Crockett Island had grown cold as winter settled in, making itself at home for the next four or so months. The island was always a few degrees colder than the mainland— or so you’ve been told, having never spent a substantial amount of time there yourself. Maybe a trip or two when you were a teen to see the big city with all its diverse people. But as an adult time seemed to be a luxury you didn’t have.

It seemed that more and more new people came to the island. That new sheriff— Hassan— and his kid. And for a while you thought the priest was new. And maybe it passed through your mind that he was handsome, with his height and resonant voice. Such thoughts saw you in confession more often. It was habitual, the ritual of going to church. With the Monsignor's declining mind it was easy to forget any of the comforts you knew as a child. He often called you by the wrong name, even misquoted scriptures. And while no fault of his own. He was a man, with a man’s follies and desires. But it made you lose the feeling of mysticism. Or maybe you were just getting older.

When you found out that the “new” priest was indeed the Monsignor— how he had been 50 or so years ago— the cold feeling of shame settled in your gut. To lust after the man who practically raised you. The man who gave you Communion and rubbed your back when you confessed the sin of wrath after accidentally stepping on a butterfly. The man who introduced you to your favorite Christmas hymn, ‘It Came Upon the Midnight Clear’.

Even now, as the winter winds whipped against your cheeks, your face burns with a blush of embarrassment. It was wrong to have felt those things. And to still feel them... You now avoided confessional, feeling too vulnerable to announce your sin of lust to the very man you fantasized about.

You were given a key to the rectory a long while ago, having helped the Monsignor— the elder version— with some heavier boxes. You twist it into the lock, a scratching sound coming from the metal as it is unlocked. The very man who made your heart burn with shame stood inside, expecting you.

He smiled with too white teeth and pink gums. It was unsettling, it was familiar, it was everything you wanted and everything you hated. “Come in, come in. It’s cold, isn’t it? Did you, uh, want something to eat? Drink? Coffee, perhaps?”

The two of you had a new routine as of late. You would let yourself into the rectory and spill your blood into an ornate chalice, and he would drink it like it was ambrosia. Life essence, he’d called it. At first it shocked you, disgusted you, even. But now it brings you a sense of calm. Likely the lightheadedness from the acute blood loss. But we all have our vices.

“Something on your mind?” He was beginning to approach now. You just have been stuck in your own mind for a while.