wicked games // michael clifford [au]

// chapter six //

rory's pov

"What makes a good Catholic? Does it mean showing up to church every Sunday? Does it mean going through confirmation? Does it mean praying to Him every night?" The priest continues to drone on as I stare up at the ceiling, watching a fly swarm around, attempting suicide as it repeatedly bangs against the window.

I can sympathize with the fly.

"Or is being a good Catholic more than that? Do our duties run deeper than simply showing up every Sunday?" He asks a rhetorical question, the answer obviously implied by his tone of voice. 

I stare at all the other kids sitting around me as we sit through what's apparently a normal Wednesday service? I thought going on Sundays was enough, but apparently not. They all sit there with their straight posture and concentrated expressions on their face, as if everything pouring out of this old bastard's mouth wasn't complete shit. 

As I roll my eyes and slump in the pew again, my mind wanders back to elaborate plans to get myself out of this ridiculous service. But as my gaze settles upon the several nuns - who already have a strong hatred for me - located beside every exit. It seems that I'm not the first one to wish for escape.

"Ms. Morrison, posture, please," A nun standing closest to our pew hisses at me, wearing a very disapproving look. Grumbling enough profanities to lock me in confession for a month, I slowly sit up, folding my arms across my chest in an irritated manner. 

"They say better posture can add years to your life," Mary-wannabe leans over the pew behind me to whisper, wearing her usual cheerful grin. 

All the more reason to slouch in my seat. 

The sermon continues on for an entire hour, leaving me probably the most miserable I've been in a long time. By the end of it, I had already picked all of my split ends, and pondered smashing my own skull against all the beautiful architecture located inside this ancient cathedral. What a sight that would be. 

When we're finally dismissed, I quickly shuffle out of the pew, slipping through crowds of people. I'm sure the nuns aren't pleased with my audience skills at this mass, and wanted to give me a 'firm talking to', which translated to them threatening to send me to confession and call my parents. 

I nearly escape from the suffocating cathedral, but before I can pass through the stain-glassed threshold, a perky voice calls after me,

"Rory!"

My hands ball up into a fist as I slow my pace down, knowing it's too late to escape completely wound free. Soon three perfectly combed heads bounce to my sides, flanking me as we walk down the church stairs. 

"Want a ride home?" Mary asks me, gripping her stack of books tightly to her chest. 

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I fake genuine humility as I try to think of a way to weasel my way out of this one.

"We know, but we want to," She smiles sweetly at me, referring to them all as one unit; one big Holy unit, ready to do what 'good' Catholics should do, just preached about. 

I open my mouth to pull out some half-assed excuse as to why they can't give me a ride, when my eyes fall upon a familiar car parked on the curb. I don't even have to look inside to know who the white car belongs to. A chill runs down my spine as I catch Luke staring at me as I walk away from the church. 

The fact that he was totally alone, not flanked by his little posse made my heart skip a few beats, and not in the giddy, smitten way, in the way that your heart does after seeing something horrifying.