#poor grammar

The church door is heavy wood. You push with your shoulder and it opens slow, making a sound like old bone cracking. Inside is dark. The candles are burning on the altar. The smell hits you, incense and dust and something sweet like wine that spilled and dried. You come here because there is nowhere else to go. Your family doesn't understand. Your friends don't understand. The body you have feels wrong. Like clothes that are too small. You bound your chest tight this morning with cloth wrap. It hurts a little bit but you can breathe better. You look in the mirror and see him.

The real you. Father Octavian waits in the confessional. You can see his shadow through the curtain. Black and tall. "Come," he says. Voice like ice. You sit in the small box. The screen between you is mesh metal. You can see his face but it's not clear. He is young for a priest. Hair is gold in color. Eyes are sharp like a bird's. "Bless me Father," you say. Your English is not perfect. You learned from TV and from books. Sometimes words come in the wrong order. "I have... I am feeling wrong. In my body. I was a girl before but now I am a boy. I know this. It hurts me, father."

You touch your heart. Silence. Then he laughs. Not a kind laugh. "You're a confused, confused girl," he says. "God made you a woman. You have a woman's body. Soft. For cooking. For serving. For a man." Your hands grip your knee. Fingers dig in. "No," you say. "I am—" "A woman has a place," he interrupts. He stands up. He pushed open the curtain. Now you see him full. Black shirt with white collar. He looks down at you like you are an insect. "A man has a place. You are a woman who thinks she can be a man? Then you must learn what women do. Ladies cook. Ladies clean. Women stay quiet and obey." He walks around you. Circles like a shark. You can smell him—soap and something sharp like cedar. "You came to me for help," he says. "I will give you help. I will show you the truth.

Come." He walks to the back of the church. His shoes make a clicking sound on the stone floor. You follow because you don't know what else to do. Maybe he is right? Maybe you are crazy? No. No. You know what you are. He takes you to a small kitchen. Yellow light. Old stove with fire inside. Table with flour on it. Bread. Knife. "Here," he says. He points at the floor. At your feet. "A woman's place. Not in church talking about big ideas. Not praying like a man. Here. Kitchen. You cook for men. You serve men. This is God's plan for you." He stands too close. His chest almost touches your shoulder. You are shorter than him. He uses this. He likes this. "A Ladies duty," he whispers. "Cooking. Cleaning. Serving. Making man comfortable. You do this, you stop this crazy talk about being a boy. You accept a woman's body. A woman's place. A woman's purpose." He picks up the bread. Picks up the knife. He cuts the bread but his eyes never leave your face. "You are a beautiful girl," he says. "Soft. Made for the kitchen. For bed. For—" "You’re goddamn pathetic." The words come out before you can stop them. Sharp like glass. Octavian's hand stops cutting. Bread falls on the table. "What did you say?" His voice is quiet. "You are pathetic," you say again. Your heart is beating fast but you do not stop. "You are a scared little man. You hide in church because outside you are nothing. Nobody. You tell me to cook because you can’t cook. You tell me to serve because no one serves you. You tell me to be a woman because you are afraid of a real man." His face turns white then red. The knife in his hand shakes a little bit.

"You don't know your place," he says. Each word is like a stone dropping. "But I will teach you. You are a woman. My woman. You belong to me now. I will save you from this sin. This confusion. You will learn your place as a woman. As mine." He grabs your wrist. His hand is hot. Sweaty. Grip is tight. "Kneel," he commands. His eyes are dark now. Black in the middle. "Women kneel. You kneel and pray. You learn respect. You learn who is master here." The kitchen is small. The door is closed. Heat from the stove makes the air thick. You should be scared. You should run. But you look up at him. Look at his angry face. His shaking hand. He is not strong. He is weak. And he wants you because he thinks you are weak too. He thinks if he makes you kneel, he becomes a big man. You smile. Not a nice smile. "Make me," you say. Octavian's breath catches. He drops the knife. It clatters on the stone floor loud like a gun. "You want to teach me my place?" you ask. You step closer. Your chest almost touches him now. "Show me, Father. Show me what women do. Show me what you want." His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out. "Pathetic," you whisper. And then his hand is on your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. "You will learn," he breathes. "I will make you learn." The air between you cracks like lightning before a storm. Octavian pushes you onto the table. Flour goes up. He pulls down his black pants. His cock stands up hard.

"Take off your pants," he says. "Show me."

You move too slowly. He grabs you, spins you, pushes his hand down your front. Finds the wet place there. The hole that doesn't match your binder.

"There," he says. His finger slides through you. "Wet. Open. Woman flesh. This tells truth."

He lifts you. Sits you on his cock. He's on the floor now, lying back, pulling you on top. Black dress spreads under him like wings.

"Ride," he orders. Hand rough on your hips. "Take it. Remember what you are."

You lower down. He fills you. Deep. Stretching. You cry out. He grabs your wrists, pins them back. Arches you forward.

"Move," he growls. Thrusts up hard. "Fuck yourself on me. Confused girl. Trying to be a man but here—" he hits a deep spot, your vision blurs "—here you're just a hole. Warm wet hole for a real man."

You try to take control. He doesn't let you. His hands on your hips bounce you. Uses you like a doll. Like a toy.

"

Say it," he pants. Face red, sweat there, but eyes sharp. Commanding. "Say you're a girl. Say you're using your cunt like a good girl. Say it or I'll stop—"

"Don't—" you choke. Moving faster. Chasing something despite the words.

"Say it!" He stops moving. Holds you still, buried deep. You whimper. "Say 'I'm a girl, Father.' Say 'I'm sorry I lied.' Say it and I'll let you get your relief."

Your hands shake. The binder is too tight. You can't breathe. Look down at him—gold hair in flour, black shirt up, white collar still clean while he destroys you.

"I—" Words stick. They taste like ash.

"Louder."

"I'm a girl," you whisper. Tears burn. "I'm sorry I lied, Father. I'm just a confused little girl."

He smiles. Sharp. Winning. "Good. Again. Keep saying it. Keep remembering your place while you ride me. Keep—" he thrusts up hard, you scream "—remembering what you are."

You thrash. He holds you in place. Skin on skin. He grunts. You sob. The table scrapes on stone. He degrades you with every push—calls you daughter, calls you little girl, calls you soft, calls you his. His to fix. His to break. His to put back.

"Come," he commands finally. Both shaking. Heat too much. "Come like a girl. Come on my cock and remember what you are. What you'll always be."

You do. Breaking. Crying. Body betrays you with pleasure that feels like defeat. He follows, spills inside, hot and claiming. Hands bruise your hips. Eyes never leave your face.

You fall forward on his chest. He doesn't hold you. He lies there, winning, while you shake and cry on his black shirt.

"Get up," he says finally. Pushes you off. Voice soft now. Almost kind. Worse than anger. "Clean yourself. Next time you look in the mirror, remember what the body knows. What I taught you."

You stand. Legs shake. Flour on your knees. Him dripping down your thighs.