The Pope: Cards of Love

by Lovell, LP

  Dragging myself out of bed, I go to the bathroom and glance at my reflection in the mirror. Dark shadows linger beneath my eyes, and my cheekbones protrude sharply against my almost translucent skin. My haggard appearance should probably bother me, but I just don’t care.

  It’s not until I walk downstairs to make some coffee that I see the calendar on the wall. Today’s date is circled in thick red pen with stars drawn all around it and the scrawl of Izzy’s handwriting. Izzy’s birthday. Buy me cake! Shit, how long has it been since the funeral? Two weeks? I feel like I’ve lost two weeks of my life in an alcoholic coma. I’ve been going through the motions, even going to uni some days. Just drunk. And now today is what would have been Izzy’s birthday. She died a month short of twenty-two. If that’s not a tragedy, then I don’t know what is.

  Guilt on top of guilt on top of guilt. I pour a cup of coffee and throw in a good dose of Baileys because being sober does not appeal right now.

  “Lila.”

  I turn at the sound of Tiff’s voice. Her eyes trace over my face, her brows pinching together in silent concern. “Hey.”

  Tiff leans against the far counter and folds her arms over her chest. Her eyes drop to the coffee in my hand before shifting to the bottle on the side. “Izzy wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself,” she says.

  “Well, she’s not here to ask, is she?” And that’s on me. But Tiff doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that I gave Izzy’s boyfriend those drugs, or in fact that I’ve ever dealt drugs. No one does. Izzy was the only one I ever told, and only because I knew she’d never disapprove. Izzy was too wild for petty judgements. Tiff is lovely, but she’s studying to be a doctor. Sure, she parties and gets drunk sometimes, but she’s good. She doesn’t get me like Izzy did.

  “It was an accident. It’s sad and awful, but she’s gone. You’re still here.” Tiff shakes her head. “And you’re wasting your life being drunk all the time.”

  “Thanks, but I just…can’t do this today.”

  Today we absolutely should be drunk all day, because if Izzy were here, she sure as hell would be. Isabelle always threw crazy birthday parties and would go on random day trips. Last year, she decided at midnight that we were going to go to Paris. So we got in the car, and by eight the next morning, we were in Paris. She never thought anything through, just acted. I miss it. I miss her brand of crazy and the way she made me feel a little more normal when I was with her. I miss the way that she never questioned anything. There are no wrong decisions in life, she would say.

  I take a shower and put on a clean pair of jeans and a jumper. When I look in the mirror, I look more human.

  Putting another coffee in a to-go cup, I walk outside. I flinch because it’s bright and loud, and my head is still pounding.

  On the tube, I watch the people going about their normal lives, and I envy them. I wish I could just go back to normal. I loved Izzy, but I wish I could just forget, that this lead weight would disappear.

  By the time I get to uni, the Baileys in my coffee is kicking in a little, bathing me in a layer of blissful numbness.

  Taking a seat at the back of the lecture hall, I tuck myself into a corner. The lecturer talks about something, but I have no idea what. I’m like a puppet on strings, going through the motions — feeling nothing, seeing nothing.

  After the lecture, I head home, but on the way, I stop in at the off license and the bakery.

  The house is quiet when I get in. The sun is just starting to dip, spilling its last rays through the kitchen window.

  Removing the cupcake from its little box, I rummage in the junk drawer for a candle and place it in the middle of the pink icing. Striking a match, I light it, watching the little flame dance back and forth happily. Taking the cheap bottle of vodka, I twist the top off with a satisfying crack.

  “Here’s to you, Izzy. Happy birthday.” I lift the bottle before tipping it back, watching the bubbles glug upward as the rancid petrol taste burns down my throat. So, I sit, and drink, and watch the wax drip onto the icing because I don’t have the heart to blow that stupid candle out.

  I jolt awake at the sound of loud banging. It takes me a moment to work out where I am. It’s dark, but moonlight gives enough illumination for me to see I’m in my living room, on the sofa.

  Bang, bang, bang. It’s the front door. Dragging myself off the sofa, I stumble down the hallway to answer it. When I pull the door open, I find Nate standing there. My heart falters for a beat, and my fingers tighten into fists. The flickering orange glow of the streetlight behind him gives his dark hair a demonic sheen. I haven’t seen him since the day of Izzy’s funeral, two weeks ago, the day I tried to go to the police. He’s texted and called non-stop. Tiff mentioned him turning up here once or twice, but she never let him in.

  “What do you want?”

  “You didn’t call me back,” he says, his brows pulled into a tight frown.

  A high-pitched laugh slips past my lips. “Seriously?”

  “Baby, don’t be like that.” Stepping closer, he invades my space.

  “I can’t deal with you right now, Nate.”

  Placing a finger beneath my chin, he forces me to look at him. “Are you drunk?”

  I go to close the door, but he shoulders it open with his body.

  “What the fuck, Lila?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I will my head to stop spinning. “Please leave.”

  His palms cup my cheeks and warm breath rushes over my lips. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  I open my eyes and meet the deep chocolate of his irises. “What for? Threatening me? Or for the friend I killed?”

  “You didn’t kill her, and I’m just trying to protect you.”

  “You’re protecting yourself,” I snap. “She’s dead. I’m guilty, and you’re just…living your life.” All the anger, the frustration, the hurt, it just pours out, streaming down my face in salty wet lines.

  Without warning, Nate pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. I know I should hate him, that I should fight this, but I don’t. I just accept it because, in my drunken haze, I think I need it. For a single moment, I want to feel as though I’m not entirely alone with this, and seeing as he’s the only person who knows what truly happened, he’s all I’ve got. I hear the front door click shut, and then he scoops me up, holding me to his chest as he carries me to my room. I sit on his lap, crying into his shirt until a huge wet patch stains the material.

  “It’ll all be fine. Just give it time.”

  “I don’t think it can be,” I whisper.

  There’s a pause, and he inhales a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. “It will.”

  He hugs me tighter, but it does nothing to fight off the trembling of my body. “All I see is her face. Judging me. Hating me.” I press my fingers to my temples. “It never stops.”

  Grabbing my jaw, he twists my head until I’m forced to look up at him. “This is just the way the world works, Lila. You didn’t force the pills down her throat. You don’t even know if that was it. She might have taken something else.”

  I know he’s trying to make it better, but he’s not. The world exists on the butterfly effect. One person’s decisions and actions affect another’s. My choice had a consequence.

  Nate leaves in the early hours of the morning to handle some ‘business’. He guts the house of all the alcohol before he goes, and in doing so, takes my only crutch. I can’t sleep, and the more I sober up, the louder my thoughts are getting.

  Getting out of bed, I tear through the kitchen, trying to find an errant bottle he forgot about. There must be something, somewhere. Izzy always had a stash… Climbing the stairs, I creep down the hall, the dodgy floorboard at the end squeaking as I move to her door.

  Pushing the door open, I suck in a breath and turn the light on. Her parents came and took a lot of her stuff, but the furniture, the made-up bed, the desk…all remain. I swear I can smell the faintest hint of her perfume. Bingo. I snatch the bottle of
Tequila off her windowsill, though there’s barely a couple of shots worth at the bottom. Of course, not even Nate would come in Isabelle’s room to search for booze. No one comes in here. Unscrewing the top, I take a swig as I go to the desk, to the corkboard that hangs above it. Pictures are tacked to it, and buried among them is one of us in Thailand, where we met. We are at a party with both of our straws in the same giant frozen margarita. If only we knew then where our naïve antics would lead.

  Taking a seat on the bed, I stare at it through tears, draining the remainder of the bottle. Falling back on the sheets, I lie there. Waiting for my mind to quiet, but it never does. On a groan, I push to my feet and walk out of the room. I need more. Grabbing my purse and coat, I head downstairs and step outside. My goal is the corner shop, a couple of streets over, but when I get there, it’s closed. Shit. Somewhere around here must be open. And so I walk, aimlessly, my thoughts drifting until I realise I’m standing in a park. A full moon sits low in the sky, illuminating everything in a muted silvery light. There are flowerbeds full of bright yellow daffodils that seem to glow even in the darkness, as though their symbolic happiness simply cannot be extinguished.

  At the edge of the park is an old stone wall, and beyond it lay headstones, scattered through the shadows of the enormous church, every bit as forgotten as the long-dead people buried beneath them. I slip through the tiny gateway and move between the stones, soaking in the utter silence that seems to linger in a graveyard more than any other place. It’s as though the world is holding its breath, paying its respects. I trace my fingers over one stone, the top covered in moss and the face so weatherworn that the writing has long since eroded.

  Following the graveyard around the church, I find myself standing on the other side, by the main road. The ancient stone steps lead up to solid double doors, and one is open. The hand-painted wooden sign says it’s St Mary’s Catholic church. I can already smell the incense in the air, and the glow of candlelight from inside acts like a beacon to a lost soul. I linger on the steps for a moment, feeling stupid. And then I remember that Catholics have wine. Without thought, I ascend the steps and go in. It’s silent, with not a single person in sight. The air is chilled, the result of a solid stone structure and no heating. But despite that, there’s a sense of calm and peace here.

  I’m not sure I believe in anything more than what’s right in front of us, but there is something to be said for a church. A sense of serenity that could almost make a non-believer feel as though something greater has reached out a hand and offered a safe haven from their demons. Though I have no explanation for it, for the first time in weeks, I feel as though I am not alone in my anguish.

  For a moment, I forget why I came in here. Taking a seat on a pew at the front of the church, I glance up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, her open arms, and her tender expression. Maybe she’ll understand me.

  I jolt awake and groan when my neck screams in protest.

  “Sorry, but you can’t sleep here,” someone says.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” I blink and focus on the figure standing in front of me. His long black robes make him look like a reaper, but as I lift my eyes, I see the white dog collar at his throat. He’s a priest. When I reach his face, I pause. He has the kind of face that could lure even the most righteous into sin. He’s beautiful. Not handsome or hot, but truly beautiful.

  “You’re…the priest?” I ask.

  He smiles, and it sinks a dimple into the chiselled plane of his cheek. “The collar would suggest so.” Deep blue eyes meet mine, twinkling with amusement. “And the church.” He holds his hands out, gesturing to our surroundings.

  “Of course.” I drop my chin to my chest.

  “I’m Father Kavanagh.” He takes a seat beside me, and for a moment we just sit in silence. “I’ve never seen you before. What brings you here?” he asks.

  “I’m not religious.”

  “Alright.”

  I glance at him. “That’s it? Alright?”

  A wry smile makes an appearance and something in my chest flutters. “You came here because you’re looking for something. You just don’t know what it is.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re so earnest that I feel as though I would trust him with my life.

  “I came here looking for wine,” I blurt.

  He laughs, the sound like thunder rolling through the high arches of the stone church. “That’s a new one.”

  “Do you have any?”

  He laughs. “You smell like a distillery. I don’t think you need any more.”

  I push to my feet. “Well, thank you for your holy opinion.”

  “Sit,” he barks, and for some reason, I comply instantly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Delilah.”

  His gaze locks with mine, so full of promises, so intense I feel like I could drown in it. “Do you need something to believe in, Delilah?”

  “I think I do,” I whisper.

  5

  Judas

  There’s something so tragic about her — vulnerability, desperation. Mahogany hair spills over her shoulders, framing a pale face. Dark circles linger beneath her eyes, the exact colour of storm clouds and so full of sadness I can almost feel her pain. And yet, it makes her obvious beauty become so much more.

  “Would you like to confess, Delilah?” I ask. I want to know what haunts this lost little lamb to make her stray so far from the flock.

  Her full lips part and then close again. “I can do that?”

  “I’m here. You’re here. And the confessional is here.”

  “Is…everything I say confidential?”

  “It’s between you and God. I’m simply the messenger,” I recite the words I’ve spoken a hundred times before. People want to confess their sins, to buy their way to heaven, but they don’t want their dirty little secrets getting out. I’m curious what Delilah has to say that could warrant her asking though. Confidentiality implies shame at best and illegality at worst, and that always excites me.

  Offering her my hand, she slides cold fingers over my palm before I pull her to her feet. I show her to the confessional, and she steps inside. Taking up position, I settle on the hard wooden bench.

  “So, you start by crossing yourself. Then say; forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  She repeats the words back. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

  “Then you’d usually say how long it’s been since your last confession, but seeing as you aren’t religious…”

  “I’ve never confessed,” she confirms. A virgin. Full of sins un-forgiven — just languishing on the soul. Religious or not, I find that usually does something to a person. Guilt and absolution are powerful. The human conscience is fragile, and often religion will lend it a false sense of strength when it falters.

  “Well, now is the time, Delilah.” I lean forward, a small rush firing through my veins. I want to know what she did, more so than usual. Perhaps it’s that deep, gut-wrenching sadness I saw running rampant in those eyes of hers. Or maybe it’s simply that she’s beautiful. Beauty hides a multitude of sins, but scratch the surface, and they come spilling out.

  “I…” She pauses and takes a shuddering breath. “I did something horrible, and I can’t forgive myself.”

  “We all do horrible things.”

  “But it hurt someone else,” she says, her voice hitching.

  “Did you intend to hurt them?”

  “No!”

  “But you feel guilt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then God will forgive if you are truly repentant.”

  I hear the soft hitch of her breath, a sniffle, and through the divider, I can just make out the porcelain of her cheek, the tears tracking over her skin. I usually like the anonymity of the confessional, to not see the faces of the damned, but I find myself staring, watching a single tear trickle over jaw and down the column of her throat. She’s a pretty girl, but she’s stunning when she cries.

  I listen to peopl
e confess how they cheated on their wife or were unkind to their neighbour. Normal people acting in human ways, seeking absolution, just so the pearly white gates are open to them. And I, the false pretender, grant them their salvation, knowing they’re not truly sorry for any of it because isn’t that the way the world works? Everyone is fundamentally selfish.

  But this girl…this girl is different. Tortured.

  “You believe in God?” she breathes.

  “Of course.”

  “If you were him, would you forgive me?” Interesting.

  “I don’t know what you did. He does.” There’s a beat of silence. “Do you believe you are worthy of redemption?”

  “No.” Ah, a sinner who does not seek forgiveness, only acceptance. A rare gem.

  “Then where does that leave you, Delilah?”

  There’s a pause. “Lost,” she whispers.

  “Then find your way home.” I stand up. “Goodbye, Delilah.”

  I leave the confessional, disappointed that she didn’t tell me more. That she didn’t pour out her soul.

  I want to know how far the pretty girl with the sad eyes has fallen.

  6

  Delilah

  When I get home, I quietly open the front door, letting myself in. The scent of brewing coffee hits me, and when I step into the kitchen, I see Tiff leaning on the breakfast bar reading the paper. She’s dressed in workout clothes, and I know she’s getting ready to go to her morning yoga class.

  She glances up at me, her brows pulling tightly together. “Where have you been?”

  “Um…I actually went to a church.”

  “Church?” I nod. “It’s six thirty in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  “And you aren’t religious.”

  “I know. I just sort of…ended up there.”