The Sinner

by Emma Scott

“Plenty of people have faith.” Casziel snorted. “On the surface. On their knees once a week, if that.”

I don’t go out a lot because I’m introverted,” I said. “Which isn’t a crime, last I checked. And there is nothing wrong with enjoying those books. They’re about love, which is the strongest force on earth. In them, you can experience different kinds of romance: enemies to lovers, second chances… And the men—the heroes—might be billionaires, mafia mobsters, or motorcycle club members, but they all have one thing in common. They would die for their woman.”

“I’m not exactly a super model.” “No, your body is fuller than the images in your magazines.” I hunched over my drink. “Gee, thanks. As if I’m not bombarded with that fact every day of my life.” “I have offended?” He frowned. “You are healthy and strong. Is that not valued now as it was in Sumer?” “Yes and no,” I said blushing up to the roots of my hair. “I don’t know what they thought in Larsa, circa 17th century BCE, but in this era, the standard of beauty is not me.” “Then it has no standards,” he spat.

“God, demons make it so hard for humans to accomplish anything. It’s amazing that your side hasn’t won and turned this world into hell.” He arched a brow. “You think it’s not? With the murders and rapes and torture and war and sex trafficking and child pornography and mass shootings and—”

I didn’t know what I was. Someone who was holding a tiny flickering candle in a vast, dark cavern—I could see only bits and pieces, but the darkness hinted at something so much larger and deeper. My aching sense of loss. My endless search for love in books.

I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or self-conscious for being shy. Or is it introverted? Or both? I don’t know that there’s a difference.” “There is,” I said. “Introverted people don’t hate socializing but draw more energy from being alone. I used to be able to go to parties and talk and have fun, but they’d leave me mentally exhausted.”

“Sometimes the loneliness is so much, and the silence is so loud, I read romance novels until my head aches, and I think until it feels like I’m drilling into myself. Like excavation. As if I’m mining for memories I don’t have, certain that there is more to me than this. There has to be. But I can’t find it. Whatever it is, it’s always out of reach. I drop a stone into the well of my heart and I keep listening for it to hit something real. But it never does.”