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Summary
The masturbatory confessions had become rather par for the course, for Jud, enough so that he could tune them out with regularity. On a particular Sunday, however, four months before the murder, Jud had stared blankly at the man across from him, fingers twitching halfway into fists, a twisting, nervous feeling making its home in his gut. Monsignor Wicks had been grinning widely at him, eyes narrowed in some sort of taunt, goading him.
“What,” Jud had said, voice pitchy, “did you just say?”
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or, Wicks doesn't just stick to stories of masturbation -
Bookmark Notes:
A heavy, ugly, shame sat atop him, reminiscent of a corpse, dead and unmoving and ever-present and beginning to rot.
It hung over him, the shame, the guilt, as he would twitch away from Wicks’ hands, as he would give the man a wide berth, barring any forced interactions. The other had won, had forced Jud into something submissive, no longer able to defy his teachings, and all he wanted was to hit, to bite, to bury the other in the ground, and he couldn’t because that wasn’t who he was, and so he endured.