About the Contest
This story is an entry to 
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Prompt
The tapered fingers came to life, maneuvered by invisible threads, following the murderous order whispered by the woman. The blow fell on the victim, surgical and impregnated with inevitable fate.
"We took it, Agnes."
Finally, the peace of the monastery's kitchen had been restored. A fleeting veil of reproach slipped over the cook's cheerful gaze as Flynn swore triumphantly at the fly, spread on his notebook.
"But now let's get back to our business, barley soup doesn't cook itself and ... not even your thesis".
"It's a nice association, even if it's my brain to cook," said the young man with his eyes shining curiously between the pots.
"If Father Thoram saw us wasting time chasing flies, you already know he'd send you to the library," the cook remarked.
Flynn threw her an accomplice grimace, before returning to dive into the pages of his thesis. No, all in all, the friar would not have thrown him out of the kitchen so easily.
Agnes could not have known what long walks in the cloister's rose garden had slowly revealed to his confessor father. That laborious daily harmony had a different taste for Flynn than what his other contemporaries of the Benedictine community felt.
Flynn sighed as the words drifted slowly from the pages, evaporating intertwined in his thoughts. Every moment, every little ritual within the silent walls of the monastery was like prickly air that swelled his lungs, giving him life. Those were precious moments far from the creature who, just two blocks away, waited every night for satisfying once more his craving for pain. Far from his stepfather.
The echoes of vespers suffused in his ears: soon the refectory would have been populated. It was almost time to help Agnes set the tables.
While books and notebooks were swallowed up by the backpack in random order, Flynn found himself thinking of that strange event months ago, when he was still an occasional guest of the monks' community. There was, indeed, another reason why he preferred to study among the noise of the pans. He would have never wanted to see that internet page, hastily closed but clear enough to impress itself deeply into his retina. All in all, the friar would not have thrown him out of the kitchen so easily.
"Flynn."
The backpack fell, spilling its content onto the floor.
"Son, follow me, Agnes can set her own."
Father Thoram didn't even seem to have noticed the mountain of papers scattered on the brown tiles. Standing out from the sagging features of his face, his eyes looked blacker than usual.
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The Story Continues..
It was evident that Father Thoram had a sleepless night, but what could have kept him awake was beyond Agnes’ comprehension. She could only see a sloppy Flynn succumbing to anxiety bouts and dangling on a loose thread holding his body and mind together; the mind wanted to follow Father Thoram while the body wanted to pick up the backpack’s contents.
Agnes could sense that at any moment Flynn’s body could fall apart like Lego blocks, and she instantly laughed. “Let me get your books, Flynn,” she offered and saved herself from Father Thoram’s chiding glare.
“Thank you, Ag.. Agnes,” Flynn stuttered.
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The walk to the rose garden was a silent affair with occasional smiles from Father Thoram, greeting the other priests. The evidence of the smile’s non-genuineness was the speed with which his countenance turned to seriousness once the priests passed. The cloister at the end of the walkway offered some privacy that Father Thoram was eager to take.
“Flynn, is there something you need to tell me?”
Flynn was rubbing his palms, “about what, Father?”
“About yourself.”
“Nothing, Father.”
“Well, in that case, let me tell you more about you. You are a murderer. An assassin most likely with a big reward on your head,” Father Thoram said without winking.
Flynn was dumbfounded, “are you talking about the flies?” An unsure smile crept around his lips.
“You know what I am talking about,” Father Thoram’s countenance refused to let go of the grave look.
“Alright,” the nervous looking Flynn relaxed. He stopped rubbing his palms and put his hand inside his robe and pulled out a lone cigarette. He lit the cigarette and exhaled on the priest. A ruthlessness, hitherto unseen, started to take form. “You got me, Father. So, what do you propose?”
“Confession.”
“Hah, the good Father wants me to confess. So, tell me this dude, did you get to know more about me while watching porn on your computer?”
“Watch your mouth, you imbecile,” Father Thoram moved towards Flynn with a raised hand. But he stopped himself.
“It will not take me more than twenty seconds to dispose of you. On the other hand, I can expose you in the same amount of time,” Flynn grinned. “So why don’t we hit a deal here? You keep mum on me, and I won’t remember your internet exploits.”
“I don’t negotiate with sinners,” Father Thoram said, “And I wasn't watching porn that day. That was a video a parishioner sent as proof of his wife’s infidelity.”
“Oh, that acquits you of wrongdoing. Why watch when you knew what you would come across? Sounds naughty to me,” Flynn teased the priest.
Father Thoram slapped Flynn, “I don’t need a certificate from a murderer.”
It was too late. Flynn was strangling Father Thoram.
“Flynn, forgive me.”
“Now you are back to your senses,” Flynn let him go.
“Forgive me, for I broke my celibacy and fathered you,” Father Thoram was on the floor trying hard to hide his shame. “Now kill me for that sin and for what I allowed you to become.”
The remorseless assassin was stumped for the first time. He only knew his stepfather, but this…
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Image Courtesy: Pixabay