Father Vaughn
They called me a monster once. But monsters don't kill without purpose. I never did.
Every cut, every gasp, every final prayer whispered in the dark, it was all sacrament. I saved them and their filthy souls, did I purge. Their blood was my offering and their silence afterward was the truest form of worship.
I remember their eyes most of all. The fear, yes but also the release. They understood in the moment what I had always known: only pain makes you honest. Only pain strips you clean. I gave them honesty. I gave them truth.
And now....her.
She doesn't belong in their company. No, she is untouched, the blank canvas I have always prayed for. She is untouched, unspoiled, my perfect picture of grace. When I watch her, I felt the same hunger I felt which guided my hands years ago, but it is different now. I think of the way I held them down, slitting their throats like a chicken but her, I want to watch her bleed for me while carrying the blood of others like my perfect canvas. The others were practice. Steps in a ritual that led me here. She is not another offering but an altar itself. And I will kneel at her feet in worship till she understands that.
My palms were slick on the paper sign-up sheets. The lecture hall smelled of chalk and cheap perfume; sunlight slanted through the blinds and made the row of names glare. I ran my finger down the list like a searchlight: Adebayo, Addams, Akinola, Anderson, my heart thudded with a small, stupid hope that seeing her name might give some semblance of meaning to my day.
It wasn't there.
For a breathless second I convinced myself that I was looking in the wrong column. I checked my emails on my phone and laptop. Nothing was there that carried her name. The students entered for their class each of them turning in their signed assignments at least those who haven't submitted theirs and honestly, I waited for hers. She stepped in moments later avoiding my gaze and hurried her steps to her seat. I smirked, my little moth wanted to be punished after all. I had imagined possible scenarios why she refused to turn in her work. Could it be she needed a push?
I waited until the others had shuffled out, the rhythmic footsteps fading down the hallway, before I spoke her name. She turned, her notebook pressed against her chest acting like a shield.
I hated that book for acting as a barrier in some way even though it was the subject I taught.
The gentle bright morning sun made her face look soft, angelic and defiant all at once. "You didn't bring what I asked for," I said. Calm. Even. The way I always speak when the weight of truth is about to fall. Her brow furrowed, confusion tugging at her mouth. "I...I submitted in online. The portal...."
"No" I cut across her excuses with a smile that felt craved into my face. "I didn't ask for pixels. I asked for your guardian's signature signed on your essay. Something real...something binding"
She swallowed, her eyes darting away and the old, familiar warmth stirred in me, the same heat that had risen when I knelt over sinners whispering absolution. Fear and hesitation always came before confession. Before surrender. "Could it be that you want to fail? Should I ask your guardian to withdraw you? Mark, right?" I stepped closer, slow, and deliberate until her back brushed the edge of the desk, evident panic on her face other than that, she remained still. I know a troubled fawn when I see one but the tactics she may have used to tame the beast won't be the same that would actually tame me. After all her fear tastes sweet when wielded in a better form.
Her lips parted, softer this time, as if to soothe me "Don't fail me again. I'll let it slide for now. Bring what belongs to me."
As I expected she turned in her essay with a signature that looked exactly like Mark's own. Her features looked like a rabbit caught at headlamp, so shaken and terrified. I knew it wasn't Mark's signature, she had forged it and it was only a matter of time for the good little girl to come confessing her sins. "Thank you Sylvie." I said, saying her name like a gentle caress that made her eyes widened and her body visibly shudder.
Her paper lay on my desk, neat handwriting across the pages, every line pressed with effort. She had tried so hard. And in truth, it was better than the drivel her classmates turned in. Hers was thoughtful, precise and alive. Everything I wanted and asked for. But I could not reward her...yet.
Perfection was dangerous. If she soared too easily, she would never need me and we can't have that, can we? She would drift into a world. Untouched and unshaped by my hand. I traced her name at the top of the page with my finger, savouring it as though a secret prayer. How beautiful it looked against the white margin, hers. Mine.
I circled a line, then another, inventing flaws where there were none. "Weak argument," I wrote in red. "Unclear evidence."Lies, all of them but necessary lies. Each mark bled across the page like a wound only I could choose. By the time I finished, her essay was a battlefield of corrections, though ones that were truly needed. I scrawled a low grade at the top, cruel to anyone else. I looked at her from the desk where I sat; wanting to break that shell she carried. That air of invisibility she wielded so well. "Miss Sylvie Harris meet me after today's class."
When I returned the papers, I watched as her eyes widened while scanning her grades. The emotions one could feel at once marvelled me. First was the pang of disappointment then surrender. And then, what I longed for, doubt and defiance.
"You clearly have potential but you need guidance. Stay after class everyday for the extra lesson." I say gently like a sweet caress. "Is there another way, father?" She asked hesitantly."No. My grace is insufficient for you." She nodded, hesitant, her pride crumbling under the weight of my red ink and stare. I smiled folding my hand as though in prayer.
This was how it began. Not with praise, but with need. Not with freedom, but with tethering. She'll need time to yield to me thinking it was her choice but in actual truth it had always been mine.