The next day came a boy, sixteen, confident. Father Rodge shivered at the expression as he came to the confessional.
“I raped him,” the boy confessed, his confidence falling off of him like a borrowed coat. “I ripped his clothes off, pressed him against the wall, fucked him until he bled. He begged me to stop, he did, pleading and crying. It just made me want to hurt him, my best friend, more.”
Father Rodge didn’t want to hear it. But he had to.
“He was so wonderful – so tight, so sexy when he screamt…” He laughed bitterly. Behind the protective screen, Father Rodge covered his ears and silently wept at the cruelty of mankind.
The day after, a bruised, aching boy confessed his sin of seducing his best friend. He blamed himself for the sins of another, and the seal of the confessional seemed more and more of a curse to the tortured priest.
Then, one day, she came. The one out of a thousand he could help. The one who wasn’t beyond saving.