So, yesterday was Sunday
My father begged me to go with him. He's not old, but stubborn, and mostly senseless, and responded to my various clarifications of me not being religious with a bible as a present. So I humored him and tagged along. I also haven't seen him for at least a month and a half, and the guilty little voice in my head said I should.
So, after the tortuous forty minutes of mass I endured, as we were about to leave, my father said he needed to talk with the priest. His friend, apparently.
We waited sitting down until the priest reached us, after strolling down the large corridor, kissing children, holding babies, and all that charade.
- "Hi father," said mine, with a very indulgent voice, "this is my daughter".
I tried to smile as widely as I could, but I was honestly tired, and all that came out was sided grin.
-"Oh my, how you've grown! This is your little girl?", said the father as he grabbed my hand and shook it.
I just nodded, quietly.
My father then began to talk about a project and some mutual friends.
The priest kept holding my hand, even though I ever so slightly pulled it away, until I couldn't take it anymore and pulled my hand away altogether.
He placed his hand on my back, around my waist, as he kept looking at my father, and hmmmming, and nodding.
I flinched, not so noticeably, but I did. His hand was still there. In fact, my flinch arched my back in away that made it easier for him to drop his hand lower down my back, an inch or half above my ass. I felt him clenching at my skin.
I felt nauseous. I'm still not sure why I didn't scream bloody murder, and slapped the disgusting, salivating animal that was placing his hand in all the wrong places. I wanted to prove a point, I guess. I needed to prove a point. I needed to convince myself of the lying scumbags that infest religion for me. I needed to never doubt my intuition again. I needed to understand correctly that this holy man was getting off on me.
If I moved away, I would've never had the certainties I do now. It would've consumed me to think, that maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe I am too paranoid and sick. Maybe he didn't even place his hand on my back.
So I stood there, frozen.
He, indeed, dropped his hand even more, now over my ass, with two or three of his fingers pulling at my jeans.
I had proven he was an imbecile. I was about to vomit, really. So then I pulled away.
He didn't even look at me when I did.
So there, I had proven my point, which is my daily matter of course, anyhow. And though feeling violated and disgusted, I was glad. I was glad I finally made up my mind.
I also made another discovery I didn't want to make, though.
My father stood in front of me the whole time, throwing glances, frowning, stuttering, knowing something was wrong.
He saw the priest's hand on my back. He saw it lower. He did nothing. He kept talking.
It disturbed him alright, but never enough to create a scandal, or stand up for me.
On the way out he seemed distracted, mumbling, and scattered. I walked alone. Really. Alone.
-"Nice mass, eh? The father was very eloquent."
-"Yes dad. It was nice."