A Violation of Grace

R.R. Ryan

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Violation of Grace

From Father Thomas’s point of view

Pressing down my darkness, I stand by the window of my office, overlooking the bustling campus of Rocky Mountain Catholic College. While the vibrant fall colors paint a picturesque scene, my mind is far from the beauty before me.

From my safe perch, I watch as students move about, their dedication to service and learning evident in their every action. Some are deep in conversation, others are engrossed in their books.

A precious few are lost in prayer, seeking guidance and strength.

Grace Henderson is one such soul. Always the most devout, always the one on her knees, hand clasped, eyes open but unseeing. Praying for whatever she prays for. Her kind can be prey, a sheep for the wolf.

Shaking the darkness of my thoughts, as one would dust from shoes, I return to the contemplations of the other students.

As I observe them, I can’t help but wonder about their true motivations. How many of these young souls are genuinely called to a life of service? How many are merely seeking refuge from the complexities of the world? Are they drawn to the priesthood or the nunhood to escape the struggles of life, to find a sense of purpose and belonging in a structured environment?

Perhaps a few.

My thoughts drift to the darker side of human nature. Among these devoted students, are there those who harbor secrets? Those who might one day cross the line from devotion to depravity? Could there be potential abusers or, God forbid, even murderers walking among them?

The very idea sends a chill down my spine, but I know it’s a reality I must face. The cloak of faith and service can hide the darkest of sins. Haven’t I seen it before, and in others?

Or in myself.

Turning away from the window, I sigh. The weight of my own secrets presses down on me, a constant reminder of the fragile line between faith and fallibility. Having struggled with my own desires, my own temptations, I know the battle is never-ending.

But I also know that I must remain vigilant, not for my own soul, but for the souls of those entrusted to my care.

As I prepare to leave my office, I make a silent vow to be a better guardian, a better shepherd. Swearing an oath, I will watch over these students, guide them with wisdom and compassion, and pray that they find their true calling, whatever it may be. And I will do my best to ensure that the light of faith shines brightly, untainted by the shadows of human weakness.

On my calendar, written in red ink, Friday, 10:00 am, Coffee with Grace. Ah, yes, Grace Henderson, a girl who’s too devout, too open, too trusting, too much of everything. For her own good, I must keep my eye on this girl. For, you see, she’s too much like those who’ve gone before her.

The following morning comes, as it wants to do.

The walk from the rectory to the chapel cuts straight through the oldest part of campus. Cobblestones lie uneven and wet under the wind, mottled orange and black with leaves that crunch if I drag my heels.

The cold has a bite today. It sharpens everything-the slant of sunlight, the bite of incense that lingers on my cassock, even the voices of the students calling to each other across the quad.

Every other step leaves a vaporous trail of breath behind me.

The front steps of St. Ignatius’s chapel shine with frost. In less than a month, the fountain to the right will freeze solid, capping the grotesque cherubs in glassy armor. But for now, they stare with stone eyes at the trembling, fallen world. Where I stand with them, back straight, hands inside my sleeves. Watching the students who drift up the path for morning Mass.

Some bow their heads to me. So, out of duty, I nod in return, sometimes forcing a smile, sometimes letting the blue steel of my gaze say what I wish-move along, child, you do not know what you are asking for.

They all believe they are good. Thinking inside the empty noggins, when they become a nun or priest, life will be sunshine and rainbows. That their needs will be met by a benevolent, loving God.

What do they understand about burning in lust, never allowed to meet that need? Never able to say I love you, or seduce another, to share physical love. All they know, at this point, is the protection in vows.

No heartbreak.

Truthfully, it used to be easier to care. The desire to shepherd came naturally at first. Like falling in love. Until I saw what it did to a man’s sense of self. Was it wrong for me to want to lead, to inspire, to teach? Now the urge has curdled into something I cannot quite name.

A knotted weight behind my ribs makes me want to spit every time I say, Peace be with you.

The old joke was that a priest’s worst temptation was the bottle. No one warned me about the girls. Especially not the devout ones, the ones who came to me with questions about Kierkegaard or Augustine. Or those who sat in the front pew and wept soundlessly through the Eucharist, hands curled like claws.

Let me be clear about this: I am not a weak man.

However, I see myself in them. Those clueless young wannabes, their capacity for suffering, the hunger for love and correction. The desperate hope that a higher power will take over and move the flesh as it ought.

Everyone’s prayers die at the ceiling. Never making the voyage past the rafters. And God’s deaf ears never hear, his all-seeing eyes have been blinded, and his concern died in heavenly apathy.

No one warned me about the Grace Hendersons of the world. She’s coming down the walk now, at a clip short of a jog, loose hair flying in the wind. Every time she looks up, the sun catches the strands and turns her whole head into a shimmering net. She sees me and slows.

And as always, she’s in uniform. A gray skirt at the knees, navy sweater, tights the exact shade of storm clouds-and yet nothing about her body seems subdued or contained.

If I asked, she’d rattle off every book of the Bible in order, quote Aquinas chapter and verse, and ask me a question so piercing it would leave me blinking for half a minute. Her faith is a thing with teeth.

A true believer, not running away but toward, and ready to do her duty to Church and God. So much like the one who seduced and left me, I want, no need, to rip her fucking heart out of her chest.

Despite all that, I raise my hand.

Doing her part, she waves back, Grace’s books hugged to her chest. She waits at the bottom of the steps as if asking permission to approach. When I gesture her up, and when she stands beside me, she looks both reverent and electrified. Stupid girl acts as if she expects me to lay hands on her head and pronounce a miracle.

“Good morning, Grace.”

Almost bowing, she ducks her chin.

“Father Thomas. Sorry, I’m late. I didn’t mean-” She glances up at my face, and the rest of her apology shreds away. Her eyes are the color of wet moss. They glisten, always, as if she is a second away from tears or fury.

“I was early,” I say. “Habit.”

Sharp and involuntarily, she smiles. I see the ink stains on her right hand and the rough skin of her knuckles. Sometimes, she bites them when she thinks no one is looking.

After a long silence, we stand, and the quiet stretches for a moment. From the south quad, a pack of students shouts something rude. But I ignore it. When Grace flicks her gaze sideways and chews the inside of her cheek, I break the quietude.

“Have you been sleeping?” I ask, gently.

This pulls her from wherever she was, and she blinks twice.

“I’m sorry?”

“You look tired,” I say. “Too much studying, maybe. It’s my duty to make sure you’re not burning yourself out.”

Squinting against the momentary intrusion of the sun as it moves from behind a cloud, she colors a little. Brighter cheeks, attentive eyes, mark the change.

“Only when I hit the hard questions. Of late, I’ve been thinking about original sin. About whether it’s fair, I mean, or even-” She trails off, as if her thoughts are too heavy to verbalize.

Being polite, I nod.

“Now, Grace, it’s a good question. But not for this morning. Not before you’ve had coffee.” Staring at her, I step aside and gesture for her toward the path. For a moment, she hesitates and falls into step beside me.

The world smells like dying leaves and distant rain. Strange how I have always liked the autumn for its honesty. In spring, everything lies to you-green shoots, blossoms, a promise that nothing will die. But in autumn, the air tells the truth. Nothing is saved, in the end.

Everything burns, and the ashes are swept away by the first real snow.

When we cross under a stone archway, Grace’s stride matches mine. Almost pridefully, she walks with her head up. But her left hand never leaves the book pressed to her ribs. The weight of the moment presses down, and she looks like a soldier who expects to be ambushed at any moment.

“You’re quiet today,” she says when we reach the café. It’s empty except for the barista, who nods at us with skillful indifference.

As is my custom, I order black coffee. As is her habit, Grace Henderson takes tea, no sugar. The two of us sit by the window, watching clouds bruise the sky and small packs of students tramp the paths below.

Cradling the mug in her palms, Grace sips her tea and sets it down. With an odd flourish, she opens her mouth twice before speaking.

“Ah, Father, can I ask you something? Something not…not…about God. About you.” She gestures vaguely upward, a pantomime of the cross or the dome of the chapel.

Something makes me tense, and I know she sees it. She’s always too perceptive.

“Of course,” I say, voice even revealing nothing of my turmoil.

Out of nervous habit, she licks her lips. This is sensual, too sensual not to be intentional, and I fear for her safety, a sheep among wolves. When a woman is oblivious to her body and how others perceive it, she often gets more than she wants. Even if she deserves what she gets.

“Why did you become a priest? If that’s not, um, too personal.”

Taking a moment, I exhale. Well, yes, it is too personal. But how can I say so to her?

“Not personal at all.” The lie comes smooth and well-practiced. “Honestly, I wanted to save people. Or at least show them a way to save themselves. It seemed-” searching my mind for the right words. “It seemed like the only truthful thing left.” Have you ever noticed how liars say words like ‘honestly’ and ‘truthful’ to hide their lies?

While Grace nods in agreement, I can tell it’s not enough.

“And do you think it worked?” she says.

The question hangs in the air between us, sharp as a meat hook. The whisper carries across the space, and I can’t look at her. Searching for safety, my eyes find the lip of my mug, the swirl of coffee inside a cheap ceramic. Blowing across the surface, I sip some.

“Some days. Some days I think I only make matters worse.”

Studying me as one does a butterfly, she tilts her head.

“Um, see, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, softly. “After all, you helped me.”

Ugly and too loud, I bark a laugh.

“How, exactly?” I ask, rather skeptically.

A blotch of red rose high on each cheekbone, she colors again.

“You taught me how to pray,” she says. “You taught me that faith isn’t about-about obeying, exactly. It’s about trusting. Even if it’s hard. Especially if it’s hard.”

Her voice cracks at the last syllable. In embarrassment, she glances away. Eager to reach my hand across the table and cover her hand with mine, but instead, I force my fingers to curl around the mug.

“I’m not always good at it,” she says. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not even myself. Like I’m pretending to be someone who believes.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. That sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t,” I say. “It sounds honest.”

The room seems to shrink as she stares at her tea, the tips of her hair curling against her jaw. “Do you ever hate it?” she asks. “Being a priest, I mean. The expectations. The rules.”

The word hate lands heavy, familiar. With a selfish glee, I savor it for a moment, rolling it across the cracked landscape of my mind. Do I hate it? No. Not exactly. The thing I hate is older, deeper, beyond words. The hatred hides in the part of me that cannot let go, that wants to destroy the thing it loves most.

Buying more time, I take a long pull of coffee and set the mug down with a thud.

“Sometimes, oh, my yes. Sometimes I want to burn it all down and start over.”

She looks up, startled. For an instant, I think she understands precisely what I mean. She doesn’t flinch, though. She meets my eyes, and I can feel the tension coiling in my stomach, low and electric.

“Me too,” she says.

As if on cue, her hand shakes when she lifts the tea. When she sets it down again, her fingers are stained a darker blue. A single thought cuts through, and I want to reach out and suck the ink off those lovely fingers. To bite the delicate fingertips until she cries out. Just to see what she looks like when her composure shatters. The thought stuns me, and I lean back, chair scraping on the old wood floor.

The light flickers from above as she waits for me to say something, but I can’t. Can’t think over my heart’s hammering. For an instant, I imagine what would happen if I stood, walked around the table, took her by the hair, and pulled her up into me. The shock on her face, the moment of resistance, the long, slow yield.

However, I do nothing. Letting the silence rot between us.

Eventually, she says, “Father Thomas? Are you okay?”

After a beat or two, I force a smile. “I’m fine, Grace.”

Unconvinced, she nods. Gathering her books, glances at the clock, and stands. “I should go. I’m late for the seminar.”

Again, faking civility, I stand with her. For a moment, we are eye to eye, close enough where I can smell the tea on her breath, the ghost of sweat at the nape of her neck.