#55 Short Story
They were alone
in an infested world
filled with lonely souls.
No connection.
Only needs, wants, time—
just for passing.
They were all victims
in need of saving
from no hero.
—
“I… uhh…”
Isabella was still dazed after the weight of what they had done finally dawned on her—last night, and early that morning. The realization crept in slowly, like an illness she had once believed herself cured of.
An itch followed. Then discomfort.
For the first time in a long while—maybe fifteen years—she felt impure.
Her fingers rubbed her shoulder, then her neck, then the nape of her hair, then her cheeks. Certain marks were visible. Kiss marks. Deep purple, blooming like bruised petals.
“I thought… I thought…” Her voice trembled. “I… I don’t think we can get away from this.”
She placed her hands against herself, measuring unconsciously—from her stomach down to her groin—as if confirming something had irrevocably changed.
“That was an intense night, right, Isabella?” the youthful lady beside her said cheerfully. “Even now, I can still feel it in me.” She chuckled and tightened her grip on Isabella’s arm. “I’m limping here, Bell. And that’s how you know—”
“Stop!”
They halted mid-step.
Two beautiful opposites standing still.
The other woman trembled with glee. Isabella trembled for another reason entirely—fear, shame, something close to grief.
She had thought herself cured of what she once called banality: a grief-stricken attraction toward sin. She had hated herself for years for ever craving the euphoria of it.
“You said…” Isabella’s voice quivered. “You said that was the last time. Right?”
“Yes,” her companion replied flatly. “And don’t forget—you needed the money.”
The words triggered a memory.
—
A small café. Unpopular. Quiet. Known only for niche-flavored drinks and pastries made by a rude chef freshly graduated from an unheard-of culinary school.
A cold droplet slid down Isabella’s glass of soda—the kind she promised herself never to order again.
Her hands trembled on the table. Her gaze fixed on nothing. Or perhaps on a void that stared back just as intently.
The ice cracked. Liquid splashed.
“Why are you here, Bell?” her companion asked, dressed casually—loose white long sleeves, baggy pants, flip-flops, toenails painted in mismatched colors from a whim she once decided to keep forever. Her fingernails, oddly, were bare.
Isabella’s eyes widened.
“I need money because—”
“Say no more.” Her companion grabbed her hands. The trembling stopped. “You still have your cute suit, right?”
“What?” Isabella pulled away. “I thought you stopped with… with—”
Her companion flicked her forehead.
“Ouch.”
“Wake up, Bell. Wake up.” Anger flickered, then pity, then glee. “Once you’ve tasted it, you don’t just walk away.”
“But I tried,” Isabella whispered. A smile almost formed, then stopped halfway. “I tried so hard. It had been months since—”
“So that’s why you vanished.” Her companion’s voice sharpened. “So? Where’s the bastard?”
Isabella chuckled weakly. This was the one person she could still call a friend.
“Jacob’s working in another town,” Isabella said, swirling the unwanted drink.
“You’re still in love with him?”
Isabella smiled.
“And clearly,” her companion sighed, “you’re not doing too well if you’re back here.”
The smile faded.
“I know you hate owing me,” her companion continued. “But I can’t think of another way to help. Unless you want to—”
“No.” Isabella inhaled. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
She sounded firm. But her eyes betrayed her—fear and guilt intertwined.
“This will be the last time. And it’ll be a big one. After this… I’ll do something else. Maybe open a store. You could go part-time.”
“Yes,” Isabella said quickly.
“This next one could set us for a year. Maybe less if the customer loves the performance.”
“Yes. A big one—”
—
And big it was.
—
“How… how can I face Jacob?” Isabella’s eyes burned. “How can I say I love him when last night was the best—”
A slap landed on her cheek.
“I helped you,” her companion said, voice hard and steady. “And you don’t get to blame me now. Not after you chose this too.”
“But you never said the sex would be so good,” Isabella blurted—too honest, too euphoric.
“I know,” her companion said, almost laughing.
Isabella froze.
She didn’t want to go back.
Her gaze dropped to the sidewalk—oddly clean, almost pristine. Streets, gutters, paths—free of litter, free of clutter, as if the world itself had chosen to look away.
Isabella collapsed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her hands wandered—hips, breasts, neck—soothing and punishing at once.
Tears fell. Her face twisted in terror.
And yet—she smiled.
Hidden from the world.
She sobbed. Her companion knelt beside her.
“Hey… it’s alright, Bell. I’m here.”
The sob became a cry.
The streets were empty—confession hour. When the renowned priest took sins into silence.
They moved to a waiting shed near the church. Sat close. Her companion rubbed her back like one would soothe a child after a nightmare.
“How?” Isabella wailed. “How do I face him?”
“Fancy meeting two beautiful ladies in my little corner,” a rugged voice interrupted.
They hadn’t noticed him.
“Hush. Go away,” her companion snapped.
“Oh? Big little lady,” the man chuckled. “Why send me off when I was here first—”
“Stop being a—”
She turned—and froze.
“So?” the priest asked calmly. “What were you going to say, Kristina?”
“Father— I didn’t know—”
“Hush,” he said gently. “And your friend—”
Isabella gasped as their eyes met. He had heard too much.
“You should stop thoughts you dare not speak,” the priest said.
“The world hears. The devil does too. So do your own ears.
And whatever it is, Our Lord above already knows.
Unwanted thoughts yet to be spoken must remain unspoken.
Do remember that.”
Isabella broke free and knelt, pressing into the warmth of his robe—incense, ash, cigar smoke.
“What should I do, Father?”
He raised a hand. Boundaries.
“Straighten yourself first,” he said, caught off guard.
She obeyed, sitting properly.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Kristina said lightly.
“I do,” Father Oscar replied, taking a drag and exhaling away from them. “I like the silence behind the church. Children are inside—I don’t want them breathing this.”
He glanced at both of them. “So. Confession?”
Isabella knelt again.
“Forgive me, Father—”
“I’m on break,” he sighed. “But if you insist, we’ll go to the confessional. Both of you.”
Kristina immediately stood and pulled Isabella up.
“Since Father Oscar insisted,” she said with a grin, already dragging Isabella along, “this will be a special service for him.”
She reached back and caught Father Oscar by the sleeve, tugging him along as well.
“No,” Father Oscar said, his voice calm and dignified, even as he was being dragged.
“I serve you.”
He paused, adjusting his footing.
“…Spiritually,” he added, clearly unaware of the direction the two had taken the conversation.
“So… we’re doing it again?” Isabella asked lightly, playing along.
Father Oscar stopped short.
“No—what? Absolutely not,” he said sharply. “That is not what I meant.”
Kristina laughed and dragged them onward anyway.
In the distance, two young boys watched in awe.
Two girls.
One priest.
Suddenly, they felt the urge to become priests one day.