Here’s the thing: I never wanted to leave.
It’s never goodbye, I said.
The priest kept packing. The cross. The pyx with arabesques containing his sacraments. An unrepentant heart.
He had betrayed his calling. He knew. His superiors knew. They were transferring him to another parish.
Didn’t they know? He was mine.
It’s never goodbye, I said again.
The blinding light the neighbors saw out of that corner window: someone took a picture.
When he left screaming, clinging to the bedposts, his flaming hands left scars on the wood.
I had warned him, hadn’t I? It’s never goodbye.
word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on the frog for more tales of a hundred words or less.