Sins and Reborns

Chapter three

GRACE

As the priest's daughter, I attended every service. Mother and Wesley joined on Sundays especially. At seven forty-five a.m. sharp, we arrived, dressed in proper clothes, straight in the front row, listened to my father rehearse his speech. He liked everything to be neat.

Then, after we disclosed our weekly sins to him, the rest of the town arrived. We'd all sit there in silence for however long he wished. For at least three centuries, Reverence Creek had been a fully religious town. According to folklore, it was built by St Alexander Holloman in 1745. He was a priest from a town over who wanted to start a new community. He hired an architect to assist with the structure of the houses, the tops of all triangle shaped. For six years, the community lived peacefully until sudden, dreadful news came into light that Saint Alexander was a wicked man for his grooming tendencies. In light of mornings, he'd take the towns children to the sheltered place in the church and be a deviant. When it came to light, they attempted to torch him alive by tying the man to the three. When a girl by the age of fourteen announced her pregnancy. In an instant, the restraints loosened for births were cherished. They married the next day, and he resumed his position. Over time, the old folklore was retold and twisted to people's liking. In some texts, they erased the section of him being a paedophile. We all reinvent history to fit our liking.

Now, as my father recited the passage he'd found about Saint Alexander, my stomach churned in dread. His salt and pepper hair was cut short, slicked back, the black cassock flowing down his feet, and the white collar around a thick, chubby neck. "Thy Alexander sweat and bled for the sake of our community! And God looked down upon him in all the fights won and granted thy wish. Marilee – ripe and tender, sent to portray motherhood –"

As he preached on, I looked around for reactions. Everyone murmured along, some kept eyes closed as they did so, some nodded encouragingly. On days like this, I longed to shout for them to return to reality. All brainwashed by the leader. Even the councilman smiled at some points.

Yet the youthful people seemed confused with the downturn of their brows, the twists of their mouths, and the angling of their heads. Three rows behind me, two girls looked down, possibly at a phone, and cupped their mouths. For a mere minute, I imagined I was there with them, laughing like a normal teen, and then agreeing to later meet up.

But I was twenty-one and I'd never had a friend.

Blame this on me since I didn't like to let people clear. Or my parents who told the young to stay clear, in case their minds were crude. Mother liked to say: 'Friends aren't in your nature, dear Grace. A husband will be in your nature when you care for him, when you adhere to him. Until then, be a proper woman and will your mind with the old.'

My mother's acquaintances (she didn't have any friends either because all the ladies in town were silly, so she called these women that) were welcome. Often, they enquired about my wedding date, then who was the handsome prince to swipe me off my feet. This speech sounded like of the 18th century novels. At times, they chatted too close to me whether I'd even marry, perhaps thought I'd not hear. I know they knew I heard.

That day was no different, except for the sliver of a sense boiling in the pit of my belly. It'd been this way since I'd seen Connor a week ago. Every morning, I would sit by my window a little longer, wait for him to sneak a glance my way. He never did.

Why wouldn't he look for me?

Had he already forgotten our meeting?

That morning, I took extra care of my hair, put it in two braids, in case I were to see him. Not that there was a chance. Connor didn't attend church. His family stayed a clear path from any community gatherings. They were private like that.