Sinful Purity (Sinful Series) Read Online Free
Author: K.A. Standen
his arm in a stabbing motion as if he held an invisible knife. Undoubtedly his take on the whole Alfred Hitchcock Psycho thing.
“Peter, leave her alone. We all know you’re just a dick,” I heard the voice behind me exclaim. When I turned around, I saw Kelly with a smile on her face just below the remnants of a black eye.
“I’m so sorry, String Bean. I never should have...”
I ran toward Kelly with my arms stretched wide, and before she could even finish her sentence, our fight was over.
“I have been so lonely without you, Keebler,” I cried.
“Me too. Me too. Come on, get off me before we give these freaks anything more to talk about.” She glanced sideways at Peter. “You know he’s just hot for you,” she remarked loudly as we walked off.
“What?” I said weakly.
“That’s why he’s such a jerk to you,” Kelly replied.
It was never any secret that Kelly loathed the orphanage and its religious foundations. Kelly and Brett’s parents were cradle Catholics. Their parents had been baptized as babies. They had made their First Communion. Even their Confirmation and marriage were all dutifully overseen by the Catholic Church. As a family they had always attended Mass every Easter and Christmas. Once in a while they would even throw in a random Sunday for good measure. But neither Kelly nor Brett had ever developed a taste for the devotion it took to be a really good Catholic. Living at MIQ was what you could call a “culture shock” for her.
At St. Matthew’s, Sunday Masses were reserved for the who’s who of the congregation. Reporters and news crews could frequently be seen waiting for church to let out so they could snap pictures and get comments from the political phenoms and reclusive geniuses who could be found amongst the rich and famous parishioners. Friday and Saturday Masses were for the regular upper and middle class families who dappled the nearby community. Thursday Masses were the working slobs, the poor folks who trudged on in their daily lives unaware of all the secret, closed-door deals that held their fates precariously in the hands of the more powerful and elite. The earlier in the week that you attended Mass, the more insignificant you were to the whole worldly picture. Of course, these arrangements were unspoken and rarely even hinted at. No one ever tried to improve their station in life by trying to hobnob at St. Matthew’s on their undesignated day, although secretly I always wondered what would happen if someone were ever so brash. In the grand scheme of things, us orphans were at the bottom of the heap, at least until we were adopted into the upper crust. We went to Mass every Wednesday. The only souls even more unfortunate than us were the old people, the geriatrics who had either outlived or been abandoned by their families to live alone and in poverty. They had the Monday/Tuesday slot.
Every Wednesday Kelly, me, and the other sixty-plus charges of MIQ would wake early, dress in our usual bland, conservative blue-and-gray parochial uniforms, hurry through an even blander yet nourishing breakfast, and then wait. We’d line up double file in front of the orphanage’s large iron gates that lined Enoch Street. Then we waited in anticipation for our excursion, which in reality was the extremely short fifty-meter jaunt next door to St. Matthew’s. While predictable and routine like all other aspects of life at MIQ, this was the one and only time we were allowed to leave the premises. Upon filing into St. Matthew’s we would tarry some more,this time for our turn in the confessional, always mindful of our flawlessly straight queues. One after the other we would enter the confessional and bare our souls to Father Brennigan.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,” each of us would begin.
“Tell me your sins, child,” Father Brennigan would reply.
After you told Father all your sins, he would issue you your penance
“Peter, leave her alone. We all know you’re just a dick,” I heard the voice behind me exclaim. When I turned around, I saw Kelly with a smile on her face just below the remnants of a black eye.
“I’m so sorry, String Bean. I never should have...”
I ran toward Kelly with my arms stretched wide, and before she could even finish her sentence, our fight was over.
“I have been so lonely without you, Keebler,” I cried.
“Me too. Me too. Come on, get off me before we give these freaks anything more to talk about.” She glanced sideways at Peter. “You know he’s just hot for you,” she remarked loudly as we walked off.
“What?” I said weakly.
“That’s why he’s such a jerk to you,” Kelly replied.
It was never any secret that Kelly loathed the orphanage and its religious foundations. Kelly and Brett’s parents were cradle Catholics. Their parents had been baptized as babies. They had made their First Communion. Even their Confirmation and marriage were all dutifully overseen by the Catholic Church. As a family they had always attended Mass every Easter and Christmas. Once in a while they would even throw in a random Sunday for good measure. But neither Kelly nor Brett had ever developed a taste for the devotion it took to be a really good Catholic. Living at MIQ was what you could call a “culture shock” for her.
At St. Matthew’s, Sunday Masses were reserved for the who’s who of the congregation. Reporters and news crews could frequently be seen waiting for church to let out so they could snap pictures and get comments from the political phenoms and reclusive geniuses who could be found amongst the rich and famous parishioners. Friday and Saturday Masses were for the regular upper and middle class families who dappled the nearby community. Thursday Masses were the working slobs, the poor folks who trudged on in their daily lives unaware of all the secret, closed-door deals that held their fates precariously in the hands of the more powerful and elite. The earlier in the week that you attended Mass, the more insignificant you were to the whole worldly picture. Of course, these arrangements were unspoken and rarely even hinted at. No one ever tried to improve their station in life by trying to hobnob at St. Matthew’s on their undesignated day, although secretly I always wondered what would happen if someone were ever so brash. In the grand scheme of things, us orphans were at the bottom of the heap, at least until we were adopted into the upper crust. We went to Mass every Wednesday. The only souls even more unfortunate than us were the old people, the geriatrics who had either outlived or been abandoned by their families to live alone and in poverty. They had the Monday/Tuesday slot.
Every Wednesday Kelly, me, and the other sixty-plus charges of MIQ would wake early, dress in our usual bland, conservative blue-and-gray parochial uniforms, hurry through an even blander yet nourishing breakfast, and then wait. We’d line up double file in front of the orphanage’s large iron gates that lined Enoch Street. Then we waited in anticipation for our excursion, which in reality was the extremely short fifty-meter jaunt next door to St. Matthew’s. While predictable and routine like all other aspects of life at MIQ, this was the one and only time we were allowed to leave the premises. Upon filing into St. Matthew’s we would tarry some more,this time for our turn in the confessional, always mindful of our flawlessly straight queues. One after the other we would enter the confessional and bare our souls to Father Brennigan.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,” each of us would begin.
“Tell me your sins, child,” Father Brennigan would reply.
After you told Father all your sins, he would issue you your penance
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