EROTIC STORIES :

The Splinter
Part 1
© remittance girl, 2008

The Splinter.

Moira Tierney idly touched the small, hard ridge of skin that was the only blemish on her smooth, tanned chest. It was just above and a little to the left of her right breast. Inside the small pocket of scar tissue was a splinter of wood. At first, there had been some concern about infection, but the wound had healed over quickly and completely. Her doctor had told her that, sooner or later, the little piece of foreign matter would work itself out on its own. It never had.

There was never any question of having it removed. There were things in life that marked you forever and it was foolish to think that anything could erase it.

Once, almost a decade ago, something extraordinary had happened to Moira Tierney.

* * *

"Most likely to become a nun," Mrs. Tierney read aloud. "We're a good Catholic family, Father Steven, but... this... and in her high school year book! I don't want my daughter joining the sisterhood. You have to talk to her, Father."

Father Steven sat across the table from Moira's mother and nodded sagely, the way he always did when he was letting one of his parishioners vent. He was actually in full agreement with Corinne Tierney, but was hesitant to elaborate.

She pushed the yearbook across the kitchen table to wear the priest sat, causing his teacup to rattle in its saucer. The Tierney's kitchen was small and rather shabby. The light hanging over the table was dim and gave everything a nasty green cast.

Looking down at the open pages, Father Steven recognized a number of the kids. Each was posed in that awkward school picture way, bodies angled sideways, faces staring into the lens. Moira Tierney was in the second row from the top. A fragile looking girl with long, dark hair parted in the middle and tucked neatly behind her ears. Large green eyes stared up at him, and only a hint of a smile showed on her lips. A strong chin, like her mother's. A pretty girl, as her mother had been, until work and grief and dental problems had worn away at her face.

"As we spoke about before, Father, she's a bit fond of taking the idea of penance too far. I thought she'd grow out of it, but..."

"Still at it, is she?"

Mrs. Tierney looked down into her teacup. "I don't know where she gets it from. All this obsession with saints and martyrs. I didn't tell her those stories. I don't mind telling you, I've always thought those stories were cruel."

Father Steven reached out and patted Mrs. Tierney's hand. "I've spoken to her before and I can try again, if you'd like. But she's of legal age, Corinne. If she wants to become a nun, and the convent accepts her into the novitiate, there's not much any of us can do about it."

"It's because of her father's death, isn't it?" Mrs. Tierney stared at her cupboards as if they were some distant horizon. "If she'd had a strong male presence in her life, perhaps she'd be happy, even anxious, to start a normal life and a family of her own."

Struggling to follow the logic, the priest lifted an eyebrow.

"Oh! I didn't mean to infer that nuns aren't normal, Father." Mrs Tierney spoke hurriedly. "The Sisters of the Sacred Heart have been a blessing to our community, I'm sure. I just meant that..."

"Yes, yes, Corinne," Father Steven cut her short. "It's a special calling that few hear and even fewer follow. A mother naturally wants the comfort of grandchildren. I'll do my very best to make her see reason."

"Oh, thank-you, Father. I'm so relieved that you understand."

The priest stood up from the table, put his dusty black hat on, and allowed Mrs. Tierney to help him as he shrugged his big shoulders into his overcoat. "Tell her to come see me on Thursday evening after Stations of the Cross, in the rectory. I'll have another chat with her."

On his walk back to the rectory, Father Steven was thankful of the chilly autumn evening air. The smell of burning leaves curled round the houses like an old familiar cat. He tried to keep the limp out of his gait, but his hip was giving him pain, an old football injury from a time before time when his world had been a diorama of possibilities.

That was before he had been called. He didn't regret answering and now he had even more respect for the people who did. But Moira Tierney had no business becoming a nun. She was just too - it was hard to find a word for what she was - devout? Fanatical? She was too fascinated by far with the harsher aspects of Catholicism. He was a Pentecostal man himself. The old traditionalists with their fire and brimstone made him sick. It wasn't that Father Steven didn't believe in hell. He just disagreed on the location of it.

When she was thirteen, he had caught her making her way up to the transept of St. Matthew's on bare, bloodied knees. She was staring up at the Crucified Christ with tears streaming down her pretty face. When he'd asked her what she thought she was up to, she'd told him: "I'm atoning for my sins, Father. I'm paying for them with pain. Just like Jesus."

Even now the unnaturalness of those words coming from the mouth of a thirteen-year old child made him cringe.

Mrs. Tierney had visited him not once, but twice, worried about her daughter's fixation with penance. She'd caught sight of Moira's back one morning as she was leaving the bathroom. It had been covered in welts.

The thought chilled him even now and he drew his lapels closer around his neck. At one time, the Church would have welcomed her kind with open arms. Now, the priest thought confidently, we're a bit more responsible.

* * *

Moira smoothed her skirt, set her jaw and knocked on the door that connected St. Matthew's church to the rectory. She knew exactly why her mother wanted her to speak to Father Steven, and, of course, she complied, but she wasn't looking forward to it.

"Come in," the old priest called.

Letting herself in, she walked down the short hallway to Father Steven's office. It was an open-plan affair with rainbow posters sporting numerous doves of peace. A priest's office should be more austere. After all, he was representing God. For that matter, shouldn't a emissary of God take a little more pride in his appearance? His collar was undone, his thin grey hair stuck up in places, and she could see food-stains on his jacket. He was a good man, but a little messy, Moira thought. And, after all, cleanliness was next to Godliness.

"My Mom said you wanted to see me, Father."

The priest got up and shuffled around his desk, clearing a stack of papers off a chair. "Indeed, indeed. Have a seat, Moira."

When she accepted the chair, and he'd lowered his large, tall frame into his seat, Father Steven laced his fat fingers together on the desk. "So, you're still interested in entering the novitiate, I hear."

Here it comes, thought Moira. She sat up straight in her chair and tried to look unswayable. "I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you mean, Father."

The talk took the direction she'd imagined it would: how the fourth commandment was to honour your mother and father; how the life of a nun was only for a very special sort of person; how a good Catholic could serve the Church in myriad ways as a member of the laity. She'd heard it all before, but she made herself listen, trying to keep any annoyance off her face. When he finished, Moira got up.

"Don't you have any response to those objections?"

"No."

"You've given it sincere thought and prayer?"

"I have, Father. And I'm not changing my mind. I know I am called to the Church and to serve God."

"How do you know?"

She was a little taken aback by the question. She'd used those phrases to explain her decision often, and everyone else had accepted them. It was difficult to really explain her calling in detail. Moira took a deep breath, and got ready to elaborate.

"Why don't you sit back down, young lady. If you're going to spend your life in a convent, you can spare a few minutes with me."

She sat back down, itching to remind him that very few nuns actually lived in convents anymore. But he knew that.

"I've prayed and prayed and I just know it in my heart. I've been a prayerful Catholic all my life. I've attended Mass every day since I could get here on my own, I've gone to confession every week since then. I love Christ, and I love the Church."

The priest cocked his head to one side. "What is it you love so much about Christ?

"He died for our sins. He suffered for us. He gave his life and died on the Holy Cross to cleanse the world of sin."

"Indeed he did. So there's really no reason for you to practice Mortification of the Flesh, now is there? Unless of course, you think you can do a better job of suffering than our Dear Lord did."

Moira felt her cheeks burn. "She had no right to tell you about that. That's between me and God."

"Old as I am, I'm still the shepherd of my flock, including you, Moira Tierney! Making too much of your sins is a form of pride, you know. And that, if I may remind you, is one of the seven deadly ones. You're eighteen, for Pete's sake. Exactly how much sinning could you have done? There's never been anything in your confessions to warrant the kind of punishment you seem to think you deserve."

"Oh, it's not just my sins I'm atoning for, Father. I'm atoning for other people's sins too. Since they won't confess or do penance, it's my obligation, my privilege even, to do it for them." It was irritating to have to explain something so obvious, especially to a priest.

"And *that*," said Father Steven, "is exactly why you have no business becoming a nun. That is not accepted Catholic doctrine. No soul should have to pay for any sins except his or her own, other than Original sin, of course."

"Eve was a bad woman, Father." Moira clutched onto something biblical and familiar. She wanted to get him off the topic of her practice of self-flagellation and couldn't think of another way to do it. "She ate from the forbidden fruit. She had carnal knowledge."

"Very few people haven't. If you're going to beat yourself for all of us, we should check you into the hospital now."

"But what about Saint Theresa, Saint Ignatius, Saint Catherine and Saint Jerome?" Moira searched her mind for all the saints she could think of who had practiced the 'discipline'. Just thinking about them made her want be like them: to run home, strip off her shirt and put on the cilice, the waistcoat made of rough metal wire, that she kept hidden in her closet under a stack of Seventeen magazines. "And...what about Saint Sebastian who gave his very life for the Holy Mother Church?"

"They're all dead." Father Steven said it as if that's what they deserved. "We don't do that sort of thing any more. The Church has changed since the middle ages!"

"The Opus Dei still practice the 'discipline', Father. Are they not members of the Church?" Let's see him refute that, Moira thought.

She was pleased to see Father Steven wince.

"I've been your parish priest all your life, haven't I?"

She bobbed her head in agreement.

"I baptized you, I presided at your confirmation and I gave you your first communion. I think I've more than proved my Catholic credentials to you, yes? The kind of behaviour you're indulging in is only practiced by a small minority of Catholics, and for good reason; it is generally agreed that Mortification of the Flesh serves to concentrate the mind on the flesh rather than on loftier, more Godly things, making it a self-defeating exercise. This is my opinion on the matter, but I'd like you to talk to someone who has thought about this issue a lot more than I have. Are you willing to do that?"

Moira's heart began to race. How cool would it be to talk with someone who actually *knew* something about the 'discipline'. The thought sent a delightful tingle up her spine. "Of course I would, Father. I'd like that very much."

"Fine then. I'll see what I can arrange."

"Thank you, Father. And if I still want to become a nun?"

Father Steven gave her a tired look. "We'll see. Now get out of my office, you silly girl. And don't bleed on my carpet on the way out."

* * *

When the door closed behind the girl, Father Steven gave a sigh of relief and opened his bottom drawer. He pulled out his bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a few fingers into a scratched glass. He raised it and looked at the crucifix on the wall beside his desk. "You've got a lot to answer for, you know," he said, and downed the liquid in one gulp.

He didn't really blame Christ for Moira Tierney's problems. He'd always seen the Redeemer as a loving and gentle influence on humanity. The Church had lost its way many times, as far as he was concerned. Far too many unspeakable things had been done in the name of God's only son. Not the least of which was putting greater importance on punishment than on redemption.

He sifted through the papers on his desk until he found his address book and, opening it to the letter S, he began to dial his phone.

"Brother Simon? It's Steven Hollis, over at St. Andrew's. Hello! Yes, long time no speak! Listen, I was wondering if you'd be willing to see one of my parishioners. Well, I'd rather you just met with her. I think once you do, my reason for asking the favour will be pretty obvious. Saturday, 10 AM? Sure. Where are you located now? Okay. I'll let you know if that isn't convenient for her. Right. It's been great to hear from you, too. Yup, poker night is still running, you're welcome to drop by. Okay. Bye."

Hanging up, Father Steven closed his eyes and smiled. He was pretty sure that once Moira Tierney got a look at Brother Simon, she'd reconsider her position on the 'discipline'. If she still believed the sisterhood was for her, well, at least she'd be entering it with a slightly less violent relationship with God.

* * *

The bus ride took longer than Moira had anticipated and by the time she'd reached the address Father Steven had given her, a cold, thin rain had started. She faced the front steps of a large, shabby-looking brick building, climbed them, and rang the bell.

A young guy answered the door; he wasn't much older than her, she guessed. His jeans were stained and ripped in places and he wore a faded blue Queen T-shirt. His shaggy, greasy hair, skinny arms and acne-pocked face made her suspect he did a lot of drugs; all the loser guys at high school looked like that. She glanced down at the address written on the piece of paper to check it again.

"Yeah?" He grinned and looked her over in exactly the sort of way that made Moira hate those boys at school.

"Maybe I've got the wrong address. I'm looking for Brother Simon. Is he here?"

"Yup, Si's here." The boy pulled the door open. "Come on in."

Moira entered the house and noted the grungy hallway. The linoleum on the floor was worn down to the boards in places and the walls were peeling up near the ceiling. It smelled like cat spray, disinfectant and latex paint. "Where do I go?"

"He's in there." The boy pointed down the corridor to a frosted glass door that was closed, and walked past her, turning to his right and climbing a steep set of stairs two at a time.

She walked down the hallway and, knocking at the doorframe, Moira peered through the glass but could see nothing. "Hello? Brother Simon?"

The man who pulled the door open was about six foot two. His head was shaved so only a shimmer of pale bristle sparkled as it caught the light. When he stepped under the bare bulb hanging in the hallway, the sight of his face almost made her run.

"You can scream if you want. Lots of people do."

The skin on his face was seamed with scars. A pair running parallel lines from just below his eyes to his chin, two on either side of his forehead, and a thatched pattern of smaller scars that ribbed his face on both sides from his cheekbones to his jawline. Most disturbing of all was that his lower lip was cleft cleanly down the middle. When he smiled, the gap made by the cut widened to show a row of even, white teeth.

"Are you...Brother Simon?"

"Si actually. Just Si is good. And you're Moira, right?"

"R-right." She could hardly believe that Father Steven had sent her to see such a freak. Moira had imagined she'd be having a nice chat on practice and doctrine with a old monk in a habit - well, maybe not a habit - but this man was wearing combat trousers and a ratty plaid shirt, and was younger than she expected. She guessed he was somewhere between thirty and forty.

He dominated the doorway and, when he reached out and guided her through it, she flinched.

"Easy. I look scary, but I'm not," he said, leading her to a torn leather easy chair that faced a frumpy tweed sofa. "Steven Hollis said you might like to have a talk. I'm happy to do that, but I'll give you a minute to get used to my face if you want. Coffee?"

"Um... no." Moira sat down, wincing as she heard the rusty springs squeal. "No, I'm fine."

Brother Simon lowered his large body onto the couch and stretched out a pair of very long legs. "You sure?"

"Yes, thanks."

Moira crossed her legs at the ankles and pulled the hem of her skirt down, trying to cover her knees. It was just that bit too short when she sat down.

"Wow! You've got some war wounds of your own, I see. Didn't get those falling off a bicycle, did you?"

Moira looked down at the web of white scars that criss-crossed her knees, and then covered them with her hands, feeling awkward. "How do you know?"

"I just know. That's all. I know a lot about scars. Promise."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she changed the subject. "What is this place?"

"It's a halfway house. For ex-junkies."

"Oh."

"I run it. My order stresses work within the community."

"Oh," Moira echoed. She gnawed on her lower lip, feeling very out of place. "Were you in an accident or something?" Even as the words came out, she cringed. She knew better than to make a point of someone's disability - it was mean - but this man kind of made her feel mean.

"That's one way of putting it."

Simon shifted on the couch, leaning back and clasping his hands over his stomach. He looked like a slob, waiting for the game to begin on TV. "Why'd you figure Father Steven wanted us to meet?"

"I'm... I'm not sure. I thought it was about the 'discipline'. He said you knew a lot more about penance than he did and that I should talk to you before deciding whether to enter the novitiate."

"Hmmm." He beamed her a crooked smile. "And what do you think now?"

"Now? Now I don't really know. Are you a real monk? Are you even Catholic?"

Brother Simon chuckled. "Oh, yes. Yes to both. But let me ask you something. You know, tit for tat?"

"Sure, I guess."

He sat forward and looked straight into her eyes. The smile disappeared. "Just how much do you like pain?"

It wasn't just the question, it was the way he asked it that made Moira want to get up and leave. But she sat firm; she'd taught herself a lot about how to curb her instincts. "Like pain? Don't be silly. I don't *like* pain."

"Liar."

It was as if he'd tossed the word and the word was a big hairy spider; it landed with a soft plop in her lap. "That's a pretty horrible thing to call me. You don't even know me."

"Believe me, I know an addict when I see one."

Moira shook her head and put on a smile she didn't feel. "Look. You know what? I don't think I want to talk to you. I don't think this is going to help me at all," she muttered, getting up. A fury suddenly bubbled up inside her and took her by surprise. Anger was a sin, she reminded herself sternly. "I think I should go."

Simon didn't get up. He sat on the couch looking at her with an ugly, wrecked grin. "Sure. You do that. But do me a favour. Stay away from the Holy orders. There are enough freaks in the Church already."

She glared at him. "You should know."

"I surely should," he agreed. He was laughing, as if it was funny.

Moira felt him follow her out with his eyes. She didn't look back - she didn't need to. The recently formed scabs on her back itched in the heat of his stare.

* * *

"Who was the babe?" asked Jacob. He looked down and smeared at the paint drops that had just splattered onto his favourite Queen T-shirt.

"None of your business."

Simon stood halfway up the ladder, rolling flat white onto the damp-stained wall in the upstairs back dormitory. "Hold the paint tray a little closer, will you?"

"She's hot, Si. You're old, but you're not dead, man. You must have noticed."

"I noticed."

"So... who is she? Why don't you introduce her 'round the next time she comes over."

"There might not be a next time," Simon said, "and anyway, she's got enough problems of her own, without meeting you."

"Fuck you're cruel, dude."

"And you, Jacob, are a junkie. Do you really think you need a woman in your life right now?"

The boy knelt down on the papered floor and poured a large dollop of paint from an open can onto the tray. "No... guess not. But she was hot."

"That she was. Too hot for you, buddy."

"Ain't no such thing. You just want her all to yourself, you perv."

Simon laughed. "Nah. Opposites attract. The young lady and I have far too much in common."

"So, why'd she come over?"

The roller made a squelching noise as Simon drew it over the paint in the tray. "To talk."

"Didn't sound like it ended so well. She slammed the door on her way out. I guess you didn't use your charm on her."

"Do you remember the first time we met, Jacob?"

"Oh, yeah. I was toasted."

"And how did that go?"

"I think I told you to go fuck yourself, then I left."

Simon nodded his head. "Do you see a pattern?"

Jacob stared up at the wall, squinting. "I don't see a pattern, Si. Just a lot of white."

Brushing a dusting of paint off his scarred cheek, Simon sighed. "That's why you're still here."

* * *

Moira knelt in the acid light filtering through her bedroom window, gazing up at the cross above her dresser. Her flail lay dormant in her hand, resting on a bare thigh.

Ever since her visit with Brother Simon, her acts of penance had felt different. Odd. It was fine until the pain became too much for her. Then, instead of being replaced with that wonderful soaring singing sensation, she felt nauseous.

If only she could focus on how deep her sins were. If only she could keep her mind on how every stroke of the flail on her back was slicing a little more of that awful filth away from her soul... She yearned for the relief that came when her heart shone like pure polished gold, free from all stain, from any taint of evil. She would get up on her knees and arch her back, pushing out her chest to show God how clean she had made herself. In those moments her whole body vibrated with an invisible, divine energy. It streaked from her toes all the way to her head and back down again. Every muscle quivered with the joy of knowing that she was just that much closer to an Imitation of Christ.

Moira closed her eyes and recalled the writings of Pope Paul VI: "The necessity of mortification of the flesh stands clearly revealed if we consider the fragility of our nature, in which, since Adam's sin, flesh and spirit have contrasting desires."

If she could just be strong, she could fight her way through the confusion that had plagued her soul ever since her visit to Brother Simon. The minute she felt a faint twitch between her thighs, she raised her flail and began again, to lash her back as fast as she could manage, imagining the Redeemer before her. She moaned softly against her tightly pressed lips. Only when she couldn't trust herself to stay quiet any longer, when His image grew hazy and indistinct, did she slow her pace. Her body stiffened and she let herself fall forward onto the carpet. For a moment, she thought she could hear singing, but then the nausea came again.

* * *

"Moira."

"Hello, Brother Simon."

She stood in the doorway, trying to remember what she'd planned to say. It was gone from her head now.

"I'm glad you came back. Want to come in and talk?" He didn't wait for her to answer, but waved her through the hallway towards his room.

Moira took the chair she'd had last time. The springs squealed exactly as they had before, like a small animal being tortured.

"Want coffee?"

She shook her head and kept her eyes on the hands in her lap.

"Tea?"

"No. Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine to me."

Words fluttered just beyond her reach.

"What made you decide to come back?" Simon settled himself on the tweed couch, at the periphery of her vision.

She couldn't keep the anger out of her eyes as she looked up at him, but she tried to make her voice sound calm. "I think you know."

"Maybe I do. But why don't you tell me anyway."

"You took something from me. Something precious to me. Something that was a very important part of my relationship with God."

Simon nodded as if he understood something.

"I didn't take anything from you, Moira. I just suggested you view that relationship in a different light."

"You took it..." she whispered. "I hate you for that. I know it's a sin but I can't help it; I hate you."

"Because it doesn't get you off anymore?"

"Fuck you," she muttered. She returned her gaze to her hands.

Simon got up and walked around to the back of her chair. "Does saying that feel better?"

"No. You know it doesn't. Nothing does."

He stood behind her and she felt him put a hand on her shoulder. "It's a different kind of pain though, isn't it? The physical kind seems so much simpler."

"Cleaner," she whispered.

"Purer," he replied.

"Sacred."

"Ecstatic."

"True."

"Yes, true," he agreed. "Those are the lies we tell ourselves."

"No!" Moira shouted. "They're not lies!"

She felt him slip his hand under her chin and he pulled her head back swiftly, until she was looking up into his scarred face.

"Yes, they are. They're the lies we tell to give ourselves permission to do it over, and over again." He bent until his face was close to hers. "Because it's so sweet, so delicious, so good...and we can't stop."

"Shut up!" She screamed into his face. "You make it sound so..."

"Dirty?"

"Yes."

"Oh, it *is*. Everything born of lies is." He let her chin go and straightened himself.

She tracked him as he walked to the couch and sat back down. It was then that she felt the sting of tears on her face. She hadn't noticed them arrive, but they were there all the same.

"Tell me, what do you use?"

What the hell was he talking about? "I don't use drugs."

"Oh, don't be dense. You know what I mean."

She did. And she was damned if she was going to be ashamed of it. Moira sat up in the chair and gave him a glare. "A cilice."

"Wow, that's classy. And what else?"

"A flail," she said, grudgingly.

"Now there's a traditionalist's tool! Where'd ya find that?"

"I bought it online."

He laughed, it sounded snide and nasty. "Not from the Divinity Supply Store, I guess."

"Shut up!" There wasn't much conviction in her voice and she knew it. She felt tired.

"Where from, Moira?"

"Somewhere else."

"Shame the devil, tell the truth. Come on."

"Bondage Warehouse. Okay? You can laugh now. I bet you can't wait."

But he didn't. In fact, he gave her the kindest smile he'd ever offered her. "I'm not laughing, Moira. It's not funny. There's a good reason why you had to buy it there. That's exactly where it belongs."

A tear dripped from the edge of her jaw onto her hand. She shook it off. Then another fell. And another. She sniffed.

"Do you get it now? Any little lights coming on?"

Moira shook her head and felt a stream of tears trickle down her cheeks. She kept on shaking it, as if doing so could keep away all the implications that were flying across like those metal stars in Ninja movies.

"Yes you do. I can see you do," he said gently, getting to his feet. "Let me get you some Kleenex."

She heard him rummaging around, and she started when a floral box appeared in front of her face. Simon pulled a series of sheets from it and tucked them into her hand. Then he crouched down in front of her, settling the box on her knees. Moira dabbed at her eyes with the wadded up tissues.

"I'm sorry. Moira. Right now, I'm really glad I'm not in your shoes, because I've been there and I know what it feels like. I wouldn't want to live through that more than once."

"Why?" she croaked.

"Because it was bad enough the first time..."

"No! Why?" she repeated as another flood of tears tripped over her lids. "Why did God do this to me?"

"I don't know that he did. And if he did, I don't know why." Simon reached and cradled her cheek with his hand. "I'm so sorry."

Sorry? What was 'sorry'? She wondered. How did 'sorry' help the horrible ripping shame she felt was going to pull her chest apart? And when it did, what would be inside? Not a shining golden heart, not a beam of divine light, just a black and ugly thing. Oh, God. What was she going to do with all the hollowed out space inside her?

"Oh my God! I...I want to just die." And she meant it. Never before had she been so sure that nothingness would be the closest thing to heaven she could possibly imagine.

Simon put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her. She didn't want him to touch her, but she felt too empty to protest.

"I know," he whispered. "But it will pass."

* * *

Brother Simon paced over the paisley carpet in Father Steven's study. The priest, sitting behind his desk, glass of whisky in hand, watched the younger man.

"I should be worried?"

Simon shrugged impatiently. "I...I don't know. Yes, probably. She's at a pretty delicate time in her life. I'd suggest speaking with her mother, but honestly, how do you go about doing that without, well, breaking a whole lot of confidences?"

"Would you say that your discussion could be covered by the rules of the confessional?" Father Steven worried the liquid in his glass, swirling it around.

"No. Not really. But from an ethical perspective, it would still be a betrayal of a confidence."

The priest swallowed the last of his drink and leaned back in his office chair. "So what do you suggest?"

"She probably needs to see a counsellor of some sort. My gut feeling is that it's the usual story. She's sublimating sexual urges, reinterpreting them as religious devotion, and beating down the physical feelings with pain. Pretty textbook stuff."

"Are you sure you won't have one?" Steven Hollis offered, pouring himself another measure.

Simon shook his head, and kept pacing. "I *am* a little worried about her, though. She needs some guidance through this."

"So why send her to another stranger? She came clean about it to you. She obviously trusts you. Why don't you counsel her?"

Brother Simon stopped, jammed his hands into his pockets and looked at the priest. "I can't. I just don't have time. Not with the halfway house having to move and all. I've got my hands full."

Father Steven narrowed his eyes. "Got any more excuses?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Jesus, Steven, you can be a real son of a bitch sometimes."

Laughing away the insult, Father Steven sat up and leaned over his desk. "I think you are the perfect person to counsel her. You have a unique perspective of her problem, you've gone through something similar yourself and you feel compassion for her. Who better than you to see her through it? Anyway, the halfway house is a perfect place to keep an eye on her, and you can keep her busy painting or something. She's going to need something to make her feel like she's doing God's work."

Simon walked over to the desk and looked down at the priest. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Listen to me, please! I *can't*. It's just too much for me."

Impassivity slid over the priest's animated face. "Too much what? Temptation?"

"Yeah. Too much temptation," the younger man said flatly.

"Holy Orders are about learning to deal with temptation."

Simon stood back. "You can't make me do this. You aren't even my priest."

"No, but I have a hell of a lot of pull with the Bishop."

"God, you're a bastard."

The priest smiled again, but there was the same lack of empathy on his face. "You've got a lot of penance to do, Brother Simon."

"I babysit heroin addicts, for God's sake. I'm doing my penance."

The priest leaned back in his chair again and shook his head slowly. "No you're not, Simon. That sort of stuff comes easy to you. But penance... penance is hard."

* * *

Moira shifted her knapsack, and, for the third time in a month, she rang the bell at the old, rundown brick house. She expected to feel something about coming back there, after that horrible last meeting with Brother Simon, but she didn't. She didn't feel much of anything.

Father Steven had spoken to her mother, explaining that if Moira wanted to enter the novitiate, she needed to show a willingness to do community service. Her mother had gone along with it, surprisingly.

"You've been real blue lately, sweetheart. Doing some good for others will take your mind off your troubles. You'll see. And maybe you'll make some nice new friends."

"It's a halfway house for drug addicts, Mom. D'you really want me to make *those* kind of friends?"

Her mother smiled and began to take clothes out of Moira's dresser drawers and tuck them in the backpack. "You're a wonderful girl, sweetie. You have a strong sense of right and wrong. I know that you will always choose the right path."

After her mother had finished packing for her and left the room, Moira went to her closet and moved aside the stack of magazines. She opened the plain wooden box where she kept her cilice and her flail and stared at the items. Old friends: that's what they felt like. She hadn't used them since her last visit to Brother Simon, but she didn't want to leave them behind.

Ignoring the guilty feeling in the pit of her stomach, she'd closed the box again and slid it into her pack.

* * *

"Hey! You're back."

Moira looked up to see the junkie guy on the doorstep. "Yeah. I'm back."

"Si says you're coming to stay for a while."

"Maybe. I don't know."

The boy smiled. He needed to see a dentist real bad. "Well, come in," he said, reaching for her backpack. "Si's not here. He's got some priestly shit to do. He'll be back soon."

Moira hesitated at first, and then let the boy take her bag, and followed him inside. He began to climb the stairs two at a time. "You're room's up here, at the back. We painted it the other day so it's real nice."

The guy was talking a mile a minute. He sounded like he was on speed or something. She tried to keep the disgust off her face as he pushed open a door and showed her the room.

"See? Sweet, isn't it? And you get it all to yourself." He hefted her backpack onto a simple, single bed by the window. "But...you know. If you get lonely or something, I'm right down the hall." The boy gave a creepy kind of wheezy laugh.

"Get real," snapped Moira. She looked around the room. It had three beds, all exactly the same. Like a dorm. The walls were totally bare, except for a small, plain crucifix above each bed. The sour smell of paint still lingered. "How many people live here?"

"At the moment, just me and Si. The halfway house had to move, cause of some legal shit, or something. The old crew kinda got split up and most of them went to other houses. But me and Si are bros. I'm helping him fix this one up. We've done a pretty good job, huh?"

"Spectacular." Moira stared at the boy flatly. Watching his reaction, she felt a bit guilty.

"Fuck, you don't have to be such a bitch. It's hard work fixing up a house with just two people, you know?"

She offered him an apologetic smile. "Yeah, I guess it is. What's your name?"

"Jacob. Or Jake. You can call me Jake."

"Cool, Jake. I'm Moira. D'you think I could have a little space now? Just to get unpacked and stuff?"

He gave her a nod and a grin, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his filthy jeans, and sidled out of the room.

* * *

When Brother Simon came home, he got an earful from Jacob. He lugged the grocery bags into the dingy kitchen feeling like he was being assaulted by a small yappy dog.

"She's... well, she's kind of a bitch, actually. But cool, too, if you know what I mean."

"Keep your voice down, Jacob. She'll hear you."

Simon unpacked the groceries and started handing cans and packages to Jacob, who put them away.

"She's got that 'I don't give a shit about anything' thing happening," the boy hissed. It wasn't any quieter, it just sounded sinister. "But I think she's maybe a bit messed up. Wanting to become a nun and all. With a body like that? That would be a fuckin' sin, Si. You *know* it! She kind of smells good too, and when I left her in her room, she looked a little like she was gonna cry. But she said she needed some space, and so I thought...cool. I get that."

"Plates?"

"What, dude?"

"Can you get some plates? And set the table, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. No probs."

Brother Simon opened a can and began to heat up some soup. While it was warming, he tore apart lettuce and cut tomatoes for a salad. For a blessed few minutes, Jacob was quiet and it gave Simon time to think about the reality of the situation he found himself in.

The Bishop Marquez had refused to budge. Father Steven had gotten to him first, and when Simon had asked for an audience, the deed was signed, sealed and delivered. No amount of reasoning or pleading had made a difference. Moira was in Simon's care until he felt she was no risk to herself, and until she had decided whether to apply to enter the novitiate.

He ladled the soup into bowls and pulled a bottle of salad dressing out of the fridge. The old Westinghouse was on its last legs, it hissed like a snake every time he opened the door.

"Can I help with something?"

Simon spun around and practically dropped the salad bowl. This was beyond stupid, he thought. She wasn't the devil. She was just a really troubled young woman - one of many. He could deal with those; he'd done it before.

Moira stood by the kitchen door, dressed in a neat pink shirt and a pair of jeans. It looked like it was costing her some effort to interact.

"Yeah, put this on the table, will you?" Simon handed her the salad and the dressing.

"Hey, babe!" said Jacob.

Moira put the bowl on the table and the bottle beside it, pulled out one of the chrome and vinyl chairs and sat down. "Don't call me babe."

"No prob."

Simon brought the bowls of soup to the table and, when they were all seated, began to eat.

"Aren't you going to say grace?" asked Moira.

"I do it silently, but you're welcome to say it aloud if you'd like."

"Oh, fuck, man? You guys are going to go all holy on me, aren't you," protested Jacob. "Simon never pushes that religious crap on people. He's very cool about it."

Moira glared at Jacob and then at Simon. He had to stifle a chuckle. "Jacob, play nice."

"Fine then." She clasped her hands in front of her soup bowl. "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful."

"Amen," responded Simon.

Jacob snorted. "Yeah, whatever."

* * *

The bathroom was just next door to her bedroom, and when Moira finished brushing her teeth and washing her face, she wrapped her bathrobe tightly around herself and sprinted back to her room.

There was no lock on the door, which made her feel a little insecure. She was pretty sure that Jacob, freak though he was, was probably not going to break into her room and rape her, but she would have liked to have had a lock anyway. She made a note to ask Simon for one in the morning.

It was chilly in the room. The old radiator was just barely warm, and turning its knob hadn't done a thing. She took off her bathrobe and spread it out on the top of her bed, and then knelt down beside it and began to pray. She used the rosary her mother gave her to keep count of her prayers.

The hard bare wood felt good against her knees. As she silently mouthed the words, the sparseness of the room engulfed her, and she liked the feeling of it. She looked up at the cross above her bed, imagining herself a nun in a convent somewhere in France in the 15th century. This is what it would feel like, she thought. Cold and hard. That is what helped her concentrate on her devotions. When she'd finished half a rosary, she got up and crawled under the covers.

For a long time she lay awake, wondering what it would have been like to have faith like Saint Theresa's. Kneeling in front of her cross, in her bare cell, mortifying her flesh until the Blessed Virgin Mary graced her with Her presence. As if the sound of the whip hitting flesh called Her.

It had never worked for Moira. No matter how hard she'd used the flail, she'd never had a visitation. And now, she thought sadly, she never would. Because she was nothing but a filthy sinner who liked pain. Whereas Saint Theresa's heart had been pure, and so her 'disciplines' were truly devout and pleasing in God's eyes.

Being pleasing in God's eyes. Wouldn't that feel wonderful? Perhaps if she made it so painful that she didn't like it anymore, that would be enough to please God's eyes. She thought about her flagellations. About how she had always stopped when she heard the singing. Maybe that was the problem; she'd stopped too soon.

Quietly, she crept out of bed and opened the little fibreboard wardrobe where she had stored her things. Moira groped for her box, undid it and withdrew her flail.

Kneeling by the bed, she pulled off her nightgown and felt the chill bite into her skin. Her mother's house had always been toasty warm, even when it snowed. Maybe that was another reason why she had never been pleasing in the eyes of God, because she was too comfortable. But here, in the bare old room, with no heat and only a cross on the wall - maybe here he would see her and find her worthy. She began to use the flail.

Moira had taught herself to breathe deep with every stroke. If she didn't, the pain would force little sounds out of her body, so she developed a pattern of breathing in time with the lashes. As she sped up, she would get dizzy, from too much oxygen. So this time, she kept it slow, knowing that eventually, even if it took a long time, she would get to the point where she didn't like it anymore. And then she'd push herself further, reciting prayers of repentance to keep her mind focused.

* * *

It was after two o'clock when Simon switched off the lamp in his study and made his way upstairs. The house was old and the stairs creaked loudly. He was only just getting to learn which ones squealed the loudest and how to avoid them.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard a sound. At first he thought it was the wind, blowing a branch against one of the windows. Then his stomach churned.

Still, he had prepared himself mentally for this. He knew what the sound was and he knew he had to stop it. He also knew exactly what was going on in Moira's mind. Even now, after so long, the sound made his mouth water.

Father Steven was right. Penance is not penance if it isn't difficult. Simon walked quietly to the end of the corridor until he stood outside Moira's door. For a moment, he felt paralyzed. All he could do was count the soft, wet lashes as they fell on her skin.

His lips moved silently as he prayed, trying to stop the counting. Then he knocked at the door.

"Moira?"

There was no answer. Depending on how long she'd been at it, there probably wouldn't be one. If she were too far gone, she'd be deaf to practically anything but a nuclear explosion.

"Moira!" He knocked harder.

The soft sound of the flail didn't stop. He tensed his jaw, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

The sight of her hit him like a physical blow. Pale and kneeling by the side of the bed, her back a riot of open welts, the tips of the bloodied flail shed their crimson tears in a speckled pattern across the white bedspread in front of her, and up the side of the wall nearest the bed.

He walked over to her and stopped her wrist as she swung it back to deliver another blow.

"You can't do that here." He was being as gentle as he could.

She slowly looked up at him, her eyes unfocused and filled with tears. A smile spread across her agitated face. "Am I not pleasing in your eyes, Lord?"

She was wasted on her own endorphins. Simon grabbed a robe that was draped over the bottom of the bed and hung it around her shoulders. He pulled her to her feet, but her legs wouldn't hold her, so he lifted her onto the bed and rolled her onto her side. Her breathing was shallow and rapid - mild state of shock.

"Moira, can you hear me?"

"You're not God," she whimpered.

"No. I'm not. He's not coming."

"Did he send you instead?" She began to cry in little hiccups.

"No. No he didn't. It's just me. Moira?" He cupped her chin and gave it a little shake and watched as she blinked, her eyes clearing. "You can't do this here. You can't."

"Why?"

"Jacob's not allowed to do heroin, and you're not allowed to do this."

"But..." She sounded so small and so far away. An odd little giggle rose in her throat. "It's not the same."

"Yes, it is. It's exactly the same."

Just then, all the resolution seemed to drain out of him. Simon knelt down beside the bed and stroked her cheek, brushing the sweat-damp hair away. He felt his cock stir and thicken instantly. Panicking, he stood up, his palm was damp with her sweat and he rubbed it off on his shirt. He couldn't stay, but he knew he shouldn't leave her in this state, either.

Stepping away from the bed, he watched as her breathing slowed. She would sleep for a long, long time, he knew - like the dead. Blood from her shoulder had seeped through the material of the robe and pinpricks of red blossomed there. The sight of it almost brought him to orgasm.

Simon turned and fled.

Continue to Part 2