forgive me, father, for i have sinned
a/n: the child in this story is intentionally ambiguous.
She's not sure, precisely, what the child has done. She knows only that imagined sin is wafting from sickly pale skin, so strong she could smell it a mile away. Several days have passed since she last raised a hand - or a belt - to one of them, and it is so important to ensure they do not grow comfortable, used to this.
It is prudent, she believes, to put out a fire before it starts, not struggle to salvage a burning house. In this way she knows that she must stamp out the seeds of sin that lie in little souls. Every child is full of them. They do not know enough to resist Satan's push for their humanity. Only she is capable of that.
Tonight, it must come to that.
"I-I'm sorry, mama," the child gasps out as innocent eyes meet her own. She too regrets that this is what she must do. But there is no use in fighting it. Spare the rod, spoil the child, they say.
It is in the name of the Lord, she believes, that she strikes.
She had wanted to use the belt, but dear little Credence is asleep and it is only in dreams that the poor boy may escape his sinful existence. The paddle is meant to be used only to spank, but it will do.
Yes, it will do nicely, as she raises it up and meets soft, trusting flesh. Only the sound of the impact is audible, bouncing off the walls of the dark, dreary church. Not even a scream, not a cry, not a shout issues from the little form below her.
She has taught her children very well.
That is, she has taught them well to bear their punishments as what they are, as the guiding hand of God manifesting itself through her. When they must be punished it is to remind them that their disgraceful acts will see them excluded from heaven. And yet she cannot stamp out whatever it is in them that fuels this behavior in the first place. If it is an affliction of the mind, a demon, even - oh, heaven forbid! - the work of a witch, she does not know. All she knows is that she must put it right.
The crack of paddle on skin is heard several more times. There is bruising by now, there must be. She will have to make sure that is covered up for church tomorrow. Then again, if years of devout church attendance has not healed this child's soul, what will? Only a miracle, one from the merciful God that this child refuses to allow into a floundering heart.
This is what truly incenses her to think about. The Bible says so plainly that Jesus was strung up on the cross for the sins of all mankind, and yet the child just cannot appreciate this love and mercy. It is therefore appropriate, apparently, to go on sinning without a care in the world, for all will be forgiven. By this nonsensical logic she should be able to go out and swell her womb with a child, marriage be damned, and expect to be welcomed unquestionably into paradise. Not all is forgiven, not by the Lord, and not by her.
There is something cathartic in releasing her pent-up frustration, paddling out her release until her own wrist begins to ache. By now there is blood spattering the smooth wooden surface. She will have to clean up the floor.
She will have to clean up the floor because of this wretched little ball of sin that has wormed its way into her life. When she adopted an orphan, it was because she wanted a child.
What she has is a child - the child of Satan himself.
There is blood all over the stairs now, as her fist clenches scratchy grey fabric and sends it tumbling backward. A weak little cry reminds her that she will also have to clean that up.
And then the cry grows silent, and she smiles.
"Blunt force trauma to the head," the coroner says, with a glance at the small bundle tucked beneath a white sheet.
He calls it an accident. She calls it a regretful casualty of her duty as a warrior of God.
If the child she so carefully raised prefers instead to incinerate in hell, even she cannot help such a wayward soul. But there is no room for a sinner in her dark, dreary house.
-end-