Hello, readers! I haven't updated in a really, really, really long time, and I'm incredibly sorry for that, but you know my typical excuses, school, homework, social, etc. Not only that, but I also just want to get this RIGHT, you know? I hate it when I get writer's block and suddenly no words seem to flow together perfectly like they should in my head. So here's a fairly long chapter for the moment, and since I've neglected to update I'll try to post more as the week goes on. I've actually written about 35 pages of this story so far… which I personally think is pretty cool. A quick shout out to reviewers:

Faith Ciel—Why thank you! And yikes… that's definitely… not good, now is it? I might look into another church! 3

Skyblue1130—Haha, thanks! Yeah my style is dark and gothic because, well… I'm kind of dark and gothic. ;) Thanks for the review!

Curledruler—Thanks so much. I've lived the whole depression ordeal and am still dealing with some of the after-effects of it. I don't think I'll ever outgrow it or forget about it, but the only thing I can do is share my experiences and hope some good comes out of it, and that I can portray it accurately. Thanks for your review!

And finally, to one of my favorite reviewers (not that all of you aren't awesome), doxthextimexwarp. Dude, not only do I love your pen name (Rocky Horror Picture Show kicks ass!), but your reviews are incredibly sweet, eloquent and well though out. You are a constant inspiration to me (for reviewing ALL of my chapters, and actually READING my dumb author notes), as well as a good writer and reader. You always seem to get the point I'm trying to get across, and even add new insights of your own. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.

Thanks so much everyone! 3 Breathe

Clare found herself in an unknown room, idly tracing the threadbare flowers on Father Smith's decrepit couch. She picked meticulously at vague stains, scratching off bits of crust with her pale rose painted nail. She could hear the distant screeching of a kettle coming to a boil and ceramic mugs clanking together, the noise resounding painfully against the aged walls of the compact study.

Clare looked up, blue eyes scanning the cluttered desk to her left, the rickety bookshelf beside it, a retro cat clock on the wall, and, finally, glancing to right and into the cramped little kitchen where the Father was currently bustling about, preparing tea.

The herbal scent graciously filled Clare's sinuses, cleansing the scent of nicotine and tobacco from her nostrils. She could see tendrils of smoke billowing from the kitchen doorway, looping and gliding through the air, morphing from shape to shape.

The vicar emerged from the room, two cups of steaming liquid in hand, and a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He had shed his robes down to only a black suit with his white collar peaking out at the neck. He beamed affably at Clare around his smoke, puffing grey fog into the air.

"This'll be our little secret," he said, and winked, demitasses clinking as the hit the glass of the coffee table beside her, annunciation slurred as he attempted to speak clearly with the presence of the butt in his mouth. "You don't mind, do you?"

Clare shook her head, though her eyes were beginning to water and her chest constricted miserably. Her face bore a grim, slight smile. She coughed lightly, covering her mouth genteelly, attempting politeness and decorousness, though a sharp pain was beginning to form in her temples.

She cleared her throat, grasping desperately at thoughts flying through her nervous brain, trying to make conversation. "So, seriously, no one showed up to the service?" she asked.

The reverend nodded solemnly, drawing the cig from his mouth, and sending graceful spirals circling around Clare's body, sinking into her clothes and lacing through her hair. He gave a lofty puff, eyes slanted upward, as if in thought.

"Probably busy with their own lives to worry about personal salvation. I suppose we all must succumb to worldly things at one point," he sighed, a draft of ashy exhaust leaking from his throat. "I mean look at me, Clare." He gestured to himself. "I'm a role model to young women, like you, everywhere, but I still give into temptation."

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back on his couch's arm and propped his legs on the cushions, ankles crossed. He took another drag.

"After awhile," He breathed, each syllable pronounced releasing a toke of nauseating smog. "You just… give in to desires. You just can't hold back anymore."

Father Smith tilted his head downwards, eyeing Clare forcefully, his gaze burning into her flesh like the heat smoldering the reverend's stick of tobacco.

"What I'm saying is, Clare, is that at the end of the day, we have to accept the inevitability that we're all just human."

Clare shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like that thought. What was the point of going through life, striving toward perfection—or, for that matter, anything—when all was said and done; you had to accept that you're always flawed, no matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you want?

She tensed. 'Don't think about it, don't think about it…'

"Do you have any less-than-admirable desires, Clare?"

Her gaze shot to his, blue hitting blue, her breath catching at the extremity of his stare. Almost immediately, her head dropped, auburn curls spilling over her flushing cheeks, her eyes desperately boring into her shoes. Snippets of mental pictures flashed through her mind: Declan, face illuminated by cobalt light, sinking his teeth gently into her pulse, visions of Eli kissing her like she wished he would every time she glimpsed his face defiantly turned away from hers, and finally, her standing on top of a building somewhere, wind whipping her hair, and snatching any tears that threatened to fall; then, bare feet, slowly—yet firmly—walking towards the edge and just falling…

'Free, free, free…'

"Clare?"

Her head snapped up, jolted from her reverie, reality smashing into her gut, nearly doubling her over with its force.

"I-I-I um," she stuttered.

The priest sat up quickly, leaning forward with concern creasing his brow. He tore the cigarette from his mouth, rapidly firing an apology.

"It's okay though, Clare. I can keep a secret." He smiled demurely at her, winking. "I mean, if you can't trust me… who really can you trust?"

Clare held his gaze warily, a curtain of hair covering half her face as if shielding her from the world. She knew he was right. Wasn't this what Clare had prayed for? Someone to listen? Someone to ask, to take notice? She looked down at her folded hands, fiddling with her ring restlessly. She looked back up, taking a breath, poised to speak.

"I," she began, halting, then taking another shaky breath. "I…think about things. Things that I shouldn't."

The deacon nodded, his face emotionless, devoid of judgment, and for that, Clare was thankful. "Go on." He said softly, his voice warm and comforting, seeming to cloak her in a feeling of acceptance and relief, giving her courage to continue.

"Like I'm supposed to be this perfect, pure Christian girl, but I still think about boys and sex and everything. I get straight A's, but sometimes I slack off, or sometimes I don't do as well as I should, but even worse, sometimes I try as hard as I can, but just can't do it well enough. I hate that I'm human. Because I know what I need to do, and what I need to be, but my stupid emotions get in the way. It's like there are these two sides of me that are constantly at odds with one another, and it's tearing me apart!" Clare sucked in a breath. Now that she had begun to speak, the words refused to stop tumbling from her lips. After releasing the secrets that had weighed on her shoulders for so long, she felt hollow and empty and lightheaded and scared. The only thing that seemed important in that moment was to release the tension that had constricted her for so long.

"And my parents fight, my sister's gone, I don't have any friends, and sometimes I just wish I was dead!" Her voice shook, and tears began their slow and silent descent down her cheeks. Her face burned with embarrassment and shame, but she couldn't stop the confessions retching from her throat.

She covered her face. "I know that it's a sin to take one's own life," she whispered, lowering her voice drastically from her previous shouts. "But sometimes I just wonder… if—if it's almost… worth it." Her voice cracked on the final two words, as she dissolved into sobs.

She had said it. Now it wasn't going away. She couldn't forget about it. It was here. Here to stay.

As she heard the creak of rusty springs, and felt a sympathetic arm around her shoulders, all Clare could do was bawl.

Father Smith attempted to shush her, rubbing her arm and whispering words of consolation.

"It's okay, Clare, it's okay. You're safe here."

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to his chest, so that she could feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart. She breathed in his scent of cologne and cigarette smoke, and embraced his warmth, clinging tightly to him.

"I've never told anyone that." She whispered brokenly, her breathing uneven, her body shaking.

The reverend's fingers buried themselves in her hair, combing it gently as his hot breath grazed her neck.

"Sh, Clare," he crooned. "You're just a lost sheep, remember the biblical stories? You just need to find your shepherd, and I'll be more than willing to help you."

Clare drew away from his grip slowly, her watery eyes meeting his.

"Really?" she asked breathlessly, and he beamed widely at her, eyes softening.

He smiled sadly, tucking a curl out of her red, puffy face. "Of course." He mumbled, fingers lingering on her cheekbone, tracing it lightly.

"Now." He said resolutely, grasping her shoulders firmly. "Tell me what else is causing these… these…"

"Suicidal thoughts." Clare muttered bitterly.

The deacon frowned slightly. "I suppose that's one term for it, yes."

Clare breathed deeply, trying to calm her shallow breaths, and still her jumbled thoughts.

"It—well, it sort of started with a boy," Clare admitted, feeling her cheeks heat to a bright scarlet in mortification and disgust. Had she really turned into one of those girls? The ones that thought about killing themselves just because of unrequited love? She was sure there was more to it; Eli was just a mere facet in her darkness, a factor further proving that love didn't exist.

The Father nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral as though he had expected as much. "And I'm guessing this boy broke your heart?"

Clare sighed deeply, rubbing her temples that were throbbing dully do to the strain of her tears. "Yes—well, no. Like, he's only part of it, you know? I have all this stuff going on around me, so you'd think I wouldn't even have time to think about him, but it exacerbates things. With all these horrible things happening, the only way I can seem to cope is by focusing my attention on the positive—that's what I've been told to do my entire life—but then when that goodness, that promise, that solace is gone… it takes everything to a whole new level." She glanced up and back rapidly, attempting to gauge the Father's reaction, but refusing to look him in the eyes. She let out a shuddered sigh, closing her eyes tightly against a newly forming headache. "I'm sorry, I'm probably not making any sense, and I'm probably just over-reacting, but—"

She was cut off by warm flesh pressing against her lips. The finger was perspiring slightly, she decided from the heat of the cig, but it still bore the compassion behind the gesture. Clare felt the hot brush of skin glide over her cheek, a hand softly cupping her face, causing the hairs on her arms to prickle with daunting electricity.

"Clare." The priest exhaled, gusting scalding breath across her face, casing her in a cloud of bitter stench and heat. She timidly opened her eyes, which widened slightly at the diminutive negative space between her body and his.

Clare made a small noise in the back of her throat in surprise, which made the deacon smile, eyes glinting in amusement.

"Clare, never worry about any of that." He said gently, his thumb tracing the ridge of her cheekbone, sending chills up her spine. "I'm here for you. All for you. It's you and me against the world."

He slowly removed his finger from her lips, allowing it to trail down her neck and graze the cold metal of her cross necklace. He twirled the chain around his finger off-handedly, watching it flash as it reflected his gleaming grin.

"You're a good person, Clare, and even more important, a good Christian. God wants me to help you." He said, flicking his eyes up to meet hers, his grin widening to something feral.

"I think he knows it will make us both very, very happy."

Creepy. Very creepy. Especially after reading some of the news articles about the English boys who had been molested by the Vatican clergy. I'm really glad I go this chapter over with because now, with a bunch of build-up and emotional set-up done; I can finally get into the really dark, emotional stuff, which I LOVE writing about. Hint: 'THE SCENE' as I shall now call it (where all the emotional trauma begins) will probably be either in the chapter after next, or the one after that.

Much Love,

3 Breathe