Redeeming Rhys (10 page)

He pulled the sheet down to expose her dead, naked, and mutilated body. The stench of death hung profoundly in the air and wafted up into his nostrils, tickling them with the definiteness of what he had just done. Rhys studied her body, looking at the marks from his hands, the slash marks gaping open from his sharp knife, and rudely enough, the buzzing of an unwanted fly darted above the girl’s body. His eyes watched the pesky little fly go to and fro before it decided to settle in an open wound beneath the girl’s right breast. It was small, around four inches, and not very deep. He wondered why the insignificant little fly had decided to take its meal from such a small area when there were so many other places to choose from.

Clearly, Mr. Fly wasn’t that smart.

Rhys, who was still naked from his midnight spooning session with the dead girl, lay there atop the blood-stained mattress in the dilapidated motel, and gawked at the fly, peering deep into its dozens of eyes. He admired the insect as it drank the last bits of life that the girl had. It was sucking away pieces of her just as he had the night before. In that instant, it took Rhys everything he had not to bring his chapped lips down to one of her knife-induced wounds and nurse it until his mouth was full of a jelly-like substance, because blood isn’t liquid when someone has been dead for a day.

But, he talked himself out of it, not exactly sure what kind of disease he could get. Instead, he sat there and watched Mr. Fly, envious of the flavor that he was tasting on his little rolled-out tongue. Oh, it was clear that Rhys’ mind was misplaced, even more so since the day prior. He needed to fill his belly before he changed his mind and bent his head down to the girl and sucked on her. He had done some heinous things before, but sucking on a dead corpse was not one of them.

He sat there and watched Mr. Fly for a few more minutes until agitation washed over him. He swatted the fly, interrupting its mid-morning meal, leaving it dead in the open wound. He smiled, realizing, just as Mr. Rat, he would be the only one that held onto his secrets.

RHYS PUFFED ON
his cheap cigarette, leaving it hanging from the edge of his mouth as he headed down Interstate 135 towards Hooverville, Kentucky. He hadn’t attempted to reach home since that ominous night, but it was time. There were some things that he couldn’t stop thinking about. There were many things he couldn’t pray away. He became enraged at the thought and stepped on the pedal harder, set on speaking to that old son-of-a-bitch who knew all along.

Father Sullivan knew, yet he let him go.

Pray. You must pray and God will take care of your heart, your mind, and your soul, Rhys.

Rhys knew that was a crock of shit, because look where he ended up. There was nothing great about conversations with inanimate objects, spooning dead girls, and talking to rats and flies. He was beyond crazy. He had surpassed that long ago. The fault wasn’t on him. He blamed Father Sullivan.

Images filled Rhys’ mind, the day near the swing-set that changed everything. He swallowed hard, puffing on his cigarette nervously while he remembered how innocent Wren looked in that red dress and those Mary Jane patent black leather shoes. She knew, yet she still looked at him with hope.

But he was thrown to the basement to repent for his sins. It was in that dirty basement where another Rhys was born. A Rhys who prayed to get even. A Rhys who used the hate to feed the monster that scared the girl that afternoon. He would obey. He would listen like a good Catholic boy until it was time to cut them away.

And soon enough, the time for Father Sullivan would come.

RHYS TURNED ON 838
in Hooverville, Kentucky, a small suburban area thirty minutes outside of Louisville. Its population was around fifteen-thousand. It was a little-big town. Small enough, yet big enough for all that lived there. Its Mayberry-style town square gave it the feel of a small town, yet the amount of home and grocery stores made it feel bigger than a “small town”. Main Street was lined with spruces that budded with vibrant colored blossoms every spring, leaving behind bright green leaves during summer, and red and orange ones during fall. It seemed like the perfect place to live.

But there is no such thing as perfection. Rhys could attest to that. He had been living a lie his whole life. As his stolen truck sputtered down Main Street, he sighed as he stared at the people going about life behind shame and secrets. He saw an overweight mother struggling to strap a toddler in the back of her van. She was likely stress-eating because her husband wouldn’t fuck her anymore. He probably wasn’t interested.

Rhys kept on studying the town enveloped by fear and silence, looking at a middle-aged man adjusting his sunglasses before clicking his keyless entry to his used 1994 Mercedes.
Your car isn’t that great, man
, Rhys thought.

His eyes met the red and black sign of the local five and dime. He remembers wandering around the store aimlessly, watching Wren inspect the paper dolls and how perfect she looked when she smiled.

She was only six when he fell for her.

Ah, then he saw the steeple in the distance. The roof of the church he grew up going to was tiled green, bright and stood out from far away. He found it difficult not to take his foot to the floor board of the truck and speed until he got there, but logic came around, which was refreshing. Perhaps he didn’t want to ruin such a reunion. After all, he had been looking forward to it for ten years.

A few minutes later, Rhys came up to an empty parking lot. He sighed with relief. He wasn’t opposed to taking other people’s lives, however, the quieter it was, the better. Father Sullivan was the man with the answers he wanted, and he was going to do anything to get them. Rhys wasn’t worried that someone would recognize him. Time had passed. People had forgotten. When you aren’t directly affected by such horrendous acts and the drama dies down, you forget. Rhys had grown up. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. His body had filled out and he wore some muscles on his arms and stomach. In a depressed stupor two years before, Rhys had gone to get a cheap tattoo in a parlor in Tampa, Florida. He got the tree of life on his upper arm. A symbol of the only thing he planted years ago. His second chance. He would find out where it was, claim it, and get the redemption he needed. Then, it became an addiction. The pain was a friend as the needle dipped into his skin, marking him with things that mattered.

He wasn’t the same person who left ten years before. He was taller, bigger, and crazier. He had come for blood and answers and wouldn’t leave until he got them.

He parked his old Ford in the vacant parking lot of St. Anthony’s. He got out of his truck and straightened his wrinkled T-shirt. It was the last of the stolen items he had along with the boxers he was wearing. His jeans, on the other hand, he had to reuse. They bared evidence from the grisly things that befell before with the girl. Intricate patterns of life sprayed across the denim of his pants. Rhys was guileless as he moved across the black asphalt that was hot enough to melt wax. Inappropriate scenes played in his head as he thought what it would look like if he took a beautiful girl’s face to the hot pavement, wondering how long it would take her skin to burn from her sins. He wanted to laugh, but refrained. She would probably pray to a God that didn’t show anyone mercy. He had begged for it all that time ago, pleaded to Father Sullivan, but he was told to pray.

To ignore.

Pray, Rhys. Pray for your sins. Pray. Prayer fixes everything. Pray, boy!

Oh, Father Sullivan, don’t you understand? Karma is a bitch, and it will ass fuck you harder than you’ve ever been before. Get ready for the fires of hell. The bad boy is back and hungry for the pain he prayed to leave.

They say all sins can be forgiven in the eyes of God. But what if God’s servant was a sinner himself?

RHYS OPENED THE
doors to St. Anthony’s, the elaborate carvings the making of an antique 1800s German-founded church. The dark-stained wood stood out beautifully against the stained glass, an incredible portrayal of Mary Mother of God.
Oh, what a sweet correlation
, Rhys thought, admiring the Virgin Mary cradling the King of all Kings.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid summer air and smiling as it tickled his nicotine-deprived lungs, sweet and horrid reminders washing over his fucked up skull. Darkness had always been part of him; death was part of who he was, but secrets would soon unfold. He wouldn’t be the only one to deal with the insanity. He needed his Wren. Her confirmation. Her adoration. He needed her… love?

No, he couldn’t accept that. Love wasn’t something he believed in. He didn’t think it was real, or that anyone was capable of it. There was a vast difference between love and forgiveness in Rhys’ mind. He tried his best to shake free from it, lovely remembrances of her dark, raven hair and moans of displeasure. How unholy of him to become turned on as his cock got hard before he entered the house of the Lord. It didn’t matter. He was the ultimate sinner. There was no way he would receive absolution from the very man that told him to pray.

Pray for the thoughts that swarmed around in his head.

Pray for those that treated him horribly.

Pray for them to love him.

Pray away the pain.

It was no wonder that he lost faith in prayer when he had been surrounded by dysfunction for as long as he could remember.

‘Ten Hail Mary’s and Ten Our Father’s, then you shall receive penance for your sins, boy. Your turpitudes may lead you to Purgatory, but continue to pray, boy. Prayer will get you to heaven and stray you from the devil himself. Now, kiss my rosary…’
Father Sullivan’s voice set fire to Rhys’ thoughts.

He sat there, staring at the sophisticated glass as the brutal sun burned on his already sweating skin. The glass shimmered flawlessly in the morning light. He had anger burning in his veins and was more of a menace to society than the day he ridded the world of the fiends that threw him to the basement to think over his transgressions.

That was the last time he saved something good. The day next to the swing-set changed everything. He made a promise to Wren, he swore to her and himself that he would do anything to make sure that she didn’t think he was a bad boy anymore, even if that meant feeding the fire in his head. The voices that begged to be let free.

She was the gas to the ember that had been there since birth. Wren was Rhys’ kryptonite. He reached out and grabbed the iron handle, pulling slightly as the screeching of the door brought him back years to a time that he despised. He swallowed hard, pulling back harder to enter the church. The hall was empty as he was greeted by the smell he remembered so well. Burning incense and candles wafted heavily throughout the air, creating dark melodies he wished he could forget. Rows and rows of dark-wooded pews lined each side of the aisle, adorned with dull red carpeting that had been freshly vacuumed. Rhys counted the vacuum marks until the distant rasping from the aged church brought him out of his distracted stupor.

He looked to his right; rows of red and white candle holders were set up with a metal box for donations to light the candles with a small area to kneel and pray. He looked up to the altar, dimly lit to protect the Body and Blood of Christ, remembering the taste of the wine and the crunch of the bread he was offered on Sundays. He also recalled the smell on his mother’s breath, similar to the wine he was given on Sundays at church. The ceiling was painted with light pastels and golds; angels holding trumpets toward fluffy clouds leading to the dome above the altar, which had a larger depiction of brighter painted cherubs. Rhys noticed how much the church had aged in ten years; parts of the ceiling had started to peel more, the paint had faded, and the carpet was duller than he remembered, however, maybe he had more faith in that place as a child than as an adult.