn’t pray; I just sat and listened to the silence, the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were being watched.

The next morning, I held Mass for the first time inside the church that was the size of the Maria Shrine back at the Los Angeles parish. About twenty five people showed up, and they all stared as if I was a statue, but they bowed their heads when I spoke and followed my every word.

When the service ended, no one left immediately, they stood around, whispering to each other, and a woman handed me a basket of bread and said, “We’re blessed to have you, Father.” Her hands were rough, dry and she had a stiff smile, and her eyes were filled with fear and awe. Crazy.

Over the next few days, I kept to a routine of Morning Mass, Confession in the afternoon, and reading in the evening, with no television and no noise, yet the people treated me like I was something sacred. I hated it. I wasn’t sacred. I was just tired.

The confessions here were different from the city, for they weren’t about money or lust, they were about fear. They believed sin lived in everything, and though I told them sin was in choice, they refused to believe me, preferring fear to freedom, which gave them a structure that ensured they didn’t stray.

 I recognized that structure because I lived by the same kind of structure once, trained into me by the military—obedience before thought, order before self—and my adoptive father, Colonel Montenegro, said control was survival, which I still believed even if I resented him for it.

He died three years ago In an explosion that never made sense, and the report said it was an accident, but I didn’t believe that because nothing about his life was accidental, and when he died, I stopped believing God interfered in anything. Maybe that’s why I became a priest, because I wanted to believe something again, but I just didn’t know what.

On my fifth night in Edeville, someone knocked on the rectory door late, close to midnight, and when I opened it, I found three villagers standing there, two men and an older woman holding a rosary.

“Father,” one of the men said, “we need you. There’s a woman possessed by a demon.”

I almost closed the door, knowing possession claims were common, but the way the woman’s hands shook stopped me.

“Where?” I asked.

“At the Vance house. Her name is Lila. She’s been screaming for hours. Apparently, her husband ran off months ago, and now she’s lost her mind.”

I grabbed my coat and followed them to a small house at the edge of town. The door was open, and inside, the smell of smoke and herbs filled the air.

A woman sat on the floor, her hair tangled, her skin bruised with ropes tying her hands and bruises all over her face; she wasn’t screaming, she was breathing rather heavily, whispering something I couldn’t hear, and when she looked up, her eyes were clear, not wild. She didn’t look possessed.

 She looked tired.

The men behind me crossed themselves. “See, Father? She’s cursed.”

I stepped closer. “Who hurt you?” I asked her.

The woman looked away. “They did,” she replied quietly.

“She’s not possessed,” I told them, but they protested. They saw I was not ready to listen to them so one stepped forward attempting to grab the woman but I held his hand down.

“Touch her, and I will break it,” I said with a serious expression. He gulped and let go looking at me in fear and glancing at the woman with disgust.

“If truly she is possessed,” I said, “I will be the one to personally cure her. Tell her family she will stay in the church.”

They looked like they were about to protest against my decision but I raised a hand shutting them up.

“Be careful, demons like her sink their fangs when you least expect it,” The old woman said before walking away.

When they were gone, I helped her to her feet, but she was light, too light, and she flinched when I touched her arm, making me look down to see her wrists had bruises in the shape of hands.

“You can stay in the rectory,” I said. “It’s safer there.”

She hesitated, but nodded, and I gave her my coat and led her back. The air was cold, and she didn’t speak the whole walk. When we reached the church, she looked at the cross above the door and whispered, “You think that thing protects you?”

“No,” I said. “It’s just wood.”

She didn’t answer; she went inside and sat by the fire, and I watched her for a moment, then turned away. I told myself it was charity, though it felt like something else, and I didn’t want to fall into the foolish narrative that she was a witch, but the feeling was unexpected.

That night, I couldn’t sleep as she laid on the bed while I took the couch. Her breathing was soft, but It echoed through the rectory, filling my mind with her image: soft brown eyes, curly midnight hair, and pouty lips that looked like she was about to cry at any minute.

 I stared at the ceiling and thought about every confession I’d ever heard, every sinner who begged for forgiveness but never changed. Maybe that was me now — confessing without meaning it, pretending belief when all I wanted was silence.

I closed my eyes and told myself that in the morning, I’d call the diocese to explain the situation, but deep down, I knew I wouldn’t; I wanted her there, though I didn’t know why.

I turned again to look at her sleeping figure. She was curled on her side, and the flimsy dress I’d left her in was twisted around her. I saw it immediately: two small, dark points pressing aggressively against the cotton. Her nipples—hardened by the cold or her nightmares—were clearly visible.

I swore under my breath, my mind completely abandoning all thoughts of her distressed state. Damn, those nipples were definitely hard and poking out.