Who, then, prays to Satan? In eighteen centuries, who among us has prayed for the one sinner who most needed it?" Twain, Mark
Graham rested his exhausted eyes on the bright light provided by his desk lamp. While the rest of the town went to sleep, he had begun to recall the nights when he would wander the crowded London streets with a half-empty bottle of the brown liquid he had once adored. about the nights when the streetlights appeared to be as bright as the Sun. Nights when they kept you warm as long as you were near them, but when you dare to move away, you are back in the chill that the night so kindly offers.
It was a damn shame that he no longer allowed himself to act like a real man.
His lips were crammed with secrets that begged to be revealed. He was constantly being reminded of the things he needed to take away from himself by voices in his head.
It was as if you could almost hear and taste them every time his tongue touched his lips.
That is a damn good guarantee that nothing would ever taste as bitter.
Graham recalled the times he would leave and come back to his house as the sun's first rays appeared in the sky. He would find a new willing victim during the night, a woman he couldn't help but take advantage of while they were both drunk. Most times, frankly, that state didn't include inebriation by liquor or even medications yet the basic commitment of rapture.
Additionally, Graham was a man who kept his promises and did not take them lightly.
Working undercover took those basic rights away from you—to be exact, stripped them away. His manager had made it abundantly clear to him that he was not to touch any of the women in the town. Graham wasn't stupid; he knew that he would have killed himself if he even considered doing such a thing.
But that didn't mean he couldn't slightly defy the rules.
As a result, the cop in him would occasionally regret not being able to feel a woman's supple body beneath him. The sounds and words that came from his nightly victim's mouth would be missed by him. The smooth curves he could not stop fantasizing about would make his hand itch.
Oh, those unholy thoughts never let him be, and he was never free of them, like a lonely man who longs for the sun to touch his sallow skin.
He put on a mask and went on his way whenever the urges came back, but the satisfaction wasn't as satisfying as he remembered it to be. Probably because he would have to say goodbye to the Queen of all things if anyone recognized him: Life. When his sex was at stake, no one, not even him, could pull off a skilled blowjob.
He mockingly whispered to himself, "The soul is strong, but the flesh is weak." Father Logan, his predecessor, came up with the mantra, and let's just say that his boss Sean had developed a rather fondness for it to the point where he would repeat it to get Graham to swallow it up.
According to Sean, it was his destiny.
Graham pretended to give himself to God at the age of 32.
He had previously spent three years in a Neo-Nazi cartel. Unable to forget the scar he had received, the fact made his skin crawl and his skull tingle. All for the purpose of maintaining his cover and, by extension, his head.
He only felt grateful that the repugnant SS symbol had vanished from his body after twelve long sessions. However, that did not imply that he was enjoying his new assignment's black uniform and dog collars.
Four years had passed since he first moved into that town while pretending to be a cleric, and he had not even come close to solving the case and returning to his home in London, a tiny apartment with a view that could compete with the Buckingham Palace.
He had a part of himself that regretted not choosing the homicide department when given the option.
Graham abruptly got up from his chair and hurriedly left his room in response to a troubling thought that briefly crossed his troubled mind. He would almost certainly believe that all of those prayers had corrupted his brain and that he was losing any sanity he had left.
He would have agreed, but he wouldn't have cared if anyone had said that to him face to face.
He didn't even pray.
He didn't intend to return to safety anytime soon because he had reached the point of no return.
Graham knew that he had to leave that gloomy room and walk all the way to the church. It hurt in his bones. After all, it would give him time to consider his next steps and process them.
Would it be beneficial to speak with an invisible force? Obviously not, the discussion would remain stringently uneven yet he had developed accustomed to it, he had been working for the office for more than 10 years at this point, uneven discussions were all he knew, particularly during the main years.
He sneaked a look in the mirror next to his bed before leaving the room. His entire body was covered in a pair of grey jogging pants and a black wife beater; it was clear that he wasn't dressed to impress, and he could only imagine the look on his mother's face if she had seen him in that state.
Since I have already booked my flight to the Inferno, something tells me that God won't be too bothered by my attire.
In addition, he was certain that going barefoot was probably a good idea. You have to understand that he was so impatient that he was unable to bother with such technicalities.
He was greeted with a whisper, "Come as you are." He wasn't sure whether to take it as a sign from God or just the voice of Nirvana calling him closer.
He let out an exasperated sigh of relief when he got to the heavy metal front door and pulled a key out of his back pocket to get it open. He had no idea he was holding it inside. He moved slowly, his steps echoing through the empty church, which made him happy because he could finally talk to someone.
He fell to his knees as soon as he reached the building's back, not caring if he scratched them. Father, I need to apologize for all of my sinful thoughts and doubts. I must apologize for preferring my freedom to Yours. I'll make an effort to be a better servant and man, someone you can be proud of. Father, if you give me a sign, I will follow it, and I will never doubt you again." He had a striking bowed face and his eyes were fixed on his bare feet. He would have believed that the scene in front of him was a reenactment of a child being scolded by a strict parent rather than a grown man who had to resist his impulses and continue to be a pawn in a life-sized game of chess if someone had seen him in that moment.
"I'll admit that I need your assistance if you happen to be listening to me, whoever you might be. Since that terrible first time I gave in to my desires, I've been lost. He let out a long, tired sigh when he saw the painting of Jesus on the cross. This is my cross, which we all carry. I will follow the path that leads me and try not to doubt my purpose again. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get rid of the sparkle in his eyes. I will simply obey you, like a good little soldier, and I will never question your will. A distinct clapping sound was able to catch his attention as the final word came out of his twitching lips.
"You should have been an actor, you're wasting a valuable talent in places like these," I said.
"Let me know about it." He murmured while turning his head to face the small camera perched above a painting of Jesus on his cross. It's a damn disgrace I followed the family custom." The sound of his sigh was as dramatic as was to be expected. I'm doing the dirty work of the devil.
"I think he's doing your dirty work," I think. It was a confidential joke between them, something Sean didn't allow him to survive.
There might have been a few women who had come to the station just to yell at him, make a scene, and portray themselves as the victims, as if they hadn't begged or weren't aware of what was going to happen. He would be referred to as the Devil and Casanova for nothing.
Also, to think that Graham didn't believe in the deity that everyone was blamed for their actions. He was the first to acknowledge that he had abused those women, but what kind of hypocrite wouldn't also acknowledge that they had abused him?
He murmured, his voice high enough for Sean to hear, "Perhaps." You are correct, boss.
"Have you heard anything new? Has our juvenile jailbird arrived?"
"Each Sunday throughout the previous four years, as you most likely are aware."
Yet, she hasn't shown any interest in you, has she? I think you're losing touch, Graham. If this continues, you will work in the office. Although Sean was joking, Graham found the threat to be heaven.
Chief, "Who could resist my pretty grey eyes?" He questioned as his aching muscles began to loosen up. In addition, my charm has helped you resolve numerous cases. He could nearly see the moderately aged man admonish at his. He probably was showing the first signs of his displeasure by twisting his moustache and slightly pulling on the hairs.
"Not this one, though." Graham kept his mouth shut to avoid saying anything that could cost him his job as the boss mumbled. When you were an undercover cop, you had to keep your head down and take what others were willing to give you because you couldn't walk around with the same idiotic confidence as the guys in the homicide department.
"Yet." Graham continued, I haven't tackled this case, yet." He ignored Sean's internal grunts despite hearing them.
"One week from now, same time and consider a superior admission, you're beginning to rehash the same thing." Sean let out a yawn that he had attempted to camouflage as a hack, and Graham envisioned the lines of his face getting further as the years advanced and, surprisingly, more evident as something as everyday as a yawn chose to show up. " Kid, return home.
"Goodnight chief." He left with that and slammed the doors shut as he went.
Going back to his bed and giving his body to Morpheus, who could transport him to a world where he was free of everything, if only for a short time, was the only thing that was more reassuring.
He turned to his side and lost all consciousness as soon as he reached the two-story house, grinning deeply as he settled into his unmade bed.
The vulgar images continued to be painted in his dreams. Graham's dreams have always been about bodies and actions, but never about faces. He didn't care enough to find out if there was a symbolic explanation for why every face in his dreams remained blank.
He couldn't stand human faces because of their eyes, and those goddamn dreams were the only symbols he could recognize.
However, he detested his eyes the most. People who wanted to solve his mystery and who didn't want to stick their noses where they shouldn't were drawn in by those pale grey iris.
With a smirk on the corners of his full lips, he said to himself, "Too much hatred for the heart of a servant of God."
The following morning, Graham got up earlier than usual and got ready for the Mass with a heavy heart. He gracefully moved around his bed and dropped his nightwear, a pair of silk black boxers, on a pile by the laundry basket.
He stood there in his bare feet, lovingly grazing his skin by the sunlight that was streaming through his window. He made the most of it because it was one of his few pleasures.
The man flexed his muscles as he extended his powerful arms after a brief moment of blissful silence. He created a sinful image, and a man of his caliber shouldn't have shown off his body in this way. He wasn't just luring women in; rather, the church should be grateful for the daily increase in customers he brought in. No, it wasn't appropriate because the men in that dreadful town chose to act hastily and the poor women talked more than they listened or saw.
What's the point? Feeling a sunbeam hit his light-colored orbs, he silently wondered.
Everyone agrees that he created the most exquisite image. In the heat, his masculine features made nuns and most women pant like dogs. Unmanaged, his beautiful, filthy blond locks terminated precisely at his uniform's collar. He had arched brows that were completely two shades darker than his hair. Since no one who had seen them could forget them, his eyes were two of the things he thought were to blame for the majority of his misfortunes. It made his job difficult.
He had no choice but to have issues with those pale grey orbs because they held so much mystery. They were eyes that had emerged as the primary focus of numerous dreams.
Then there was his mouth, which was the most perfect flaw of all. The kind women and men dreamed of biting to the point of drawing blood, despite the fact that his lower lip was abnormally plump and his upper lip had been graced with a sharp Cupid's bow.
His attractive features included a sharp jawline and a Roman nose.
On second thought, his entire face was not assisting with his work.
With a face like that, you couldn't possibly forget it.
He was truly a physical marvel, with skin drawn an irresistible golden brown hue and taut muscles curved from years spent transforming his rage into beauty. He was still in touch with his previous Devil, the Sun, but it was only a small indication.
Graham is a person who worships only at night.
whose sole source of consolation is the darkness?
He stopped hiding his monster, his true self, in the darkness.
He would typically go to a pub a few towns away to drown them when the urges got out of hand. He would also go to the "Rabbit Hole," a club specifically designed for the souls of the wicked, when no one else could help.
a place where, no matter how twisted or ill-conceived, your every desire and fantasy came true.
To keep things brief, a sex club—no need to go into detail.
He stripped down on a wooden cross and made the most delicious mistakes there, which begged for a sliver of his scorching touch. He could still feel the leather against his palms at night when he was in the house learning as much as he could about his target.
In order to get his cock wet, he inflicted pain on those who desired it, played with their fears, and pushed them to their limits.
He wondered if he had time to show himself a little mercy as he stood by his mirror with his clothes in his hands, but as soon as he glanced at the clock, the thought vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He had to do something.
He was always working on something awful.
He quickly put on his clothes, his movements being almost mechanical and almost wooden. Obviously, Pinnochio would have carried out the task with a more genuine enthusiasm.
He opened the door when he was ready and stepped outside, locking it out of habit.
A couple of moments later he was remaining at the special stepped area, gazing at individuals underneath. This time, the jailbird had not bothered to show up.
Surmise Sean should manage one more dissatisfaction. He thought to himself and let out a soft sigh.
The Communion Rite came next, then the Eucharistic Prayer. Words continued to stream out of Graham's mouth and the inhabitants of the town never let their looks leave his strong structure.
He finally stopped talking after almost an hour. He had a dry mouth and his throat was scratching whenever he tried to swallow any remaining saliva.
After he finished speaking, the majority of people left. Most of the people who stayed were middle-aged women who were fed up with their lives. Women who perceived it as a brand-new and exciting toy.
They were so similar to vultures that they circled their prey, waiting for the right time to attack and bury their teeth and claws in his body, that it was almost comical.
Mrs. Robinson made a comment with an unusually breathy tone, "Oh, father, you were wonderful." Graham was trying to keep himself from joking about how obvious her desperateness was and from giving her a mint to help with her sore throat. As usual.
Her nails were put on his secret lower arm, diving into his skin and holding him set up. Mrs. Robinson had dark brown hair, grey eyes, and was in her early forties—nearly Graham's age. Her few silver strands had been transformed into platinum gold highlights. She reminded Graham of a middle school teacher who had become quite well-known for her activities after school.
It would appear that she was an expert at seducing teenagers who lacked the ability to grow a beard. He somehow knew that she would have been absolutely furious if he had shared that information with her. even if she did something similar.
Additionally, he shouldn't mention that the teacher was one of his first arrests because doing so would undoubtedly exacerbate a few issues.
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson: woah, woah, woah, Jesus loves you more than you will ever know. Mrs. Robinson, may God bless you; those who pray will find a place in heaven, hey, hey, hey. Graham thought with a powerful grin, he could never become weary of that one.
"I'm grateful, Mrs. Robinson. You are treating me very well. He replied gently, his jaw twitching violently as he resented her touch. That was another one of his quirks; he resented unintentional human contact.
He probably could not think of anything positive to say about the Nazis he had encountered: They valued their individuality.
We are not strangers, so you can call me Mary, my dear. As her nails dug deeper into his flesh, she purred.
In order to keep the female suspects he wanted on his side, he forced himself to smile. Naturally, Mary." After making an effort to be gentle, he released her hand from his body. If you'll excuse me, now."
The subsequent he pulled back from her, a triumphant sneer surfaced. He could smell and feel the clean air moving from his nose to his lungs as it removed the toxins from the town because the exit was so close. When he heard a voice yell, he was only a few meters away. Do you have a minute, Father? Graham's eyes lit up with excitement as he turned to look at the woman who had called him, despite the fact that he was beginning to become irritated by the intrusion.
He had finally reached the jailbird.
Yes, of course. Even though he was yelling in triumph on the inside, he kept his face emotionless. Stay with me.
Surely, Sean was astonished and rubbing his eyes.
Graham took the young woman away from the vultures and into the confessional room. He let her settle into her seat and took his own seat after being a gentleman for a moment and opening the door to her side.
They were both pawns in that game, after all.
"I have sinned, please forgive me, father."