💉 Everytime I close my eyes

it's like a dark paradise 💉

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A handful of minutes after you dwelled in your new home which was reckoned as cosy and comfortable nest into the ambitious Monsignor's secure arms during the lift up to his office's en-suite bedroom, suddenly disappointment twisted across your facial features after Timothy dropped you gingerly on the single compact bed and swaddling you warmly with a duvet, blanketing your petite frame promptly.

"You have to wait to find the disinfectant and pad to treat the wounds and clean dried blood, {Y/N}!" At the moment, you readjusted the duvet and your reclining position, opting to sense the comfort pricking your figure, squinting up your {E/C} gemstones at the man of the cloth who was rummaging his bedroom's dressing table top drawer where he kept medicaments and first aid kits, in case, to treat his own unintentional welts, wounds and bleeding slits in the form of sinisterly blood smiles. His virginally brittle fingers rummaged strong-willingly, ambitiously every remarkable paraphernalia until he retrieved a sheerly oyster-white round pad and disinfectant with a thick, cotton cloth to daub the dried gore. "Don't you dare to think of escaping!" Even when bizarrely baleful sounded his caution to keep your wits about your passivity to maintain your muscles and bones motionless, nevertheless, you seized your naturally mauve, chapped lips in a pensive, attentive purse and following docilely his instructions. "I got it! Just don't move!" You reconsidered and assimilated his instruction.

"I promise." In the meantime, he shut in a diligent slam the dressing table's top drawer and approaching the compact bed, his rear perching on the edge of the furniture, offering you a benevolently soothing smile, heavenly brightening your facial features and your (E/C) embers flamed childlike focus, fixed on the clergyman who was far from uninteresting target, oozing of surprises and paradoxal mysteries which you may not explain yourself at all. After soaking with the disinfectant's liquid the flatly round pad, consequently you protracted your arms and legs leisurely, giving him a better access to treat the fresh wounds which were a few days old after unwrapping the duvet, in order to daub them with the flat surface of the drenched round pad, gritting your teeth at the foreign pinch of the disinfectant steeping the lousy plum tints, mapping your arms and legs which weren't decently treated on the right time and the pain was sorely unbearable, stoicism looming onto your face, generous layer of clamminess thickly enduing your temple and glimmering past the British compatriot's vision. His utter focus to aid you with healing the flaws from the bar fight incident was doubtlessly inexorable.

"Chin up, {Y/N}! We'll get you healed and feel like a new person." In the interim, your petite, calloused hands curled up in balled fists, opting to not show any signs of severe pain and sensitivity during your wounds' treatment, besides rolling your eyes, stifling a gasp to roll from your tongue as your front ivory teeth nipped at the lower lip. After his pristine fingertips supported the tad and daubing your arms' bruises, throughout he slithered down his attention to your youthfully long bare, alabaster legs, swallowing hard at the amalgamating sight of bare skin's temptation which mesmerized him and the bone structure that seasoned the lower body, whilst on other hand choking on his salty lump, widening his chocolate brown gems as each chocolate pool glinted fierce fury how Cole has left a vast track of his damage, tattooed on you and nobody has dared to spend modicum of their spare time to manage the treatment of the vicious bruises. "Oh God! This monster has left vast tracks of his damage on you, {Y/N}! He deserves to be punished for everything and hopefully God plays his own cards right."

"Hopefully he receives whatever he deserves for being such an imbecile!" At the thought of vengeance on Cole flourished a balefully smug, unscrupulous grin, opening in a wide O your mouth after you passed series of daubing touches, contacting the lavender tints.

"I know! {Y/N}," Suddenly the British compatriot tried his best to bulk you, honeyed touch punctuating his yet constructing posed question to roll from his strawberry-coloured tongue. "Do you believe in God?" The posed question tuned alarmed tones into your ears as you profoundly knew your atheism has always vastly roomed your heart and very soul at young age and the fewest times you've stepped in the church have nothing to do with your religion status. "Or at least, feeling somehow connection with God?"

Your attempts to reconsider and assimilate the enquiry which begged for your answer immediately or at least sometime the pit of your stomach was swamped salinely. Even when you wanted to not disenchant him with your lacking belief in the almighty God and to sense modicum of connection to God, it was inescapably unchangeable and your stomach swelled in the elapsing seconds of silence, arching between you after bedaubing the lavender flaws and dumping the round pad on the nightstand on your left, whilst snatching the saline solution to clean promptly the dried blood on your head, peaking to your forehead.

"I'm afraid to confess, Father, I'm not a believer in God and I don't feel even any connection with him." The heart rate rapidly rabid increased and highlighting the skipped heart beats after your stammer plopped from your mouth shamelessly, furrowing your eyebrows while the disinfectant was synchronizing its own effect to cure the plum flaws which once were sorely fresh and untreated.

After the saline solution soaked the cloth which he retrieved and grasped in one of his colossal, veiny hands, white-knuckled calloused in the grasp the cotton's fabric manipulating to reach for your dried blood's residuum, engraining partly your {H/C} scalp and the hairline with rigid textured-dried gore, subsequently the arid gore was smeared and staining the cotton fabric effortlessly, efficiently though the great deal of efforts, infused in getting rid off the gruesome remnants, reminding of the bar fight's sequence.

"At least, we aren't in God's house to insult God and be charged in a blasphemy," What it Timothy's tongue conjugated was vowels and syllables, almost dying on his tongue tip shortly after they trundled from his mouth with great efforts, dark chuckle paradoxally accenting your lacking belief and connection to the almighty God, embodying the scoff parting upon his baby pinkish lips. "But I love your honesty, {Y/N}!" What the pious member of the church appreciated more than anything was your honesty even more than your belief in God and his Lord whose body, soul and mind belonged recently and essentially. Vaguely complacent smile spread across your dryly chapped lips due to the flattering compliment.

"Thank you, Father!"

"Do not thank me and stop calling me Father or Monsignor as if you're repenting for your soul!" All of a sudden, the British aristocrat rolled his eyes after cleaning the dried blood and examining in a scrutiny for a split second the quantity of gore which compensated to endanger your health condition with infection whose chances of its cure are minimal. Moreover, you're oddly finding comfort and coziness in Timothy's company, so as he was feeling home with you, besides Judy, despite they must keep the professionalism moderately and weigh on scales the moments whenever they can be informal to each other. You moistened your lips after ushering to twirl your tongue idly to drench the upper and lower lip in haste as the clergyman dumped the blood-stained cloth in the bucket, pooled with sheer, crystalline water.

"Okay, Timothy! I'm so sorry for calling you formally."

"It's okay, darling! I can sense how fearful you're." Meantime, the older man choked on his words, emphasizing his last sentence, whereas you managed to reach your quivering petite, weathered hands to cup his cheeks instinctively to soothe him, stilling your unruly beaming, complacent smile decorating your chapped, roseate lips.

"Nobody has almost ever been that kind to me as you're." The confession which you elaborated to forge and make the revelation was as heartening as the holy man was, crystalline tears rimming your eyelids with each frequent choir of your blinking irises. "I'm sure you're the one who's being the fearful." All of a sudden, your witty side snapped him out of his optimism and a wry frown smeared across his pale-pinkish, softly-feather lips at how sassy you could emerge with any word, regardless its sentence's length and your education's quantity.

"Fearful of what, {Y/N}?" Quirk creased across the cusp of his dark thick eyebrows, raising an arch of his eyebrow at you and the adjective you retaliated emphatically, unscrupulously, reconsidering rationally what the revelations foreshadowed, sniffling quietly to yourself as the pads of his thumbs kneaded gently your calloused knuckles, whereas his crystal tears glistened more brightly than yours. You could see how deeply hurt and touched was the ambitious Monsignor and how broken, misunderstood and his heart was enveloped and swaddled in a stone cold after joining the church and giving up the free lifestyle of getting laid with hussies, getting married to a perfectly beautiful and young woman and having their own children with their flawless genes, made of their flesh and blood, besides imbibing liquor and being involved in sexual activities. Your philosophy was quite convincing how every human being, regardless a member of the church or the lowest positioned in the general population's tiers deserved a celestial myriad of love to keep their smiles shining more vibrantly and you could contemplate his sorrow and incarnation of his brittle soul how profoundly hurt was beholding his own peers or at least, adults around his age having their own children who're already attending school and being happily married with their wives or husbands unlike him, serving the miserable cloth since his young adult.

"To be rejected and die all alone and unloved!" In spite of how selfishly the notion spotlighted and starkly steamrolled the priest's confession, the heavy rain of tears poured on your {S/C} complexion, sensing your heart shattering due to the heartbreaking words.

"You won't die unloved and full of barrens, Timothy! I'm sure you're loved or at least your family cares about you."

"No, they don't!" The pads of his thumbs kneaded gingerly, lightly the satin skin of your weathered hands, admiring your frail femininity and vulnerability. "You don't even understand they will never forgive me for betraying them by joining the church and overlooking their love and support so that to be such a jerk, who only cares about his ambitions, involving the papacy."

"It's such a shame your family doesn't even love you and doesn't accept you for who you're."

"It's all my fault I left them just to pursue whatever I liked to do. Helping people and self-centeredly focus on my divine ambition!" The helpless side which you've never confronted of the holy man haphazardly weakened your sobs, pitching the en-suite bedroom in your attempts to dab the tears, trickling downward his lower eyelids and being the fewest person to listen to his revelation.

"It's not your fault, Timothy! First and foremost, it's never too late to be forgiven just because you've mainly focused on your passions which satisfy you." In the meantime, you snorted a heavy, cold-blooded sigh, whilst nibbling on your lower lip to mute the imminent sobs. "I'm certain you're a good person and you can help the people even if you aren't part of the church."

Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for this slightly sloppy chapter, nevertheless, I opted to update as soon as possible. Furthermore, don't worry about this book! It's going to be way more interesting in the impending chapters with the rich variety of plot twists, involving not only Timothy, but also the reader. So get ready for a dynamic roller coaster! :))