Throne of Pity

The sound of my frantic breathing had nearly silenced the gunshots. I did not need to turn my head to the left because I could tell from the red splatter on the crisp, white bedsheets that he, the priest, was dead. My teardrops hung onto my trembling upper lip before falling to the bedsheets I used to cover my breasts and shield my shameful nakedness. My trance was shattered when I heard those smooth words from ahead of me, it forced me to center my attention forward. "If you're really a man of God. You'll see him soon enough." My husband, Adam, a man in a white, button-up shirt and soft, brown hair I remember to this day, sat on a chair only feet away from the foot of our marriage bed.

He twirled his gun around his finger, while light streams of smoke still escaped the barrel. I knew his words were not directed at me. When I turned in the direction of the one I knew he was talking to, I did everything I could to avoid looking at them in the face which was now home to several bullets. Instead, I focused on his chest, looking at the holy cross on the chain around his neck. 'What have I done?' I thought to myself, but not for the first time that night. 'How could this happen.' The gravity of my guilt guided several rivers of tears down my body. I was surprised that through all of that, I did not make a sob sound even once.

I heard a chuckle, from the man who sat upon his throne of pity. I was caught by surprise when I saw he was gazing directly at me the moment I redirected my attention to him. I did not have the energy or courage to scream at him or for help. I was at the mercy of the man I devoted my life to over 10 years ago. That was not the first time he inflicted pain upon someone. However, that person was usually me. He took a sip of wine from the narrow glass in his other hand. It was a reminder of how I got myself into that situation.

Thanks to the efforts of heroines like my mother and aunts, women who were once chained under the label of 'housewife' were able to find jobs in vast and interesting fields. For the past month, I was able to skip the kitchen and walk with stride on my way to work on the weekly paper. I was thrilled to see my words immortalized to on the series of pages which would be on the tables and the front step of every household. That afternoon, when I was coming home, a friend of my husband's, Father Silva, invited me to dinner to celebrate my new job. My memory of what happened then was hazy. I do, however, remember looking at his smiling face. His short, parted black hair and mustache tickled my cheek as he rubbed his face upon mine. I did not realize at the time how dense my drinks were with alcohol and other forms of intoxication. The concoction made me forfeit my body to a demonic and lustful presence.

That moment sent me on a journey which led me right to the moment I opened my eyes after spending that shameful night with someone I would have never thought would lure me into such a trap. When I saw Adam seated in front of us as I woke up, I was immediately filled with every ounce of guilt I should have felt the entire night leading up to that moment. He said nothing to me as he pointed the gun at Silva. I do not know whether it was my heavy breathing or the Lord himself that woke Silva up, but the moment he opened his eyes and realized that he had been caught, he held onto the cross upon his chest with a firm grip. His lips parted to say something, probably a plea for forgiveness, but I was never able to hear it. He was shot before anyone in this world knew what he wanted to say to justify his actions.

He was not the only one who had to explain himself. After all that had happened, I was left looking Adam dead in his crisp, ocean eyes. The moisture indicated that perhaps he had been crying before I woke up, a stark contrast to the malicious grin that was on his face. Before I could open my mouth to speak, he commenced to show me that I had no right. "Must have been fun. I can't remember the last time I heard you that loudly myself." He grinned as he took another sip of the dark red wine. His eyes strayed from me for a moment to analyze the glass. I could tell from the dark red shade of lipstick on the rim that it may have been the one I used that night.