Silence
"Your hands are cold," she whispered, "always so cold."
Her words unsettled the priest more than her touch. For a moment, he let his mind stray from her to dwell in the deep wells of consequence.
"Eyes on me," she said, kissing the center of his palm. Without letting him think, she pulled him closer and pressed her lips against his.
He felt it—the heat. The sullen warmth of her lips evoked a vibrant sensation he had spent years trying to suppress. He felt the urge. Her scent overwhelmed him: warm skin, breath, and the quickened rhythm beneath her habit. His chest tightened.
Just this once, Lord, he thought, clenching the cross in his pocket with his free hand. Give me enough strength to feel her love.
When the pain cut deep enough, he let the cross fall.
She moved closer, her hand firm at the back of his neck, her breath heavy against his mouth. His grip found her waist, hesitant only for a moment before tightening. With a suddenness that startled even him, he lifted her and pressed her back against the wooden wall. The impact stole her breath.
She gasped, but he silenced her with his mouth. His strength, wrong for a body as frail as his, held her effortlessly. She noticed. He felt her notice. Cold fingers closed around her thigh, and the chill rippled through her. She shivered but did not pull away. He held her there, suspended between the wall and his breath, her habit gathered high like a confession interrupted.
When the fabric tore instead of yielding, she pulled back, startled. He lowered her at once.
“Careful,” she said, touching the tear. Then she smiled. “It was old anyway.”
“I will get you a new one,” he said.
She kissed him once more and began to remove it herself. “Let me,” he whispered.
"Just this once," he said, removing her robe.
"Just this once," she affirmed.
"Just this once." They were the very same words they had told themselves the first time they met, when they had deliberately let their gazes linger. "Just this once," the words had been uttered when they outstayed the others in the church just to talk.
He couldn’t remember what happened after, only that he was happy, perhaps for the final time.
But he still remembered the banging noises outside the door while she slept beside him, his hand draped over her left breast. The immediate sound jolted her from her slumber. He should have heard it coming. He hadn't.
Before he could react, the door burst open. It was Father Wicks, the elder priest, accompanied by the gardener and two other men the couple did not recognize.
"Sister Miriam!" exclaimed one of the nuns accompanying the elder priest.
Miriam curled into the corner, trying to hide her exposure. One of the nuns grabbed a cloth to cover her, but Father Wicks objected.
"Let the world witness her for who she is," Father Wicks said. "A harlot whore."
Before the younger priest could move, he was deafened by a buzzing sound as a sharp pain erupted at the back of his head. Jeffery, the gardener, had struck the frail priest with a shovel. He lay there helpless as they dragged him and Miriam to the chapel.
Lord, is this damnation for the sin of loving? he thought. I beg you, Lord, for the strength to endure what lies ahead.
The frail priest was forced to kneel in front of Father Wicks while Miriam cowered beside him. Father Wicks grabbed the young priest by his thick hair and spat in his face.
"Father, do you confess that you have sinned?" Father Wicks inquired.
"Yes," he answered.
"You deserve to be punished for your sins, don't you, Father?"
"Yes," the frail priest answered.
"Very well," Father Wicks remarked with terrifying calmness. "You shall be whipped a thousand times. A fitting amount to wash away the sin of lust."
Within minutes, he was kneeling before his Lord with Jeffery preparing the whip. Two men stepped forward to restrain the priest, but Father Wicks stopped them.
"He won't need you to hold him," he remarked. "Would you, Father?"
"No," the frail priest answered.
There was a thunderous crack upon Jeffery's first strike. Despite everything, it hurt, and the priest fell to the ground, but he forced himself back up for the second.
When he fell a second time, Miriam came running toward him. She unashamedly stood in front of Jeffery to shield the priest, but Father Wicks stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her away. She protested, biting Father Wicks' arm. In a fit of rage, he struck her across the face, sending her to the chapel floor.
"I showed you mercy, thinking that naivety and ignorance were your sins," he remarked. "I was mistaken. Hold her still!"
A large man lunged forward, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her against the stone floor, the rough surface chipping her bare back with tiny cuts. She did not struggle; she simply stared at the frail priest.
Father Wicks raised his brow and gave a piercing look to the nuns. The younger ones moved forward, taking over from the brute. One took her shoulder; the other pressed her down onto the low wooden stool reserved for penitents. Miriam’s knees buckled as she was forced to sit. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers curling into themselves.
The frail priest stood where he had been left, bloodied and barely upright. He watched.
Father Wicks reached into the folds of his robe and produced a pair of shears. They were old, with rust freckling the hinges. The metal caught the candlelight unevenly. Miriam’s breath hitched at the sight of them.
“Do not avert your eyes,” Father Wicks said, not to her, but to the priest. “Let this be witnessed. The divine punishment for your carnal sins.”
He stepped behind her. The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Miriam’s shoulders rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths. She did not cry, not yet.
Then... Snip.
A lock of hair fell into her lap, dark against her pale skin. She gasped—not in pain, but in something closer to grief. Another cut. And another.
Finally, Miriam burst into a fit of angry tears. She screamed, "Are you not going to help me? Will you just let them do this to me?"
His silence angered her more. "How can the mouth that showered me with words of love be silent now? Speak up!"
"He will not speak," Father Wicks commented with a sly smirk. "He knows this is God's path to absolution for you both. Don't you, Father?"
The frail priest gasped. After a moment of thought, he answered, "Yes, it is."
Miriam's shoulders dropped and her back hunched as she surrendered to her fate. She began to weep, her voice of grief filling the chapel. The priest knelt before his Lord, each lash making him flinch and bruise. But that did not matter; what hurt most were Miriam's maddening screams for help.
Lord, give me strength, he began to pray, to endure the punishment for the sin I have committed. Give me strength to not succumb to the sin of wrath and the ferality that comes with it. Oh, Lord, give me the strength to have faith in your judgment and not take it upon myself to be judge, jury, or executioner.
Once Jeffery was finished, the priest had lost count of the lashes. He was drowned in a pool of his own blood, and his refusal to succumb to his mortality shocked the entire conclave. Once the spectacle ended, everyone left one by one. One of the older nuns placed a cloth over his frail body.
His vision was blurred, yet he could still see Miriam, now clothed in her torn habit. She stood in the chapel staring at the priest, who was now too wounded to speak. There were bruises on her face and her eyes were moist, but she wasn't crying, at least not out loud. She just stared at him in his puddle of blood, her face a mask of coldness. Before he could muster the strength to call her name, she simply walked away.
Miriam was stripped of her vocation and condemned to isolation. She remained at the church, but no one saw her. Occasionally, she was found wandering the corridors, still dressed in her torn habit.
It took the priest a couple of weeks to recover. Upon his return to health, Father Wicks allowed him to continue his duties. He wanted to speak to Miriam, but whenever he tried, she walked past him. He was about to give up until he overheard the nuns talking.
"She is pregnant. Miriam."
Suddenly, Miriam was the talk of the town.
"It is that damned priest," one said.
"It is Father Wicks," said another.
"It is the devil," a third whispered. "No one knows the extent of the harlot whore's sins."
Months passed. He heard only rumors of her, never seeing her, until he couldn't bear it any longer. He walked to her room; finding it unlocked, he stepped inside.
Miriam was there, sitting in a rocking chair in her torn habit. She was rubbing her stomach; she was almost due.
"Miriam," he called out. She did not respond. "Miriam, I am sorry it took this long to come and see you—"
"No," she cut him short, tears welling in her eyes. "Just go away. Don't make this any harder for me, please. Leave me alone... just this once."
He stood staring at her, the weight of her words wounding him. He turned to leave but stopped midway. "Miriam, is the child—?"
She let out a hollow chuckle. "How does it matter?" She wiped away a tear. "Either way, it is the child of a monster."
Her water broke the next evening. The nuns took charge of the labor; no doctor was called. When the priest heard the news, he rushed to her room and waited outside. Her screams tore at him. He felt as though his windpipe were constricted, his heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs.
Father Wicks was there as well. "The child won't be yours, you know," he remarked. "I have spoken to an orphanage outside the girl's village. I will be sending the child there, and the mother, if that is what it takes. I can't have you burdened, can I?"
The priest nodded, but he had already resolved to leave the church. He would take care of Miriam and the child once they were sent away. He would tend to them openly if she accepted him; if not, he would watch over them from the shadows.
Miriam’s screams stopped. The silence terrified the frail priest until he heard her chant, "Tell me, show him to me. Why isn't he crying?"
There was no second heartbeat. The baby was stillborn.
An hour passed before they let the priest enter. Miriam was in her rocking chair, still in her torn habit, clutching the blanket-wrapped, still body to her chest.
"Miriam, I... I am really sorry," the priest broke into tears, kneeling before her and clasping his hands. "I am so sorry."
Miriam looked away from him, her face void of emotion. Finally, she let out a faint whisper. "You can fix him, can't you?"
"Wha—?" The priest struggled to find words.
"I know. I know what you are," Miriam said. "I always knew. Now tell me, you will fix him, right?"
"It won't be a life, Miriam. He will be condemned to hell on earth for as long as he lives," the priest answered, finally acknowledging the nature he had long withheld.
"That means you can fix him, right?" she asked again.
"You do not understand!" the priest erupted. "He will always have an unquenchable hunger. He would suffer trying to control it, or else... he could turn into a monster."
"No," she proclaimed. "I won't let him. I won't let him be a monster. He will be my son, and I will quench all his hunger."
The frail priest wanted to protest, but she cut his words.
"Please, you could not stand up for me, at least do that for our son," she had tears in her eyes, "Just this once."
The frail priest stood there and, despite his own beliefs, he was resolved to do what Miriam said. And then all of a sudden, his gums bled, and a pair of fangs emerged.
Miriam entrusted her dead son to its father, and he cradled the child in his arms for the first time. He stared at the child for a while before whispering in his ears, "My first born in the century and a half of life I have lived," he brought the baby closer to his mouth, "May this curse be a blessing to you, first to come in the eternity of your life ahead."
He pressed his fangs against the infant's pale throat. The flesh yielded without resistance; there was no pulse to interrupt, no warmth to fade. As he drank, he felt his own body respond: the constant ache in his bones retreated, the tremor in his hands steadied.
But something was wrong. The blood was still, lifeless. It burned like ash in his throat. He had fed on dead blood, and it was taking its toll. He gave the baby back to Miriam, and she looked horrified.
"He is still not moving," she responded with utter shock in her voice, "Why is he not crying?"
Unable to contain the pain, the priest sprung out of the room and wandered aimlessly through the church corridors. All he could hear were Miriam's cries roaring out of her tiny room.
The next morning, the priest found himself curled up inside a barn, and upon waking up he realized that he was almost late to his son's funeral. But when he reached the graveyard, what he witnessed shocked him. Father Wicks was carrying the baby in his arms, displaying it to everyone that had assembled there.
And it was crying. It had worked, albeit a little late.
Father Wicks held the baby in his arms, raising it up in the air for everyone to see. "Today, we have witnessed a miracle," he screamed at the top of his lungs. "The Lord has blessed us with a messiah by resurrecting this dead child."
And that was it; the child became a local celebrity. The very people who once condemned its parents for their sins now revered the child in the hopes of him leading them to the gates of their salvation.
After the day of the funeral, the frail priest hadn't spoken to Miriam. He had seen her roaming around the church with the baby, now wearing something other than her torn habit, but whenever he approached her, she just ignored him and scooted away.
So, he indulged himself in the shadows, looking at his rapidly growing son and former lover, just watching and never interfering. But then, he noticed something—a pattern. Miriam became paler; each day her walks became shorter and shorter as her body grew frail.
"You are getting sick," he told her, "I can hear your vitals slowing down."
"It is nothing," she said. She was struggling to speak and carry the baby simultaneously.
"Let me," the priest said as he offered to take the baby from her hand, but she smacked his hand away.
"No," she snarked as she turned her back to him and started walking away. At that moment, the priest realized the cause of Miriam's symptoms.
"You are feeding him," he claimed, "And that is poisoning you."
Two weeks later, early in the morning, one of the nuns came rushing to his cabin. "Father... Miriam," she said, and nothing more.
He ran toward Miriam's room, and there she was lying on her bed, not moving. The priest could still hear her heartbeat, but it was fading away. She was weakened, and her old habit had her engulfed in its clutches. He looked around, and then questioned the nun.
"Where is the baby?"
"Father Wicks," she answered, "He took the baby away. He is going to baptize him before the sermon today."
It angered the frail priest; he was all set to barge into the chapel and get the baby back—at least that is what he thought he would do. But he heard a faint voice. It was Miriam. She was calling for him.
"Sit beside me," she said.
"But the baby?"
"No, sit beside me," she asserted.
The priest sat beside her and placed his hand upon hers.
"It is cold," she remarked, "Always so cold. Did you ever love me?" she questioned.
"I still do," the priest answered.
“That is a funny joke,” she said, each word tearing its way out. "There's a garden I like, a mile away from here. I want you to bury me there."
The priest did not reply.
"Would you?" she affirmed.
"Yes," he answered. His eyes were now filled with tears.
"Why didn't you save me that day?" she asked. "I know you could have. Then why didn't you?"
The priest couldn't answer, because he couldn't find the words. But then, he decided to tell her what he felt was close to the answer.
"I was afraid," he said, "of what I would become."
But she did not hear it, and he did not hear her heartbeat anymore.
The frail priest lifted her up in his arms and started walking away.
"Father, no," the nun tried to stop him, but he just looked at her and she backed down.
He walked out of Miriam's room and went to the garden. As requested, he buried her there. Miriam Elizabeth Lenore, a mother and a devout servant of the Lord. The priest wrote it upon her grave, vowing to come back with a proper tombstone, but for now, he had something else to do.
The baby.
He walked up to the chapel, resolved to get his son back. There would be protests, he knew it, and he was prepared to face them. But then, as he drew closer to the chapel, something terrified him.
There was no sound!
There was no Father Wicks' sermon, or the conclave's chants. There was nothing apart from a faint, distinctive sound. The baby.
He entered the chapel, only to be repulsed by the scent of blood. It was from not a single source, but multiple. Men, women, and children. Everyone. The white floors of the chapel were now scarlet. It was everywhere: the warm flowing blood, the bits of flesh, and the scattered bodies.
And then at the very place where he was once whipped, he saw Father Wicks, unrecognizable save for his distinctive robe, and upon him was the baby.
It was three months old but looked three years old. It was holding someone's heart in its hands and blood was smeared across its face. It smiled, looking at its father. It dropped the heart and stretched its arms, asking to be held.
And the priest did. He held his son for the first time since its resurrection. He smiled back at it. He walked out of the chapel carrying the baby and went to its mother's grave. He dug it back up and looked at Miriam.
"He is our son," the priest said as the infant cooed.
He lowered the child beside her. The baby laughed softly, reaching for his collar with blood-wet fingers. The priest hesitated only long enough to brush soil from Miriam’s face. Then he began to fill the grave.
The garden was silent again. He stood for a while and then walked away to find a tombstone for the grave.
-The End.