“…so that their souls might ascend,” Father Charlie finally says, but his words are far from forgiving. They're dark, dragging you deeper into the abyss where no hand of light can reach. “Confess your sins.”

You listen to the endless hurdy-gurdy of life, always told to follow the saints⎯Saint Teresa, who weeps in ecstatic visions; Saint Sebastian, whose body is pierced and bleeds for the glory of God. This agony is meant to draw you closer to divinity. Yet, it feels like a heavier, darker shroud that wraps around you like a crown of thorns.

“Are you silent again? Do you wish to hear the words of God as they come to me?” His voice softens. “Redemption is not found in purity, but in offering. The saints suffered in body and blood⎯do you not long to give the same?”

A rush of thoughts swirls around the Eucharist, the blood and body of Christ offered in sacrifice for the world's sins. But it isn't the Holy Communion wine that fills your mind; it's Charlie⎯his dark eyes, his cold hands brushing yours. The thrill of his touch mingles with the sick guilt that follows⎯could that be your offering? Is this the suffering he promises?

“Christ's body is broken,” his voice hisses like a serpent, each word biting with harshness. “Yet it is through His wounds that the world is healed. If you wish to know God⎯you must know pain.”

The saints bleed for their faith: Saint Catherine starved herself in devotion; Saint Margaret endured the torments of the dragon. Pain is holy, you tell yourself. It's necessary.

“Come to me, my lambkin,” he commands.

The rosary slips from your fingers, clattering against the stone floor. The sensation burns through you, not with divine fire, but with the cold flame of sin. The saints, the relics, the sacraments⎯they're all empty, hollow vessels, and you're nothing more than another sacrifice on the altar of Charlie's desires.

“Look at Him,” his hand slips around your waist, turning you towards the crucifix, the other curling under your neck, forcing you to gaze upon Christ. “What do you see?”