“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen”

A rumble of voices answered me from the congregation, and I raised my head, looking out at them all, watching them look at me, all of them with looks on their faces running the gamut of emotions, from bored, to rapt, to tired. They knew the moment as well as I did, and finally I released them all, waving my hand, speaking a cheery “alright, off you go, then”.

The rumble of voices sounded again as they stood, and I watched them leave, one by one, couple by couple, family by family. Some of them stayed where they were, intent on waiting to have a natter with a friend, or to try and get some quiet time for personal prayer and reflection- or they wanted to stay around to confess, and were waiting for the opportune moment. It was the same every time, of course, and if there was one thing I could count on the people of the town for, it was their constancy.

I was used to it, though, not just because I’d been the priest at St Jude’s for five years now, but because I’d grown up in the town- heck, I’d gone to this very church when I was young, and growing up. I’d spent a lot of time inside the four walls, attending sermons, talking to the priests who’d been there, gazing up in awe at the stained glass in the windows. It had been my home away from home in many ways, and helped me to grow up, helped me to become the man I’d eventually become. Not many people had understood my need for religion, my intense piety and faith; nobody had known the reasons behind it, the need for an escape from a father who drank and a mother who whored; the need to escape from everything, to find a place for the peace and harmony and love I couldn’t find anywhere else.

Nobody knew, but her. She’d always been there for me, all along; she’d sort of had to be, in a way, as we’d been neighbours. I was five when she moved in with her family- she was a little younger, but only by a couple of months. At first, my family was kind to hers- we were normal, or as normal as we could be- but then they showed their true colours, and her parents kept her away. Sure, we still met at school, and spent most of our spare time in places where nobody could keep us apart, but at home, she wasn’t allowed to talk to me, nor I to her. As we grew up, we became even closer; as we grew into our teens, in seemed almost natural that we’d become a couple. People would comment on what a cute couple we made, friends would keep dropping hints, and in all honesty, I did become attracted to her. How could I not, when she was beautiful? But though I grew to love her, I was always afraid of confessing it, always wary of telling her how I felt, in case the feeling wasn’t mutual, and she ended up hating me for it. I couldn’t ruin the friendship, couldn’t destroy the only good thing I had going for me, couldn’t bear to lose her when she’d been there for me.

So when I grew old enough to make my own decisions, I decided I was going to leave the town, and train as a priest. I asked her if I should go, I gave her a chance to stop me, to keep me with her, to tell me if she wanted me to stay with her. She looked away from me, not meeting my eyes, as though she was disgusted at the thought. Quietly, she told me I should go, that I should leave, and never come back.

So I went. That much I could do. But never come back? That bit I didn’t pay attention to.

Somewhere along the line, in the years between the then, and the now, I practically became a walking, talking cliché; an Irish priest. I’d grown, though, matured in my years in the clergy, going from the awkward boy I had been to the man I’d become. I’d been a chubby teenager- not fat, just about half a size too big for my body, all long limbs and big hands and a body that barely fit into clothes. I’d slimmed over the years, of course, and now my body fit my height, my long limbs, my large hands that had become more slender- pianist’s fingers, my father would have called them, if he’d been sober enough to realise I only had five per hand and not twenty.

My hair darkened, from orange, to amber, from bright red to auburn, from ginger to chestnut. I was strangely proud of it, as though I’d had a hand in it, though I knew it was His work, and not mine. Even my eyes grew darker, going from a bright robin’s egg blue, to a more sedate colour, a harder, deeper shade of aquamarine. Still bright, but less so. My voice became a little rougher, even as my accent became softer. Still there, of course, but less so. It was a gentler voice for a gentler man.

Slowly but surely, over the years, Eoin Brosnahin the boy became Father Brosnahin, the man.

When I became a full-fledged member of the priesthood, I was given a choice of parishes to go to- and by luck, fortune, and God’s will, St Jude’s was one of them. Naturally, I leapt at the chance to return my old hometown, to return to the place that had ignited my faith.

Things were, for the longest time, wonderful; people accepted me back with open arms and open hearts, and even my family seemed to accept my choice of ‘career’. But then, after a while, tragedy crept into my life. Each one by themselves was bad enough- the death of my father from liver failure, the car accident that left my sister unable to use her legs, the stroke that left a beloved uncle having to relearn even the most basic skills. All of them rocked my belief a little- after all, how could God let these happen to me, one of his most faithful and steadfast believers? In time, these thoughts wormed their way into my mind, and slowly but surely, little by little, bit by bit, I began to lose my faith.

Eventually, it got to the point where I was on the cusp of giving up entirely, of leaving the priesthood and entering a life of normality, replete with sin, a lack of anything religious, and excitement. I began to sin myself, to give in to lust, envy, greed; but especially lust. I began to inspect the younger female members of the congregation with a mind to bed them once I had renounced my priesthood. I began to take note of those who confessed lustful sins, especially those who were closer to my own age, and most wonderfully curved. I remembered Laura Wilson, a blonde wonder who often confessed how she lusted after those she couldn’t have, and leapt at any opportunity she had to be able to have them. I remember Katharina Delafuente, a good Spanish catholic girl who often confessed her lustful thoughts about men of purity and innocence- she had, at one point,confessed I was one of them. And then, finally, there was the widow Hopkins, a woman twenty years my senior who had often confessed many lustful acts she had partaken of with men my age, or younger.

Perhaps it was an abuse of my position, but if I had cared, I didn’t any more; why would I?

After the service had finished, I took my place, ready for confession. One by one they came in, one by one I meted out punishment for their sins, taking note of those I would find my way to once I had left my vow of piety and celibacy. I listened to their voices, to their words.

And then, as I was beginning to consider leaving, one last woman came in. A woman whose voice I recognised, though barely, like a half-remembered dream, or a half-forgotten memory.

And then it came to me.

Her.

I felt my heart quicken as I straightened, leaning towards the partition as I waited to hear what she had to say.

Alright, gang, you know the drill; no piss, shit, gore or weird shit like corpses, kids, or canines. This'll be long-term, slow-building, full of vanilla stuff and romance and whatnot. A little edge of corruption- though of him or her, I'm not sure- a little exploration, and a little bit of other stuff I haven't properly thought through.

Hit me with your thoughts, ideas, whatever-the-fucks, and let's get this show on the rizzoad.

I'll be honest- I don't know shit about the Catholic faith so if I get something wrong, let's just apply artistic license to it or something.

Yes, I've posted a prompt like this before, but this one is better written.

As always, if this is up, I'm up for it, and baby, it is always up.