Another smashed pew, another broken stained glass window. That’s how it’s been for the past year. Nobody ever bought the property where Saint Issac’s Church was built after it closed down, and it was left to rot. Silence echoed, with the occasional whistling of the wind or scurrying of rodents or the occasional cricket. It’s never been this quiet, even in the middle of the night. There’s always some sort of noise, usually it’s the sound of something being broken—metal colliding with wood, glass, and metal—or even muffled hard rock or death metal coming from a pair of headphones. Maybe it was a good thing it was quiet. It was easier to ignore the coppery scent in the air and the faint buzzing of flies. Even in pitch darkness, the red was visibly staining the stone tiles, and the small blue light turned away. 

The phone screen in Frasier’s hand illuminated his face harshly. It was blinding, and all he could focus on was the Call Ended in bold white letters in the middle of the screen. As much as the brightness blinded him, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He didn’t want to. The small smudge of red underneath his thumb was proof enough of his sin. He refused to move his finger from the screen, not even a damn millimeter or whatever was smaller than that. The shaking of his legs didn’t help with the desire—no. Need—to keep still. Keep still and you’re fine. Keep still and they won’t start cursing you for stepping out of line. Keep still and they won’t see every little mistake that made you so demonic in their eyes in the first place. 

Frasier finally looked up from his phone and at his work. Smashed pews, the wood being prone to give someone splinters if not handled with care. Broken glass dyed in blues, greens, and golds scattered across the ground, mostly near where the windows had been broken through a blunt object. A metal pipe, which Frasier still had in his grasp. More pieces of wood, glass, and ceramic surrounded him on the slightly raised platform—an altar to a God that doesn’t listen like His scripture and preachers say He does—where he sat. Dust and debris littered the aisle; pillars were either dented or chipped depending on the material. They weren’t all made of concrete like the one he remembered going to every Sunday growing up. Some were metal, some wood, some concrete. 

And at the end of the aisle, right at Frasier’s feet, was a body. The blood was barely visible on the dark, thick material of the cassock, but it deeply stained the clerical collar and the visible skin. Various golden rings adorned wrinkled fingers; a horridly gaudy display of hypocrisy. The crucifix, large and gilded inlaid with gems, was bloodied like everything else. Arms and legs broken and bent in ways they shouldn’t be. A rib bone was poking out from the thick fabric. Hazel eyes dulled, no more false spark of life and joy left in them, face permanently contorted into a seemingly gentle smile. Frasier knew better. That smile wasn’t gentle. That smile meant danger. Pain. Suffering. It meant another sleepless night of “salvation,” of fixing something that just broke more. 

Monsignor Patrick Davis. Frasier remembered when he was just a preacher in their small sundown town in the middle of nowhere, Nevada. There’s no way he could forget even if he tried. Davis was vile in his punishments, and it seemed like he took pleasure in what he did. In the abuse he committed in the name of “curing” children who weren’t “normal.” All it took was one little mistake, one slip-up, and Father Davis would be in your family’s living room ready to “exorcize” the sin from your body. Held down by rope or chains, gagged, stripped of innocence as he prayed. Prayed for the lust to leave, as he put it, as if he wasn’t committing the exact sin he was trying to rid you of. 

How this man climbed through the ranks of the Church, Frasier had no idea. But now he was gone for good. All it took was a hand on the shoulder. 

“I didn’t think you’d become this much of a lost cause, Pheobe.” Frasier snapped his head in the direction of the voice. “Laying with the Anderson’s daughter is one thing, but defiling The Lord’s home?” Footsteps on broken wood and tile echoed. “You’ve truly strayed from His Grace, haven’t you?” 

“What do you want?” The color in Frasier’s knuckles drained from his cursed flesh, grip tight around the pipe. “I’m not even sure how you found me, but—” 

“Nathaniel had learned from one of your other degenerate friends.” Frasier didn’t look him in the eye, but he knew the slimy bastard was getting closer. “He was quite the loud fellow according to him.” 

Sawyer. Of course the idiot couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Just get out.” 

“Pheobe, I’m only trying to he—” 

BAM 

The start of an attack. A sick display of power. That smile still didn’t leave his face in death, and Frasier wanted to tear it right off with his bare hands. He had nothing to smile about. He didn’t deserve to smile. He didn’t deserve to smile up at one who suffered at his hand. At least Frasier could see the emptiness in that face of his for once. This man meant nothing he preached. He was a fraud, and Frasier didn’t care if God smote him down just for thinking that. The bastard had other things to worry about. If He couldn’t do anything back then, why do something now? And why punish someone for speaking their mind and not punish a monster like that? 

Frasier couldn’t keep his eyes off the body. He didn’t want to look, but now he couldn’t look away. Davis was a grotesque creature, even before death, both physically and mentally. Davis was vile. He had been preaching in the city for the past year, and Frasier only learned of the newly added title “Monsignor” a couple of months ago. That’s all it was. A fancy title to push authority on others. It meant nothing. 

“Frasier?” The echo in the empty church made Frasier jump, the grasp on the pipe in his hand became tighter. He stood up from the platform, dropping his phone and reeling the pipe back like a baseball bat. 

He always wanted to play baseball when he was younger, but “girls don’t play sports” his father would tell him. He never learned how to play. He was stuck in the house all day with nothing but books and the old grand piano in the middle of the living room while his brothers played out in the front yard. They got to do all the fun things while he was stuck with his half-sisters helping his stepmother with the housework. He would always find an excuse to stay near the piano. He would play it when nobody was around. Something else “girls didn’t do” according to his father. 

“Frasier.” He turned, ready to swing. Every part of him was ready to attack even if he didn’t have to. Who was he kidding, of course he would have to. It was how he made it this far. It was how he survived. And he almost did swing before he realized what was going on. “Frasier, it’s me.” 

Sure enough, Micah was standing about a foot away from him. Far enough away just in case Frasier did swing, but close enough where Frasier could clearly see him. He looked exhausted, and judging by the oversized faded band t-shirt and hairwrap he had on, he was probably getting ready for bed. The guilt crept up Frasier’s spine. What a damn coward he was, not being able to handle this on his own. 

He dropped the pipe with a sigh of relief, and the loud clatter echoed across the linoleum tile. “Christ, dude. You scared the shit out of me.” He looked over at his friend and bandmate, slightly relieved, somewhat calm, but mostly terrified.

“Sorry.” Micah’s ever monotone voice cut through Frasier’s thoughts. He handed Frasier something, but his attention was fixed on the body. Frasier looked down at what Micah handed him: His phone that he dropped. He took it. The screen was cracked, but it’s still usable. He’ll just take it to get it fixed in the morning. It wouldn’t be the first time he needed to have the screen fixed. “Is this why you called me?” 

“Yeah,” Frasier said, stuttering and stumbling over his words. “I didn’t… I didn’t know what—know who else I could’ve…” God, how pathetic. “I panicked. He—” 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Micah was kneeling next to the body, examining it—examining the wounds with a kind of precision Frasier wasn’t familiar with. He could hear Micah muttering things like “Fractured rib… Multiple contusions...” 

Frasier could practically see the gears turning in his head as he went silent. Frasier kept his eyes on him, still standing a fair distance away and arms crossed around his torso. It was cold, and Frasier forgot his jacket back at the venue because of the earlier chaos. He never really noticed the cold when his adrenaline was running so high. “Why did you call me of all people?” Micah turned to 

face Frasier, still kneeling next to the body. “And what happened? You look like you’re about collapse.” 

“Isn’t it obvious? I killed him.” Frasier stayed where he was, but his legs felt shaky. His throat was dry and his vision was starting to blur. “And what? You wanted me to call the police? How the hell would I explain this?! ‘Hello, 911? Yeah so, I just killed a well-respected monsignor in the area but it’s okay because he’s actually the reason I’m so mentally fucked up in the first place’. Does that sound sane to you?!” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Micah stood up and walked over to Frasier. Frasier took a step back. If he had to run, he would. “You and I don’t really talk outside of stuff for the band. I thought you would’ve called that friend of yours first. She knows more about you than Aaron, Sawyer, and I do” He was talking about Lora. And he had a point. 

Frasier never talked about his childhood to his bandmates, but Lora knew everything. They grew up together in that small town, and he left with her family when they moved out to the city. He probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. “She’s still very devout, she… she wouldn’t get it.” And he didn’t need prayers or faith or blessings right now. “And you… I don’t know, you’re just… objective? Non-judgmental? I don’t know how to describe you really.” 

“You wouldn’t be the first one to say that,” Micah said, “Maybe it’s good we aren’t that close.” 

“Cynical way of looking at it,” Frasier muttered, but he understood what Micah was saying. “So, what do we do?” 

“Theres a pig farm about an hour from here. A group of pigs can completely devour a human body in about a half hour. We just need to get rid of the hair, teeth, and clothes.” Micah looked back down at the corpse, his expression shifting slightly. “Mainly focus on the teeth and clothes.” Davis was almost completely bald. “Pigs won’t eat the clothes and teeth.” 

“I don’t think I want to know how or why you know all this,” Frasier said, “But…why do you know this?” 

“I work with corpses, so I see a lot of stuff.” He knelt down next to the body. “I also watch a lot of true crime shows. Documentaries mostly.” 

“…Yeah, that makes sense.” It absolutely did not. It just made Frasier even more concerned, but then again, as Micah said, he didn’t know much about him outside of the band. Maybe the guy really was a true crime junkie and not a murderer. “So do we start with—” Frasier cringed as the sound of cracking bones gave him his answer. “Okay, that was quick.” 

“We don’t have a lot of time.” Micah pulled out another tooth with a pair of pliers. It was rotted. 

“Do you always carry pliers with you?” 

“They come in handy sometimes.” Micah didn’t look up. Pop. Another tooth out, this time, obviously a fake one. “I used to explore abandoned buildings in high school. I still carry them out of habit.” Another tooth fell to the floor from the pliers. “Never used them to pull teeth before.” Another one stayed in between the jaws of the tool. “If you can get started on getting rid of the clothes, the quicker we can get the body out of here.” 

“Ok.” Frasier knelt down on the other side of the body, hands shaking. Strip the corpse down. Shouldn’t be too hard. He stared down at Davis’s cold, blank, unblinking eyes. He doesn’t think he’s met the man’s gaze this much until now. Him being dead didn’t make it easier, but Frasier didn’t feel the same kind of nausea looking into that hazel color like he did all those years ago. No, it was something else, and that nausea was stronger. He could barely undo the sash around the corpse’s waist without small flashes of memory hitting him. 

The sash was what Davis always undid first. He’d do it slowly, like he was taunting Frasier with the knowledge of what he was going to do next. He would always make sure Frasier looked him in the eye as he did it. Sick bastard. He would keep his cross on. It was the one thing he didn’t remove. And that cross—his gilded crucifix—laid across his chest now. 

“Lord, save this child from eternal suffering.”

Frasier wasn’t ‘saved’; he just became worse. Fear of authority. Fear of God. Loathing his own flesh and body. Sleepless nights wondering if he deserved it because of how he was now. Laying in a bathtub after downing half a bottle of pills: an emergency room incident he was still paying off 3 years later along with student loans. Multiple visits to the psych ward. All of it stemmed from him being ‘saved’ from his sin. It didn’t save him; It just pushed him further into a different sin. Into debauchery. Into a life of not caring to remember the names and faces attached to wandering hands and eyes. 

The sash was undone, and Frasier let it go. Micah had just finished pulling out the last tooth and placed them all in a small plastic bag. “You finished that quick.” 

“It wasn’t that hard.” Micah put the bag in a pocket on the inside of his trenchcoat along with the pliers. He paused, his expression becoming less stoic as he stared at Frasier’s hands. “Your hands are shaking.” He started to undo the buttons at the top of the robes and pulling the bloody clerical collar out from the neck. “If you want, I could—” 

“No, I… I got it,” Frasier muttered, moving Micah’s hands out of the way. He tried to undo even more of the buttons that ran down all the way, but the shakiness and the sweat made it harder than re-stringing his guitar on the bus right before a gig. He only managed to undo one, and Micah gently grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t a tight grip that made Frasier want to pull away. It was gentle. Grounding. He didn’t look up, he just sat there looking at Micah’s dark hand which was slightly tainted with blood. Micah gently squeezed Frasier’s wrist in an act of comfort, something Micah never really did. “I…” He wanted to let it all flow out. The pain, the fear, the anger—everything. Everything he was told to keep to himself. Everything he was told to keep a secret. “I’m sorry for pulling you into this.” He really was.

“I don’t mind.” Micah undid some of the buttons near the top. Neither of them looked at each other. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Did this guy know that weirdo you were arguing with at the venue?” It was a simple question, but it held so much weight. “I don’t know how he would’ve found you here otherwise.” 

Someone had shown up at the club Frasier and his band was playing at, asking for a name none of them had heard before. Frasier knew who he was talking about, and a fight ensued. Frasier stormed out and came here to blow off steam as he usually did after a bad night. 

“I just want my sister back. Mom and Dad want their daughter back! God, Pheobe, what happened to you?” 

“He’s my brother,” Fraiser said. “The guy at the bar, not this guy.” Nathaniel. He was older than Frasier by five years, and they were never close, even before Davis was called to ‘cure’ him. He would always try to ‘court’ some of Frasier’s friends. He was a youth pastor now. 

“If that’s your brother, then I don’t think I want to be near your parents.” Micah continued unbuttoning the bloodied cassock. He stopped and looked up at Frasier. “And him?” He gestured down to the body. 

“He was a priest in my hometown.” Frasier undid the clerical collar. “If someone’s kid was having…issues, he was called in to help.” 

“Issues?” 

“I was… caught with someone when I was thirteen, and…” And that’s when it started. “He would be at my parents’ house every day to ‘fix’ me. There were days that I couldn’t even leave my bed because of the pain.” He continued with the buttons. “So, I got the fuck out of there when I had the chance.”

“What did he…” Micah stopped himself, and Frasier could see the realization hitting him. “…Fucking hell.” For the first time, Micah showed an emotion Frasier never saw from him: Horror. “I… You didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.” 

“I know.” He didn’t believe it. Frasier stopped as his hands hovered over one of the buttons. It was already halfway undone. Frasier could see some of the exposed skin, bloody and with bones poking out in areas. “It took a lot to unlearn all that bullshit. I still am, in a way.” 

“Did anyone in your family try to stop it?” Micah took over, keeping his eyes on Frasier. He undid the buttons quickly and with ease. Frasier kept his eyes on Micah, “I mean, your family was just… okay with it happening?” 

“It was normal back home,” Frasier said, “For that to happen.” It was practically run by the Church. “And most of my siblings were too young to know what was going on.” He was the oldest daughter. The one that was supposed to be married at 16 ‘like God intended’. “You’re pretty good at this.” He wanted to change the subject. 

Micah hummed in response, finished with unbuttoning the cassock. “It wouldn’t be my first time.” He gently separated the exposed rib bone from the fabric, peeling it back like a vivisection. Frasier turned his head, his breathing unsteady. 

“In all my thirty years of saving youths like you, you’re my favorite, Pheobe.” 

To Frasier, it felt like his nerves were set on fire. He was seventeen when Davis told him that. It was when that day’s ‘lesson’ had concluded. It was a couple of weeks before he ran away from everything he ever knew. “Can you, like, cover it up?”

“Okay.” The cassock was wrapped around the body. Micah stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll take the jewelry and pawn it off a couple states over.” He held his hand out to Frasier. “You need a ride home?” 

Frasier took his hand, using his friend as an anchor to stand. His legs felt weak. Like they could snap at the lightest amount of pressure. “I don’t live far.” He pulled away from Micah, looking down at the corpse. It was still covered, but everything was undone. “I… I’ll help you get it to your car.” 

“We gotta clean up the blood first.” 

“Hydrogen peroxide will get rid of it. I’ll take care of it later.” He wanted the body gone. “Let’s just… get this thing out of here.” 

Micah let out a sigh of defeat. “I parked right outside.” Micah took the back; Frasier took the front. Trying to lift the body was a challenge for Frasier, he didn’t realize how heavy this man was. Davis was never a small man and Frasier wasn’t weak, but this was insane. Getting the body into the trunk of Micah’s car took less time than hauling it out of the abandoned building. 

Micah shut the trunk and looked at Frasier. “Don’t touch your face,” he said, stopping Frasier from doing just that. “You have blood on your hands. You don’t want to get that all over the place.” Frasier put his hands down. 

“So what now? Bring the body up to that farm you know about?” Frasier kept his hands away from the rest of him. He could feel the wetness of the blood. He knew it was there. He wanted it gone. He wanted to wash it off. He wanted to cut his hands off. “And then it’s over?” 

“If we don’t get caught, yeah.” Micah walked over to the car door on the driver’s side, keys in hand. “Chances are, even if we do get caught, pleading self-defense could lighten a sentence.” He unlocked his car door. “And you have evidence of this guy taking part in sex crimes, right? Should be easy to get off the hook at least.” 

“How likely—?” 

“It’s a fifty-fifty shot,” Micah said as he got into his car. “Hopefully, we get lucky.” His window was rolled down, and he started the engine with a bit of struggle. “Someone’s gonna report him missing, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“Stay safe, okay? And go home. Clean the blood off, okay?” Micah rolled up his window and waited for Frasier to get out of the way before he started to drive off. 

Frasier could’ve started walking home, but he went back into the church. Still old, still run down, still abandoned. He walked down the aisle, still littered with debris, and stopped in front of the altar. He looked down at the metal pipe—the only proof left of what he’d done, his involvement—and picked it up. He looked up at the rusted and molded crucifix in the center. It was tilted sideways, to the left. Mosaic patterns surrounded it, depicting The Stations. Depicting humanity’s savior. 

He swung. 

The cross fell to the floor, breaking into pieces. Old wood chippings scattered. The metal body of Christ dented, and broke where it rusted. 

He kept swinging. The mosaics, the tabernacle, the doors leading into the smaller rooms. He didn’t care what he hit. Things broke. Things shattered. Things dented. But nothing could drown out the screams. It was a miracle nobody called the cops about screaming in the middle of the night. Wood chips pierced his skin with every door and bench smashed to pieces, the cement under the tiles broke off and chipped away the more the metal came down to it. A pillar fully collapsed under the weight of just a small bit of concrete still holding it together. 

So many years of pent-up rage, fear, and shame. Small things, they added up. Even from people he trusted. Small jokes about him being ‘jumpy’ and paranoid around prayers. Silent jeers from the church ladies when he walked by them wearing a rosary around his neck. Little whispers about him coming from those disguising it as ‘locker room talk’. Every little touch—from someone familiar or from strangers—that he pretended to enjoy for the sake of feeling normal. He wasn’t normal. 

The statues were next. A statue of Michael the Archangel went down head first, shattering. The other saints befell the same fate. 

“Listen, Mom and Dad found someone for you who’s willing to look past all of this.” Nathaniel told him. He pulled the older man to the side to talk in private. He didn’t want anyone to hear this conversation. His bandmates were already giving him looks. “We’re forgiving people and we want to forget about this little stunt of yours. You’re still my little sister, Pheobe.” Frasier didn’t feel safe being alone with Nathaniel, but he didn’t need anyone to ask questions. He didn’t need this. 

“If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t be here forcing me to do anything, Nate.” He turned and walked out the door. “And get my name right if you really care, asshole.” 

“You act so much like Mother.” It was said with disdain. How dare he? 

“Good.” 

That was the last thing he said to his older brother. He didn’t regret it. Because they didn’t care about him. 

They cared about Pheobe. 

Pheobe is dead. 

Pheobe died that day Davis started his ‘salvation’. 

Pheobe wouldn’t be coming back. 

Frasier felt his legs give out, and he grabbed the wooden ledge in front of him for support, letting his head rest against it. All of that adrenaline just seemed to burn out, leaving Frasier on his knees, breathless and sweaty. Shame and euphoria swirled in his gut as he tried to steady himself. A couple of deep breaths managed to calm him down, and he looked up. 

The first thing he saw was a sword. Pointed directly where his shoulder would be if he was closer. It was a saint statue like the ones he shattered. This one was completely intact aside from some of the paint chipping. He looked up at the statue. It—She—looked back. 

He didn’t recognize this one. He didn’t recognize most saints. She held a sword in one hand, a book in the other. A common pose for these kinds of statues. Bible in one hand, something it the other. Candles—real candles, not the fake ones the other nearby church uses—surrounded the base. Some were clearly lit before, most remained untouched. 

Frasier read the plaque. Saint Dymphna. 

He read the subtitling, the patronage. 

‘Patron Saint of the Mentally Ill, Rape Victims, Incest Victims, and Runaways’ 

‘Feast Day: May 15th’ 

The Catholic Church had saints for that? He stood up, using the small altar of candles as leverage. He read the plaque one more time: ‘Feast Day: May 15th’

May 15th was his birthday. That was tomorrow. He was turning 21. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and turned it on, ignoring the cracks. The date read: May 15th, 4:42AM. 

He put his phone back into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He didn’t smoke all that much anymore but today was different. He picked up one of the candles on the altar and lit it. He set it back down in its place, watching the light swirl. 

‘What a day.’ Frasier thought as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the same pocket on his vest. He took one out of the pack and lit that as well. He forgot his own birthday, but it’s not like he really had something to celebrate in the first place. He looked at the plaque again. He fit most of those. All but one. He looked up at the statue, meeting her eyes. 

The man who tortured him for years, stripped his innocence away, died today. He died on his birthday, and on this saint’s feast day. He didn’t like holidays, and almost every saint’s feast day was celebrated, but maybe this was one worth celebrating. 

He took a drag of his cigarette as he walked towards the exit. He could still see the light from the candle out of the corner of his eye. 

To him, it wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t an act of worship. It wasn’t a message. It was just a small sign of acknowledgement. A silent way of finally getting that closure he knows he needed. A ‘thank you’ that he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. 

‘Happy birthday to me,’ Frasier thought as he reached his apartment. He put out his cigarette on the brick wall before pulling out his keys. The embers flickered and died down as quickly as they sparked. ‘And happy feast day to you.’