Chapter Seven: The Choirboys' Gospel
There’s a peculiar kind of silence in the seminary choir room at night.
Not holy.
Not peaceful.
Just… trained.
As if the walls have been conditioned to absorb cries. To hush tremors. To keep secrets under key and note.
Father Ely sat at the far end of the long wooden bench, facing a row of boys no older than sixteen. All of them were dressed in civilian clothes—an effort to make them feel “normal.” But nothing about this was normal.
Not the files in front of him.10Please respect copyright.PENANAOSs06Wlltj
Not the stories echoing in his ears.10Please respect copyright.PENANArHMlbD03TG
Not the dread clawing at his chest.
Each boy had a version of the same truth:
“Father Emiliano calls us his cherubs.”10Please respect copyright.PENANANPpXPeN45F
“We sleep in his quarters after late services.”10Please respect copyright.PENANAO2o4FwTiNU
“He says some gospels are only meant for special ears.”10Please respect copyright.PENANAMw3rtN0fwR
“He kisses us goodnight. Sometimes more.”
The boy who said the last part—Jairo, aged fifteen—had bruises on his collarbone. He claimed they were from a bike accident.
No one questioned it.
Except Ely.
He had gone too far now.10Please respect copyright.PENANAYPwi10KrPx
Beyond confession.10Please respect copyright.PENANAOHQdUaps0W
Beyond redemption.
He was no longer acting like a priest. He was acting like a man, defying a system built to protect itself.
The moment he stepped into this role—the protector of the abused—he had become the enemy of the clergy.
But Ely was already prepared to fall.10Please respect copyright.PENANAGEjfIXLYWj
So long as he didn’t fall alone.
He asked the boys to write statements.10Please respect copyright.PENANA8k15zzQKgV
Not full testimonies. Just letters. Anonymous, if needed.
Some hesitated.
Most obeyed.
Jairo, however, sat still—eyes on his lap, lips trembling.
“He said… if I told anyone, he’d blame me. Say I seduced him.”
Ely’s stomach knotted.
“He said I was already dirty… so no one would care.”
The Church had taught Father Ely many things.
But it never taught him how to protect innocence from the very hands that blessed it.
And so, he took the risk.
He handed Jairo a number—his personal phone.10Please respect copyright.PENANA8iepzQma3W
And a name: Sister Noreen. A nun working with a shelter that hides victims of clergy abuse.
“If anything happens. If he touches you again. Call her. Run. Do not look back.”
Jairo looked up at him then, for the first time.
There were no tears.
Just something far worse.
Resignation.
Two nights later, the seminary went into lockdown.
Jairo was missing.
No calls. No letters. No signs.
And inside his locker, tucked under his hymnals, was a half-finished note:
“Father Emiliano said angels don’t bleed. So why do I still feel dirty?”
Ely lost sleep.
Not out of fear.
But out of purpose.
He was no longer just investigating.
He was hunting.
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