“The power of Christ compels you,” Father Quinn said, over and over, as the priest poured liquid over his bare skin. Holy water? He was dousing Joseph with holy water. The blessed water ran down his back and over his ribs to the stone floor beneath him. The rest of the Brethren joined in with the scripture spilling from Father Quinn’s mouth. Joseph looked to the boys that he could see—Diel, Raphael, and Michael. He kept his eyes on his brother. Michael’s face was locked in a neutral expression, but Joseph noticed the flare of anger in his brother’s blue eyes. In this moment Michael wasn’t in the place where he mentally took himself off to. He was here with Joseph. In this room, during this assault . . . he was with him. Joseph didn’t tear his gaze away from that ice-blue stare, seeking comfort in the only thing he could.
Body heat smothered his back. Joseph stopped breathing as his legs were pulled to the side. Joseph struggled to get free, he fought and fought, until he screamed as Father Quinn thrust into him. The pain was indescribable. Through it all, Joseph never moved his eyes from Michael’s. Tears threatened to fall, but Joseph kept them back. He choked on the pain, on the fear and the devastation at what was being done to him. The candles flickered from the draft sneaking into the room underneath the closed doors. The Brethren’s chants became louder as Father Quinn moved faster and faster. Joseph felt the priest’s sweat drop onto his back, heard his grunts and groans in his ears. Joseph’s nails snapped as he raked at the stone beneath him. At some point, he began to drift from the scene, giving over to his mind that was trying to block everything out, to pull him from the reality of this moment.
Joseph didn’t feel the completion. Didn’t register the roar of release and the seed spilling from his mentor into his broken and bleeding body. Slowly, with the subtle clenching of Michael’s jaw and the flicker of relief in his brother’s eyes, he blinked himself back into the room.
Joseph’s heavy, labored breathing was a clap of thunder as the chanting stopped. His cheek was cold from the stone beneath him. But something had changed. He had lost something in that moment. He couldn’t say what, but he felt it. A shift in his soul. A fissure in his heart.
The death of him as a child.
Joseph had always cherished the name of his church, his home, and his school—Holy Innocents. A tribute to the boys lost under Herod’s reign, sacrificed as the king searched for Jesus, the baby that would one day overthrow him as king. The home took in vulnerable children with no family to call their own. They raised boys in the family of the church.
But this . . . this was a insult to the name and creed of the school and orphanage. It was a mockery.
It wasn’t innocence protected; it was innocence stolen.
Joseph was pulled to his feet, his ruined scraps of clothes thrust into his hands. His legs were weak, and he was unsure if he could even stand. He couldn’t dress. But he didn’t care. He had no modesty left. Being naked was nothing compared to what had just happened. A hand took his arm to steady his shaky limbs. Raphael was beside him, his hand discreetly hidden so the Brethren couldn’t see his aid. Joseph dressed quickly, tightening his jaw so he didn’t cry out from the pain. Even in the candlelight he saw the blood on the stone floor.
His blood.
Nausea built in his throat, but Joseph didn’t know what else to feel. He was numb, in shock. The Brethren dressed and silently led the way out of the room as though they hadn’t just tortured and degraded the boys. Bara, as before, took the lead. In a daze, Joseph followed Uriel, Raphael following behind him, a comforting presence at his back. When they entered the dorm room and the door was locked behind them, Joseph staggered to his bed. He winced when he tried to sit, so he lay on his side instead. He held his hand out and saw that it was shaking.
The room was deathly silent, so it was no surprise that he heard the feet of the others approaching. As before when he was branded with the upturned cross, they gathered around his bed. Joseph closed his eyes and whispered, “I couldn’t stop them from hurting you. I tried . . . but I wasn’t strong enough.” He sucked in a quaky breath. “I’m so sorry.”
He would never forgive himself for not being able to get them all out of that room.
It would be a cross to bear all his life . . . however long that may be.