unsettled

It wasn't the day Dylan had expected. Frustrated and restless, he took his Ferrari out of the campus, driving aimlessly along the winding mountain roads. The cold-mountain air, refreshing under the relentless summer sun, calmed him with its pine-scented coolness, but his mind remained unsettled; a restless sea of thoughts crashing against the shore of his consciousness.It wasn't the fight that lingered in his thoughts, nor James, nor even the Principal's words. Instead, it was something entirely unexpected—those eyes. Katherine's eyes. The briefest of moments they had shared, a fleeting glance, yet it was enough to leave an imprint. Now, as the wind rushed past, and the sun cast golden hues over the road ahead, her gaze kept flashing before him, pulling at his thoughts like an unsolvable riddle.He found himself at Briston Street, his hands gripping the wheel tighter as he pulled up near the church. Something within him urged him to go inside, to sit in the quiet and talk to the Father. It was a practice he had picked up from his mother—a habit his father despised.Dylan's father, a staunch atheist, had never approved of him visiting churches, calling it a waste of time and energy. But Dylan didn't come here out of faith or belief in God. For him, the church was more than a place of worship; it was a connection to his mother, a woman whose presence he still felt whenever he stepped inside.Whenever his mind became too cluttered or weighed down by things he couldn't shake, this was where he came. It was the only space that could quiet the noise in his head, even if just for a while.Dylan stepped inside the church, the heavy oak doors creaking softly as they shut behind him. The vast space was silent, save for the faint echo of nuns' footsteps somewhere in the distance. The warm glow of sunlight streaming through the stained glass painted soft colors across the rows of pews, but the place felt empty.He walked slowly to the front, stopping before the Crucified Christ. Sitting down, he let the weight of the day settle over him. For a long moment, he did nothing, simply staring at the figure on the cross, his thoughts swirling.From his office, Father Francis noticed Dylan's familiar figure. The boy's presence was never random—whenever he appeared, it was for confession. Understanding this unspoken routine, the Father stepped out and approached.Dylan noticed him immediately, rising from the pew. He walked up to the old priest, knelt down, and kissed the ring on his hand—a sign of respect instilled in him from childhood. Father Francis placed his hand gently on Dylan's head, offering a quiet blessing."Come," the Father said, his voice calm yet knowing. Together, they walked to the confession box, the faint creak of the wooden floor following their steps. As they both settled inside the dimly lit confession box, Father Francis leaned slightly forward, his calm voice breaking the silence. "Confess, my son."Dylan sat still, his face cold and unreadable, his emotions tightly restrained. After a moment, he began in a low, steady voice, "Father, I have sinned."He recounted the incident—the fight, the humiliation, and the simmering rage that followed. His voice didn't waver, but it carried an edge, like a storm barely held in check."I let my pride weigh heavier than my reason. In that moment, I wanted to kill those kids with my bare hands. I still want to, for the insult they threw at me," he admitted, his hands gripping his knees. "My head was filled with anger, so much anger. I let Satan take over my thoughts, and I welcomed it."He fell silent, his words hanging heavily in the confined space. Father Francis remained quiet for a moment, letting the weight of the confession settle before responding.Father Francis leaned forward, his voice calm and measured. "Young man, it is natural for such thoughts to enter your mind in moments like these. Anger and pride are powerful forces, but what matters is that you did not act on those dark impulses. Instead, you used the strength given to you by God to protect yourself, not to harm others."He paused, his gaze steady even though Dylan couldn't see it through the partition. "My son, it is good that you are aware of these feelings and that you have come to me. Recognizing your anger and seeking guidance is a step toward overcoming it. Remember, it is not the temptation that defines us, but how we choose to respond."The Father's words were calm but firm, meant to guide Dylan without judgment. "Take this as a reminder that forgiveness and self-control are divine strengths. You must strive to rise above these feelings, not for their sake, but for your own soul."Dylan nodded quietly, acknowledging the Father's words. Father Francis paused before asking gently, "How are things with your father?"Dylan's face hardened slightly, and he brushed the question aside. "Nothing out of the strange," he replied curtly, his tone signaling his unwillingness to elaborate.Father Francis didn't press him further, but shifted his approach. "Are you still seeing your therapist?""Sometimes," Dylan admitted, though his voice lacked any conviction.The Father sighed softly, understanding the deeper struggles Dylan carried. He had known Dylan since he was a child and, though he rarely pried into anyone's personal life, he had always kept a watchful eye on this boy who had grown up too fast."You should go to your therapist regularly, Dylan," Father Francis advised, his tone firm but kind. "Share with them everything you've told me today. They can help you in ways I can't."Dylan hesitated before responding, his voice tinged with frustration. "I don't go to her often, Father. There's no connection. I feel more at peace here—in the stillness, in the quiet. I just want to sit on those benches and let it fade away."Father Francis regarded him with quiet understanding, his concern heavy. "You'll always have a place here, Dylan, but don't turn away from the help offered to you. Healing comes from many places, not just one."Dylan shifted uncomfortably at Father Francis's words. Growing up under his father's strict, unyielding rule, warmth and kindness had become foreign—almost suffocating. He didn't know how to accept them, nor did he want to. So, as soon as Father Francis finished speaking, he rose without a word and left the confessional.As he stepped into the main hall, his eyes met Sister Autumn's. She moved through the corridor with slow, deliberate steps. A knowing smile played on her lips—sly, almost daring. Without a word, she tilted her head slightly, a silent invitation.Dylan understood.She accompanied Dylan to Father Francis's chamber, which was filled with antique books and saints' images. A statue of Christ was in the center of the room, and beneath it was a table that Sister Autumn's hand was resting on. Her breasts were twitching as Dylan fucked her like a whore from behind. Her body arched against him, her breath uneven, but Dylan felt nothing—not guilt, not pleasure, just the fading weight of the day pressing down on him. When it was over, she looked at him, waiting. He gave her nothing. Just like always. He finished inside her mouth. Without a word, he left the chapel, shutting the door behind him like it meant nothing at all.Dylan stopped his car outside a house covered in graffiti. Max, the owner, was standing at the gate. A thin man wearing a loose shirt and a cap tilted to the side he greeted Dylan as the car pulled up."Next world champion of grand slam arrives at my gate," Max said, then noticed Dylan's face. "What's up with the makeup?"Dylan replied, "Just a rough day."Max gave him a knowing smile. "Do you want me to fix that problem? You know I can. You're my old customer, homie. I can make them behave when you're around.""I handled them. I didn't know their names. Maybe next time," Dylan said."Sure, so you're here for something?" Max asked."Yes, the same stuff," Dylan replied.Max wiped his nose, sniffing as he leaned against the gate. "You wanna come up, or should I bring it down?"I have to go for training. Just bring it to me," Dylan said, handing him a rolled bundle of cash. Max counted it and said, "Just wait."Max flicked the edge of the packet with his thumb, his smirk lazy but his eyes calculating. 'You don't even use this shit, so what's the deal? Generous mood?'Dylan didn't answer. He handed over the cash, knowing better than to entertain Max's curiosity. The man thrived on information, and Dylan had no intention of giving him any.Max counted the bills, then nodded. "Hope it does you good.""It's not for me." Dylan pocketed the packet and left before Max could pry further.Without another word, he pressed his foot on the pedal and sped away.Dylan had done everything to quiet his mind—confessed, fucked, made his deals. It worked for all the weight. Yet there lingered something, her eyes, cutting through the fog as if they knew something he wasn't ready to face.