Mercy

Chapter 1

A cavernous silence greeted Brooklyn as she attempted to enter the church. It was like an invisible wall, warning her to stay out. She stood with the door open and looked back at her friend, Page, who was egging her on from the sidewalk.

Page crossed her arms. "You're not gonna do it. You're too scared." Her blue eyes gleamed with excitement while her raised eyebrows dared Brooklyn to prove her wrong.

They had driven by the small church, nestled in the oldest part of the Glebe, and Page had the bright idea to send Brooklyn in on a bet.

Brooklyn bit her lip. It's just a building.

Deep down, however, she knew that wasn't true and she wasn't prepared to convince herself otherwise. It was a temple of lies filled with self-righteous patrons. All churches were.

"Come on, let's go. I know you can't do it. Let's grab some breakfast or something," said Page, rolling her eyes.

Brooklyn looked down at her party dress with its sequins catching the weak morning light and marveled at her and her friends' ability to stay out all night.

"I'm gonna do it!" Her words slurred from the tail end effects of whatever pills she had taken, courtesy of Page's boyfriend who currently stood off to the side, uninterested in the unfolding events. Brooklyn turned to enter the church and the smell of balsam almost crippled her. Nausea clawed at her gut and for a moment, she feared she would throw up all over the church's ornate door.

"Come on, Brooklyn. This isn't fun anymore and I'm hungry," Page said, her face a picture-perfect mask of boredom. She was a waif, tall and skinny with never-ending limbs. Hair that was naturally the kind of platinum blonde that women spent hundreds of dollars to get framed her elfish face with a severe bob cut. Whatever life had to offer had been hand-delivered at her feet, thanks to her looks and parents' money. So, Page was always bored, always looking for the next thrill.

And today that thrill was up to Brooklyn. She eyed the purse hanging off her friend's shoulder and imagined the crisp hundred-dollar bills folded neatly in half to fit in the impractically small bag. One of them could be hers. That meant she could make rent the following month without sacrificing half her meals. She turned back to the entrance with renewed determination. The booth, with its insides hidden by a partially closed, deep red curtain, wasn't too far from the door.

I just have to go in, confess something, then I'm out. In that moment, she stopped overthinking it and made a beeline for the box, closing its curtain quickly as if it could protect her from the demons of her past.

She sat in silence with her eyes shut tight and took deep breaths, doing her best to keep from gasping. Her fear squeezed like a vise around her chest and made it hard for her to inhale, so her breaths ended up shallow, almost non-existent.

The priest cleared his throat, making her jump.

One song for the righteous. Two songs for the honest. Three songs for the wicked. And no songs for the choir. She repeated the mantra in her head. It had been taught to her by her one and only childhood friend.