Sinful Purity (Sinful Series) Read online

  BY

  K. A. STANDEN

  Copyright © 2013 K.A. Standen

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1480129119

  ISBN 13: 9781480129115

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62346-353-3

  To Wes and Taylor—Thank you for always believing in me and putting up with my obsessive and unconventional hours.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue Quiet Desperation

  One Willful to a Fault

  Two Best Friends Forever

  Three Brotherly Love

  Four Naughty Vs. Nice

  Five Solitude

  Six Empty Secrets

  Seven Brave New World

  Eight First Impressions

  Nine New Experiences

  Ten Innocence Lost

  Eleven Shadow Stalkers

  Twelve Predicament

  Thirteen Vast Wilderness

  Fourteen Into the Dark

  Fifteen Revelations

  Sixteen Free Will

  Epilogue New Beginnings

  Quiet Desperation

  I walked in disbelief, shivering and shaken. The oppressive dark night engulfed me. It was the kind of dark that makes you question your reality, your very existence. After the night I’d just endured, I did not need any more questions, not now. The moon was out and nearly full. That alone should have been enough to cast some slivers of light. Light that suggested life would go on, that the world for the most part was unchanged regardless of my utter defeat and certainty that my own private world had not fared as well. But my surroundings were void of all light, as if my hopelessness and defeat had been given life. The thick, low-hanging clouds that had masked any hope of illumination were stifled even more by the dense fog that suffocated the sky. It was as though, like me, the very atmosphere had given up hope and the desire to go on.

  As I stumbled through the night, a chill went through me. I hadn’t even noticed it was raining. But as I looked down I saw that I was drenched clear through. My scarlet blouse clung to me as if it were drowning. It was so very cold, my breath coming in frosty puffs, but I couldn’t feel it. Numb emotionally and physically, I was frozen in a state of shock and disbelief. It felt like the only attachment I had to my body was my eyes. Even then my eyesight was blurry, shaky as the wetness dripped down my eyelashes and into my eyes. My mouth suddenly came alive with the realization of moisture. The rain tasted salty, not like rain at all but like tears. My tears. At that moment I knew it was real, it was all real: every torture, every lie, everything. In a matter of days my whole life’s foundation had been uprooted beneath me. I forced my head around, terrified at what I might see behind me. When I looked back there were only small assemblages of water droplets staining the concrete sidewalk under the row of red-and-white shop awnings of First Street behind me. Appalling, the irony that only a handful of minute puddles hinted at the path this horrid, unforgettable night had taken me down. In reality I was gutted inside, wishing with every step that I would just die.

  The dark night’s dampness seemed placid in comparison to my dripping wet exterior. Cold and frightened, I sat down on the small bench at the corner bus stop. Not really waiting for a bus at all, I was just too weak to go on. My leg began to burn like fire. Pain radiated through my body. From the knee down, my once-faded blue jeans were black with blood. My mind raced. Was it my blood? Was it his blood? There was just too much blood, too much trauma. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Only the unrelenting pain of the injury assured me it was mine.

  The rain began to let up. Sitting under the canopy of the bus stop, it seemed eerily quiet. It could have almost been described as peaceful, if it hadn’t been for the churning turmoil inside me. My mind went blank; all the scrambled images that had been gyrating around ceased like a seized engine grinding to a halt. All that was left was the sky with its oppressive, matted knot of clouds glowering down upon me. The very same clouds that earlier in the day I viewed as mysterious, when I was still naïve and optimistic about the future. Earlier when there was still hope. Earlier when I wasn’t completely alone and broken. When I still had faith in goodness and love. But now it was all different; everything was gone. All I had left were these damned clouds that weren’t mysterious at all. I viewed them now with more experienced eyes. Eyes that told me these clouds had hung ominously foreboding, jeering at me my entire life, daring for me to discover the truth.

  Looking out upon the horizon, I could see my university in the distance. To my left I fixed my gaze on St. Matthew Cathedral, a sight that had once given me great comfort and a sense of belonging. Now I was left with a hollow, desperate feeling. A mixed longing for the way things used to be before I knew the truth. My mind was consumed by only one persistent thought: How do you ever go on living after an ordeal like this?

  The cold fall air and wetness had nearly frozen me solid. The numbness was of such an extent that I had stopped shaking almost entirely. It was at that moment of calm, quiet contemplation that my desolate desperation gave way. Almost in an instant I jumped to my feet, knowing that I must not give in to the weakness I felt. For I wasn’t living for just myself anymore, and everyone deserved to know the truth.

  Willful to a Fault

  On the South Side of Chicago lies the Mary Immaculate Queen Orphanage. The orphanage’s proximity is so close to St. Matthew Cathedral that at first glimpse you would think it connected. Most people just viewed it as one in the same. This was my home, for all intents and purposes, where I had spent nearly all my life. I had been a ward of the orphanage since I was four years old. It wasn’t the only home I had ever known, but it was the only home I remembered. I didn’t remember the day I arrived at MIQ, only the sense that from that day forward, I was to be just another face in the crowd. Mother Superior gave me the name Mary Elizabeth. I never cared for the name much. I always felt that I deserved a more unique name, one that was more suited to my personality. However, I am sure that if Mother Superior had the ability to change that as well, she would have jumped at the chance.

  It is true I was a willful and stubborn child. Personally, I would have preferred to be described as full of life. That was never the case, though, and Mother Superior and the other nuns at the orphanage reminded me daily of my faults, all of them. I can still hear Father Brennigan exclaiming, “That child, that child. She is willful to a fault. Must keep a close eye on her.” Mother Superior chose other words, like defiant, insubordinate, and insolent, in her description of me. It would be an understatement to say we didn’t get along.

  I do admit that I was more spirited than most of the other children. When I was very young, I could constantly be heard demanding, “Just call me Elizabeth, I don’t like Mary. Everyone is named Mary.”

  Which, in my defense, was absolutely true. Every girl at Mary Immaculate Queen Orphanage was named Mary upon her arrival, and every boy Matthew, in honor of their patron saint, who “had taken pity upon their unwanted souls,” according to Mother Superior. At the orphanage the circumstances of each child’s arrival were strictly confidential. No one but Sister Christine, the Mother Superior, and Father Brennigan of St. Matthew’s was privy to the information. Upon each child’s arrival, he or she was given a new name and told that all children were equal in the eyes of God, regardless of their personal plight. Sister Christine always said that hiding the children’s past gave them an opportunity for a new start. While she may have had a point, the real reason was that the secrecy created equality. No child knew if he had been abandoned or if it was an unfortunate mishap by which he was orphaned. All the children were equal, and now it was God and God’s laws by which these children were parented. Frankly, I think it also made the nuns’ jobs easier. Never did they h
ave to learn the children’s names, nor did they fear forgetting them. It was simply always Mary or Matthew.

  In my heart, I always knew that I was more than just one of the many Marys. I was sure that my real family must have been lost or killed on some adventure. While the details were altogether absent, I knew that they must have been remarkable. I just felt it. I felt remarkable, and according to simple logic, my parents must have been remarkable too. There was also the matter of how I looked. I didn’t look like all the other Marys at the orphanage. I was tall for my age, slender, with long dark hair and big blue eyes. My skin was snowy white, which people said only made the contrast more striking. I remember visitors and volunteers complimenting me on my beauty. I adored compliments and felt comfortable receiving them, leading me to believe that I had received many before my time at MIQ and strengthening my belief that my first life before the orphanage must have been exceptional.

  During my first few months at the orphanage, the nuns reminded me daily not to grow too fond of my beauty. “Vanity is a sin,” they’d warn. After nearly a year of being at MIQ, my vanity was almost completely lost. What remained was squelched after an unfortunate bubblegum incident that left my long, dark, beautiful hair misshapen, cut less than two inches below my ear. After that I felt more like a Mary and less like myself.

  Mary Immaculate Queen was an excellent school scholastically. As the months passed I became more studious, more responsible. I was still prone to my “willful acts,” as they came to be called. Which was a kind way of saying bloodcurdling tantrums that left no one in a one-block radius unaware of my distaste for the matter at hand. To me these outbursts were the last of my true self that remained. A reminder that while I was dressed the same, looked the same, spoke the same, and was treated the same as everyone else, I was still me. Somewhere inside me, the heart of a unique individual still beat and waited for the chance to break free.

  Being as willful as I was, I spent quite a bit of time in the Mother Superior’s office. Like the rest of the orphanage, her office was dark and understated, steeped in history and rich wood paneling. The waiting area consisted of two small wood chairs, one with a loose, wobbly leg. I always tried to avoid that one. The inner sanctum of her office screamed minimalist. In the middle sat one large wood desk that was so dark with age it appeared depthless, like an oil slick. If I had to guess, I would have said it was built at the same time as the building and assembled in place, since no one in their right mind would want to carry that behemoth up the three flights of stairs it would have required. Rolled up behind the desk was one of those legal-looking chairs, with its well-aged burgundy leather and metal studs that led up and around the arms. Two tall, narrow wooden filing cabinets flanked each side, like guards protecting their ruler’s throne. That left only a large wooden cross on the opposite wall and another small, wobbly chair for the soon-to-be disciplined. Once, Sister Christine was asked why she had the large crucifix hanging above the child’s chair and not over hers. She simply replied, “The children know I work for God. They need to be reminded that they do too.”

  Sister Christine was my least favorite of all the nuns at MIQ. While many of the kids thought all the nuns were the same—ruler-snapping walking penguins who lived only to judge and extinguish hope before it could ignite and burn the whole institution to the ground—I knew that Sister Christine was worse. Her eyes had an intensity that made you believe she could sear the sin right out of you. Conformity was her agenda, and I was a nonconformist at heart. Therefore, I was a throbbing, oozing thorn in her side for the better part of the next decade and half. Her only hope was that she would be able to excise me before gangrene set in.

  It was during one of these heart-to-heart visits when I was eight years old that I overheard Mother Superior and Father Brennigan talking about the Perkins girl and her incessant willfulness. Sarah was her name. When I heard those words they sounded right: Sarah Perkins. I thought I might be able to remember being Sarah Perkins once. Tears welled up in my eyes and a smile broke across my face. A small giggle escaped through the giddiness. I tried not to wiggle the chair with my excitement. I knew that if Sister Christine or Father Brennigan heard me listening, they would stop talking and I would never find out more about my family. It was at that moment Sister Christine’s phone rang and Father Brennigan excused himself. As he left the office I glanced up and he smiled, a gentle, friendly, knowing smile. His smile reassured me and I knew without a doubt I must be Sarah Perkins. It was a revelation to be sure, and for the first time in a long time I was unique again. Even when Sister Christine ended her phone call and called for me to enter, I didn’t fear my punishment. All I could think about was being Sarah Perkins. Mother Superior was so displeased with my lack of regret for my most recent escapade that she doubled the usual punishment from one week of extended bathroom and kitchen duty to two weeks. When I left her office as happy and gleeful as when I’d entered, she tacked on the waxing and polishing of the chapel’s pews for good measure. But I didn’t care. I had an identity, one that was all mine and not shared.

  After I had learned my secret alias, I became calmer, more at peace, knowing that somewhere I had a place and a past. The orphanage itself no longer defined me. The sense that I was more than my surroundings was awe-inspiring. I knew all I had to do was wait, and one day my life would be mine again. I rarely demanded to be called Elizabeth anymore, although I still preferred it. Finally, after being at the orphanage for more than four years, dutifulness and piety became second nature to me. No more willful outbursts. I buckled down with my studies and became a model at Mary Immaculate Queen. I excelled academically and was often rewarded for my hard work and dedication.

  As a reward, I was frequently invited to have dinner with Father Brennigan. Every day at MIQ was always the same, and these outings were my one escape. I loved seeing and experiencing new things, even if it was only on the other side of the orphanage’s iron gates. St. Matthew’s rectory dining hall seemed like an alternate universe to the orphanage. The hall had lavish decorations and served sophisticated meals. The tables were adorned with crimson linens with gold embroidery that twinkled under the light of the large chandelier. I thought the chandelier was pretty also, with its glistening crystals, but inside I was secretly terrified that it might fall and crush me during the meal. Father Brennigan would frequently catch me gazing up at the chandelier. He thought I loved it so much. Honestly, I was just amazed that the tiny chain that held the chandelier hadn’t already snapped, sending the giant illumination crashing to the floor. Sometimes I would quietly wonder when the fateful moment would be, since I knew it was inevitable.

  My favorite items in the dining room were the candlesticks. There were big ones, small ones, pewter ones, and tall ones. It seemed more like a store and less like a place to dine. I loved the sheer variety and quantity of them. When they were all lit I would imagine the great desert sun and everything in the room melting from the immense heat of the candles. I had developed a grand imagination that I used quite frequently to get me through the long, repetitive days at the orphanage. Yet it was these dinners with Father Brennigan that gave me the sight and knowledge of things that amazed even my imagination. These dinners were the happiest part of my childhood. I loved Father Brennigan. He was kind and thoughtful, like I always hoped my own father would have been.

  During dinner, I loved to count the silverware on the table: three forks, two spoons, and two knives. No matter how I tried, I could never understand why anyone needed to use that many forks and spoons. Sometimes I would drop a utensil just so that I could use another one, trying to use them all. I could tell that Father Brennigan enjoyed watching me. I imagine that I was as much of a diversion from his monotonous routine as he was from mine. Occasionally I would catch him quietly chuckling to himself, imagining, I’m sure, what was going through my little mind and secretly knowing that I would always be safe and obedient at Mary Immaculate Queen as long as he was there. I think back now, convinced that his mind
held far more secrets and mysteries than mine ever could.

  Father Brennigan was a portly little man with a large belly and even larger rosy cheeks. Many of the children thought he looked like Father Christmas but with less hair. He was always clean-shaven and had begun balding very early on. By the time I was ten, Father Brennigan was in his early forties and had only a thin ring of hair wrapping his head like a halo. During dinner I would watch the candlelight dance across his bald head. As a little girl, I thought Father Brennigan must be close to a hundred years old. I thought him wise enough and bald enough to be nearly ancient.

  Our dinners together became almost a weekly routine, an occurrence that both he and I looked forward to very much. It wasn’t long before I became Father Brennigan’s favorite. It was because of this favoritism that on adoption days I was somehow previously occupied or deemed unavailable. I heard that many potential parents inquired about me but were told that adoption was not a viable option. I never concerned myself too much about being adopted because I knew that the Perkins family must have been planning to return for me. Why else would I be “not adoptable”? With this thought firmly embraced, I was always quite relieved when adoption day was over. Visitors always created so much extra work around the orphanage. Plus, all the nuns put on their most helpful, godly faces, which made me despise them even more. They were never that kind to us on a regular basis, and I saw them more as hypocrites than as women of the cloth.

  Despite my personal feelings about adoption day, it was a huge deal to the orphanage and the community as a whole. The Mary Immaculate Queen Orphanage was the pride of Chicago. Would-be parents came from around the globe to adopt the “perfect” child. That’s what everyone referred to us as, “perfect.” MIQ had the most well-behaved, highly educated, and respected children. The sisters prided themselves on rearing exceptionally successful and productive citizens through hard work, discipline, an ingrained love of God, and a good dose of religion. MIQ was like the hall of fame for orphans. We had orphans who’d become Pulitzer Prize–winning authors, Ivy League professors, and foreign dignitaries. In fact, two governors, a Supreme Court justice, and a US president had all come from the modest beginnings that were MIQ.