Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 58

Back home, I lean back against the couch, head tilted, eyes staring at nothing. My body’s here, but my mind.....my mind is eight years old again. Back in that church-run cage they called an orphanage. Saint Augustine’s Home for Lost Children. Lost. Like it was some holy thing. Like abandonment was a blessing if you wrapped it in prayer.

For a while, I almost believed them. I almost thought the world had softened on me. A roof that didn’t leak, actual meals that I didn’t have to wait days for, hymns that floated through cracked windows instead of my parents' confused rumbling. Almost okay. Almost.

Then there was him. Father Elias. Or whatever mask he wore. The head, the shepherd, the smile in black robes. To everyone else, he was kind. Gentle. He’d hand out candy like it was communion, ruffle hair with his ring-heavy hand, grin wide enough to show teeth. But I saw it. Even at eight, I saw it....the way his gaze never warmed, how it sharpened when it landed on us. Not affection. Hunger. Greed. Like we weren’t children, just something he could take.

And then came that day. “Jackson,” he called. Always Jackson. His voice dripped with it....honey laced with poison. I went. Stupid, obedient, the loner kid nobody really noticed. Maybe that’s why I seemed easy.

I remembered the office.

That smell of old paper and stale incense, the crucifix nailed above his desk watching like a dead man’s eye. He’d shut the door, slow, and told me to sit. His voice had been soft, almost kind, but I knew better. Predators don’t always growl.... sometimes they purr.

He’d started with questions, about my soul, about whether I prayed, whether I’d confessed my sins. But the way he looked at me, it wasn’t God he was thinking about. His gaze clung to me like greasy hands.

Then he leaned in. His hand brushed my knee, light as dust, but I felt it burn like acid. He said something about salvation, about giving myself to the Lord, about obedience. But it wasn’t his words I heard....it was the hunger twisting beneath them.

His voice syrupy sweet, telling me grief was heavy for a boy my age, that I needed comfort. His comfort.

He was close enough for my chest to tighten, close enough to feel his breath when he whispered, “It’s okay, Jackson.”

I froze, the air growing thick, my chest caving in on itself. He leaned in, words dripping like poison, whispering about love, about God’s embrace. And then he tried to kiss me.

I saw his mouth coming....sour breath, cracked lips, that greedy hunger, and something inside me snapped. My hand shot out, shoving him hard. My heart was pounding so loud it drowned out his shocked gasp.

Okay. A word I used to believe in. Okay meant safe. Okay meant things weren’t falling apart. But in his mouth, it was a curse. It died on his lips. It rotted there. My skin crawled, my heart slammed against my ribs. And when I shoved him, it was instinct. Panic. My small hands against his chest, pushing away the weight of his shadow.

I was ready to break his face, but I couldn’t....was too small, too weak. But I pushed him hard enough that his chair scraped back against the floor, crucifix rattling on the wall. His face changed then, mask slipping for a breathless second. Anger. Desire.....Something worse.

I didn’t wait for him to recover. I stormed out, the hallway spinning around me, breath sawing in my chest.

Hatred burned in me hotter than grief that day. Hatred for him, for the church, for a God who left me in the hands of wolves dressed as shepherds. I carried it with me.

The wet stairs blurred beneath my feet as I ran, legs trembling, every step like thunder in my skull. I heard him behind me, his shoes striking wood, the rustle of robes, his voice calling after me.

“Jackson—”

Then the slip. A sound I’ll never forget. That sudden skid, the air cutting sharp as he lost footing. I turned, frozen. Helpless. Watched him tumble.

Down, down, down......robes whipping, arms flailing. Until he hit the bottom with a crack that silenced everything.

I remember the sound first...the thud of his body hitting the bottom steps, followed by a strangled grunt that stuck in my ears like nails dragging across glass. I came down the rest of the way slowly, one step at a time, my chest tight, my hands shaking but my face blank.

He was still alive. Pathetic, broken heap, sprawled across the floor like some fallen idol. His fingers twitched, reaching for me, his mouth opening and closing, trying to form words, maybe a plea, maybe a prayer. I didn’t care. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

That’s when I saw it.

A brass candle holder, toppled a couple feet away, glinting in the half-light. Heavy enough. Sharp enough. My eyes clung to it like it had been waiting for me all along. I could already feel the weight of it in my hand, the arc of the swing, the way it would crack his skull open like rotting fruit. And for a second, longer than a second, I wanted it. Wanted the silence it would bring.

A voice slipped through the marrow of me, a whisper without a face..." Do it. Look out for yourself. No one else ever will."

The pool of red kept growing, staining the wood, spreading like a shadow that belonged to me as much as him. Thick and dark, it spread slow across the wooden floor, a stain that seemed alive. I couldn’t look away.

There was something twisted in it, something honest. Death didn’t lie. It didn’t groom or smile all sweet or whisper promises it never meant to keep. Death was simple. Pure.

It has a way of seducing you when you stand too close...it promises release, promises an ending that isn’t really an ending, just another silence. And God, I wanted that silence.

I wanted to give it to him. To take that final step and silence every sermon, every secret hand, every rot he wore under the cloth.

But then voices came. Footsteps. Gasps. Someone screamed. An ambulance was called. He survived..... Unfortunately.

The questions followed, bright lights and sharp words, but I couldn’t tell the truth. Couldn’t say what had happened. What he’d almost done. Eventually, they shipped me off to somewhere else. Like nothing had happened. I'm guessing he made sure I was moved, maybe he said I was too troubled and needed more help than they could give.

I lean my head back against the couch now, the ghost of incense still clawing at my nose. My palms twitch, like they remember the push.

Some people lose their faith when they grow older. Me? I lost mine on those stairs, watching a hypocritical priest almost die with God’s name carved across his collar.