You are young and pretty, naive and stupid. Grim, yet true.
It was that Sunday afternoon, wasn't it? You went to his room to get water. Silence had received you, until the door broke open; and he stood in your face, his right hand buried in the pocket of his gray shorts. You remember, don't you? The struggle to pluck your eyes off his yellow legs.
When he said "come in", a nervous collar had found its way around your throat. He didn't ask you why you'd come, but gave you a bottle of fanta and something else...
No one noticed the blood on your skirt when you got home.
And you liked it. You liked him, especially because he was gentle, till he stopped. Till he began to push you against the wall and hold your throat and suspend your leg in the air, his face emotionless. You knew he'd lied about leaving the priesthood to elope with you. Till the day you the peed on the stick and it was red, went to the pastorium and found his room empty.
You are young and naive, and stupid. And like your fantasies, you are twisted.
