Tears shed for another person are not a sign of weakness. They are a sign of a pure heart.

-Unknown

The ominous double oak doors are massive, leading into the magnificent church. St. Mary’s it’s called, and I’ve passed it every day for the last six months. Each time, it’s taunted me, beckoning me to take a step inside its walls.

I have to do it, you know—see if I’ll really burn by coming in here. If it’d happen to anyone, I’d definitely be a viable candidate.

Inhaling, I’m met with a spicy scent. Oil perhaps? The building reminds me of a castle from the outside, and the inside doesn’t disappoint in that aspect either. It’s the type of place that when you enter, you feel small and insignificant; no doubt it was built this way on purpose.

My middle finger dips into the glass bowl encasing what these religious freaks refer to as holy water. What the fuck’s so holy about it? Is it the fact that a priest has prayed over it? If that’s how it’s even made...I wouldn’t know. I was never around one of these places growing up.

The cool water coats the tip of my finger as I skim the surface, and amazingly, nothing happens. I was expecting burning flames to encompass my flesh in mere seconds. I’m considered evil, after all; I’ve heard it before. Not from any voices in my mind, but from child services attempting to steal me away from my family.

The silence encompassing the room is interrupted by a deep, accusing voice. “Sinner!”

My gaze shoots to the front of the room convinced I was right after all; they’ll burn me for coming here. That’s how all the holy ones are; they like to peel you apart and make you crumble in an attempt to heal you. I’ve been warned the entire time I was growing up to steer clear of them.

I never needed their healing, only blood occasionally from a bad soul. My father was the same and taught me how to make sacrifices. He said our Native American heritage called for it. Our ancestors needed it to live on through us. It’s our job to continue coating the earth with the black soul’s blood to give back for everything they’ve used up.

My father was a true, proud Indian with long, straight, jet-black hair and black eyes to match. His skin was tanned and leathery due to his heritage and exposure to the elements. His time was spent outside when he was young, and he says it forever changed him like our ancestors. I never understood why I had to favor my mother. Her cloud-colored eyes, fair complexion, and light hair made her angelic in a sense, opposite of my father.

I’ve kept my promises to him, sacrificing when the madness inside my head gets out of control. He’d be proud; I know it was an important ritual to him. It’s become sort of a cleansing for me as well, to show my devotion to the gods of the world. People may not understand my rituals, but the gods do.

On a podium set at the front of the room stands the man I heard dressed in thick robes. Behind him is a large, imposing marble table, covered with objects. I’m too far away to recognize what they are, however.

He’s the priest—the holy one—who can burn me, according to the stories my father shared when I was a kid.

A young man cowers below him, completely bare. He’s hunched over his naked front, his bloody back showcased for the man standing over him. Crisscrosses of bloody welts decorate his back, and I cringe. I’ve been whipped before. I know it hurts. The battered being draws me to him, wanting to see for myself if he’s worth the sacrifice.

“Forgive me.” The young, broken man pleads and the leather whip in the holy one's hand slaps against his flesh again. Blood splatters in its wake, leaving behind evidence of the punishment. The site of the garnet-colored liquid doesn’t bother me; it’s the purity of the man’s voice begging to be set free. He doesn’t sound guilty of anything worthy of his punishment.

“Sinner!” the priest declares again, and I begin to make my way around the room to get a better look.

I stick to the shadows to keep my presence unknown. That’s essentially what I am anyhow, a shadow amongst everyone else in the world. Multiple colors cascade over the glossy pews in the middle of the room, almost making them appear inviting.

Almost, but I see through their motives.

Glancing up, I’m met with stained glass windows depicting the church’s beloved saints. In the center of the raised ceiling is an ancient looking painted mural filled with fluffy clouds and golden angels. I wonder if that world ever existed. If it did, according to this, it must’ve been forever ago.

Smack!

My eyes snap back to the podium, drawn to the sound. The priest slashed another bloody welt into the young guy's flesh. Cringing, I can’t turn away. It’s like a car crash—you know it must be painful, yet you have to watch regardless.

“You must ask for forgiveness, Sinner.”

“For-forgive me, father. I beg you.”

No father should hit his son like this. He should teach him, rather than punish him. My own father taught me this. We worked together, never against each other.

“You’ve sinned, you must repent,” he repeats, bringing the leather down again. This time the man on all fours gasps in pain, tears raining down his face, and stuttering something about hail Mary being full of grace.

This is his father? Surely, he feels the darkness in his soul as I do. The man with the evil soul deserves punishment, not the beaten one at his feet.

Creeping slowly and quietly, I approach the man from behind. I’m good at being quiet; it’s how I always get away when someone searches for me. It’s how I sneak up on those I plan to offer as a sacrifice. The moon god always helps hide me.

“Priest,” I hiss, sounding more snake than human. The older man spins around, his middle-aged face lined with surprise. “Repent,” I hiss at him again with a scowl and drive my small blade into the center of his throat. It’s not a fancy way to kill, but it stuns the opponent immediately. Being smaller than many of the men I kill, it’s important to catch them off guard.

He stumbles back a step, as his eyes bulge, gurgling and choking on the sharp metal. Blood spurts, raining warm sangria droplets over my face. A genuine smile graces my lips as my hands rub the blood into my skin. I’ve killed a bad man, and there’s no better feeling.

Sacrifice to bring this man peace. Use this blood to replenish all that was stolen from you by this soul. Sacrifice for my ancestors no longer here. I offer this token of evil to you. Sacrifice for life.

The older man drops to the ground, dead, and the boy at my feet turns to peer up at me. His face is drenched with tears, his back leaving behind droplets of his blood on the floor around him. He’s paid his own sacrifice, offering his blood so easily without a fight.

He gasps, his mouth falling open in shock at the site of me.

He’s frightened.

My hand opens, palm up, going toward him. He’ll need help getting up, I’m sure of it. I don’t want to worry him any more than he already appears to be.

“S-S-S-Saint Michael?” he proclaims, his eyes growing more fearful, “For-forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“Sinner?” I test, holding my hand to him once more. Is that his name?

“I am not worthy. Forgive me for speaking your name.” His gaze falls to the floor, and he bows before me.

He’s absolutely perfect.

I will keep him and protect him—always.

“Come, my Sinner. I’ll protect you now. No need to be frightened of me. You just call me Saint; no name, okay?”

His callused palm finds mine, and I tug him to his feet. “You will stand for me, Sinner, and you’ll be strong.”

He briefly glances to the priest, his eyes full of gratitude when they meet mine. No doubt he’s grateful, but guilt will plague his heart for feeling that way after the shock subsides.

He’s beautiful. Dark to my light, he could be my brother—my opposite. He’s everything I once wished I could be, and together we’ll be perfect.

“Okay, Saint,” he agrees, and I lift the thick, white robe from the floor for him. We need to leave, and I have no idea when someone will show up. The last thing I need is another run-in with the local cops.

“We have to go.”

He complies and allows me to help him place the robe over his battered flesh. He’s close to my own age I notice. I hit fifteen six months ago; he’s gotta be right around there as well. I hope his back only needs to be wrapped. I can mix up a paste for it, but I can’t sew very well if he requires stitches.

“Is there a way out of here other than the front door?”

“Yes, I can show you.”

“Sounds good little Sinner, lead the way...”

And just like that, I’ve met my obsession. My Sinner to my Saint, yet I know the truth. I’m the Sinner, and this beautiful, broken creature is my Saint.

He’s mine. Forever.