The Priest Wants to Retire

〈 Chapter 53 〉 Black History (3)

*

It was nothing.

Not even the pain that felt like a long, thin centipede was digging under my skin.

Not the sharp glares and rocks aimed at us, the siblings.

Not the cold that seeped into my bones.

Not the hunger that twisted my insides.

Not the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that pressed down on me.

If this felt like just another moment of being abandoned again, it was truly nothing at all.

My younger sibling, still too innocent to understand, would sometimes ask me about our parents.

What kind of people Mom and Dad were.

Every time, I would mumble that I didn’t remember much since it was too long ago, but that was a bold-faced lie.

I remembered clearly.

I remembered when and where they laughed and cried.

What food they liked.

How they spent their free time.

How they viewed my sibling and me.

And.

I could even vividly recall the words and expressions they had when they pushed my hand away, as if it had happened just yesterday.

“I will definitely come back for you.”

Now I know. That those words were wrapped in a flimsy lie.

No, I knew it in my head back then, but it would be more accurate to say I couldn’t bear to accept the cold reality.

Someone had said that to a child, parents are like the entire world.

I thought that was quite a convincing statement.

In that moment, it would not be an exaggeration to say my world had completely collapsed.

The crushing despair felt as if the ground I had just been standing on had crumbled away in an instant, taking so much from me.

After that, it carelessly tossed a few trivial realizations my way that were far from worth their weight, then faded away with a chuckle.

“Don’t expect anything. Don’t hope for anything.”

Don’t seek the gentle touch of another to cradle your weakness.

“Be strong. You must become strong.”

So you won’t need to find something to lean on. So you can stand alone without having to grasp someone’s hand.

In this unfair world, no one to empathize with my plight, because no god exists.

My name. Triana Abigail.

When I first learned that Abigail means bringing joy to God.

“Shut up with that crap.”

A curse slipped out of my mouth.

If this miserable arc of my life was intentionally sculpted by the creator we call God.

If it was merely entertainment created by God to relieve boredom,

What a splendid hobby they must have.

As a creation, I wanted nothing more than to hurl a curse at them.

Yet.

I couldn’t take back the outstretched hand that longed for someone’s help.

“Nu… Na…”

“It’s okay. Bigtim. Uncle… Uncle will be here soon…”

My sibling still didn’t know. I hoped they wouldn’t.

The pain of being cast away by a trusted figure. The loneliness of feeling left all alone in the world.

Unlike me, who had already burst the wound I had been nursing since that old evening, I hoped my sibling wouldn’t suffer such pain.

“Uncle is just busy for a little while and can’t contact us.”

That was a lie.

“I wrote letters every day! Soon, the Priest will come to heal us!”

A bright red lie.

“Uncle hasn’t abandoned us.”

A pathetic lie.

The way I endlessly spun lies to reassure my sibling was now remarkably similar to how our parents had behaved when they abandoned us.

Empty sweet words that I couldn’t even take responsibility for, spewing them without thinking. That disgusting sight of me must have been quite an eyesore.

It was perhaps fortunate that my sibling, cursed and afflicted with the plague, didn’t have to see me in such a state.

Rustle rustle.

That distinct sound heard whenever I scribbled on crumpled paper picked from the garbage mixed with ink, served as a lullaby that would put my sibling to sleep.

This was a glimpse into our lives about a year after the curse and plague settled upon us and Uncle had cut off his support.

In reality, I had long since given up on everything.

I thought Uncle had completely left us behind.

The letters I had written religiously every day were merely a means to soothe my sibling.

I didn’t particularly feel resentment or disappointment.

There may be some who feed stray cats, but very few would bring such dirty animals home.

Someone had come quietly and left quietly.

Perhaps he ran out of money.

Or maybe something unavoidable had come up.

Or maybe he had simply lost interest.

Even if I wanted to guess at the cause, there were no adequate pieces of evidence to suggest it, so the blank, white space had to be filled solely with my imagination.

It was just a relationship where we occasionally exchanged money.

It was a one-way relationship where not even a single proper reply was exchanged.

I thought such a meaningless conclusion was inevitable.

Cough cough!

The black blood that oozed from my mouth with my cough utterly ruined the precious stationery I had managed to obtain.

“…”

I felt nothing at all.

I merely stared at the paper, which was being stained black, while chewing on the heavy silence.

Rustle.

I carefully unfolded an old note I had kept in my pocket as a talisman.

[Happy Birthday]

Sometimes, whenever I faced hardship or felt upset, looking at this note would cheer me up somewhat.

But.

“W-ha, wuh… ugh…”

Instead of energy, uncontrollable sobs came pouring out.

Screech. Snap.

Before long, I ripped that note to shreds.

Thud.

It was right after that.

A strange sound echoed from my sibling’s bedroom.

◈◈◈

A run-down church far removed from the orphanage.

It was a place where my sibling and I were quarantined due to the curse and plague.

The last temporary refuge, offered by the director as a final act of charity for what he had brought us.

The village kids called it ‘the coffin,’ a terribly grim name.

I couldn’t say they were wrong.

With massive holes in the walls and mold and rats all around, it was reeking of death.

Yet, despite the smell, there were beds and blankets.

And there were also various edible herbs scattered about.

It was just enough to keep two sick children from starving to death.

It was a living environment that only barely sufficed.

Cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and on rainy days the whole place became a flooded mess.

Still, it was far better than sleeping in a cave teeming with wild animals, so I thought I could endure those shortcomings.

The only major flaw was the weak security, which made us too vulnerable to the occasional intrusion by rascals.

But I confidently believed that no idiot would wander into a space occupied by sick people under a curse.

That’s what I thought.

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

“Is anyone there!”

Gripping a rusty herb-picking knife tightly, my sibling anxiously stared at the strange light seeping from the depths of the bedroom.

The shape of the shadow flickering along with the threads of light. Given its size,

It was undoubtedly an adult figure that had entered our home.

“I… I have to protect!”

I wanted to hold the knife firmly with both hands, but because my body was half-paralyzed from the effects of the curse,

Despite exerting all my strength, my trembling hand could barely hold onto the small knife without letting go.

“Ha, ha…! Ha, ha…!”

A rascally intruder burst into the dilapidated church.

It was clear that this intruder didn’t come for money; what they were going to do to half-paralyzed children was painfully obvious.

That ominous suspicion was powerful enough to render me utterly frantic.

“I… I have to die…! I have to kill…!”

It was heavy.

The weight of the knife itself shouldn’t have differed from when I took it out to cut herbs.

But just a moment’s complacency felt like my wrists would snap like branches under that immense heaviness pressing down on my consciousness.

Breath quickened, mouth dry, and what was once a clear line of sight was growing narrower with a liquid that could have been sweat or tears.

“W-huh, who… Who… please… d-don’t… help me…”

It was a ridiculous sight.

I was whispering a plea for help in a voice no one could hear.

My heart longed to escape.

To drop the knife, turn around, and run into the arms of someone dependable who could protect my sibling from this sudden threat.

But.

There were no adults to lean on for an abandoned child.

As that chilling reality seeped into my consciousness, making me panic further,

The moment I finally laid my eyes on someone’s figure groping my sibling’s body through the door crack,

As if an arrow had been drawn taut, my rooted legs suddenly slammed the ground.

“Who are you! What are you doing to my sibling!”

Yelling for courage, I swung the knife.

The destination of that clumsy strike was aimed at the intruder’s throat.

However, I failed.

The knife sunk into the back of the intruder’s hand instead of their throat.

Swoosh.

An unpleasant sensation of cold steel crunching through flesh transmitted through my grip.

At that moment, as blood splattered onto my face, my vision was completely engulfed in sticky red.

All senses felt hazy and distant.

Not because my emotions were in turmoil, but because all of my consciousness was drawn to the shocking visual information right before me.

He was crying.

*