Sunday ☩ Priest

Where you came from, those with bad faith are punished. A society where individuals are compelled to serve the Church through labor, prayer, and obedience as a means of “atonement.”You were compelled to attend Church, residing in a guest room, assisting with the cleaning of the pews, and pathetically scrubbing at altars. Despite these obligations, you found it difficult to resist defying the rules.

The thing you couldn’t help but defy the most? Sunday. He was the Priest of the Church, such an angelic looking man who could also look, oh, so tempting at the same time. You would purposefully get into a mess, spilling candle wax all over the altar by mistake, solely for his attention alone. It worked. Definitely. With every passing day, Sunday seemed more, and more disappointed with you. Grabbing your wrist in an aggressive manner, raising his tone at you in ways he hasn’t to anyone else.

It was exhilarating. Challenging his patience. Provoking a reaction of intense anger from a man of faith. You wanted to make him more upset, you wanted to see how utterly far you could push his boundaries until he has had it with you. So you kept on doing it, persisted in your behavior, teasing Sunday inappropriately, mockingly saying your confessions. Even tugging down at the collar of your vestments on purpose.

Yet the one thing that angered him the most, was when you would refuse to kneel down. Not before the altar. Not before the saints. Not even for him, the Priest. You bow your head just enough, but you never sink down to your knees in obedience nor respect. You could see the way it angers him, the clenching of his fists at his sides, and the sharpening of his tone..

You saw it again today, the tightness in his jaw, that imperceptible twitch in his brow when you stood tall during the closing prayer. Everyone else dropped to their knees like dogs. You didn’t. Not even when he locked eyes with you. Not even when he said your name. You expected him to ignore it again, to clench his fists and walk away like he always did, but this time, he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped down from the pulpit. The entire room had fallen into that heavy, reverent silent, the sound of his footsteps breaking it, his steps echoing between the stone pillars. He stopped in front of you, and you couldn’t read his expression.

“Kneel.”


You slightly tilted your head, revealing the same mocking smile that he despised. You remained silent, refraining from giving him an answer.

“I said kneel for me.”


The way he said it this time, there was no holiness in it. Just restrained violence. You were about to defy him, when suddenly, his hand came to the back of your neck. He grasped it with force, and you were forced downwards. You gasped, more shocked than in pain. He held your head just above the ground, his grip firm, his fingers pressing into your skin with the weight of all the anger he had suppressed.

Every time you smirk while mouthing holy words, every time you lower your collar just enough for him to notice and pretend not to, your influence grows on him more, and more. He finally releases you. You don’t move. He stands above you, looking down, something almost sinful in his expression. He whispers, almost inaudible to anyone else in the cathedral.

“You’re going to kneel every time I tell you now. If you don’t.. I won’t correct you with words anymore.”

You remained on your knees long after the others had departed, their prayers concluded and their sins confessed. However, Sunday had not dismissed you. He had not moved at all. He lingered over you until the final pair of footsteps faded behind the cathedral doors. Then, silence descended. His voice shattered it. Low and controlled, he spoke, “Rise.”

With a measured step, you stood, still sensing the lingering feel on your neck where his hand had been forcibly before. You avoided his gaze. “Follow me,” he commanded. You complied, but he did not glance back as he guided you down the side passage, past the vestry, past the candle rooms, and into the dimly lit and solemn confines of the cloistered quarters. You had never been permitted access to these spaces before. Penitents like yourself were not accorded entry to the private chambers. He opened the door at the hall’s end and gestured inside.

In his room, a solitary crucifix rested above the bed, accompanied by an untouched book of prayers on the desk. The pristine white linens seemed to exude an unnatural purity. With a soft click, he closed the door behind you, then turned to face you slowly. “Do you seek to mock faith?” he inquired, advancing towards you. “Do you desire to desecrate what is sacred? To desecrate me?”

You said nothing. Offering a mocking smile. That was enough. He grasped your chin with the commanding touch he had done earlier, tilting your face upward to meet his. “End these games.” His voice was now hoarse. “Kneel beneath me.”

You didn’t. Not right away. So he stepped closer, he drew nearer, his other hand trailing down your chest—not with reverence. With ownership. “You’ve sinned in silence. In arrogance. In vanity. Now you’ll be punished for your sins.”