Red Riding Hood - Chapter 44
The next day, Quiel discovered something unbelievable.
“What is this?”
It was Cinq’s shoes, left in a corner of the backyard.
The dogs, summoned immediately, knelt trembling and stammered,
“We only… did as Your Holiness has commanded us…”
Quiel pressed the end of his whip against the dogs’ foreheads, forcing them to lift their heads.
“Tell me exactly what you did to her.”
“We just… handled her a little. And… we took her shoes and sent her back barefoot…”
Quiel let out a furious scream.
“You stupid dogs! What have you done? I told you to bring her to me! If her feet are hurt, how can she come to me? Have your heads sunk to the level of mere beasts, fit only for collars?”
Terrified, the dogs whimpered. Quiel lashed at them with his whip until his arm ached too much to continue.
Throwing the bloodstained whip aside, he retreated to the chapel. He collapsed onto the cold floor, pressing his forehead against it and weeping tears of contrition.
“Ah, Cinq. I never intended to go this far with you. It must have hurt so much. How badly are you injured? Can you still come to me?”
He worried aloud, then added,
“But, Cinq, you made me angry. Shouldn’t you feel guilty if you’ve sinned? Shouldn’t you want forgiveness? That’s what a good child would do!”
He scolded her in his thoughts, repeating her name.
“Cinq, Cinq…”
He began to imagine her—
Her being insulted with harsh words. Her being slapped, pushed around, and shoved into the mud. Her having her shoes taken, stumbling barefoot. Her blue eyes glistening with tears, her lips swollen.
Her returning alone to the dark house. Her gazing at her scratches, bruises, and bleeding wounds.
“Ah, Cinq, Cinq…”
The Cinq in his imagination felt more vivid than the real one.
The real Cinq he saw was always frozen in fear or deeply asleep, her eyes shut tight.
But the Cinq in his dreams was much freer.
In his fantasies, she stood alone, taking off her red hood. Her honey-gold hair flowed down like syrup, and her white face shone in full view.
There, she freely expressed her pain, wept openly, and moved her delicate limbs with grace to tend to her wounds.
Her hands tenderly caressed her red, raw injuries.
“Ah, ah. Cinq.”
He remembered how her fingers had once curled around his tongue. Her fingers had been so tender, they felt as though they might melt there, and their sweetness was like honey.
If that was the taste of sin, he felt he could fully understand the heart of a God who loves sin.
Clenching his eyes shut, Quiel undid the front of his trousers. Pulling out his rigid, pink organ, he stroked it slowly, his hand softly enclosing it as he began to move rhythmically.
“Cinq. Cinq.”
Cinq. Oh, Cinq. I beg for your forgiveness.
This has become a habit ever since I returned from your sleeping chamber.
It’s because the outline of your defenseless, sleeping body is etched onto the inside of my eyelids. Because the sweet scent of your flesh, which filled that small room, clings stubbornly to the mucous membrane of my nasal cavity and refuses to fade.
Every time I close my eyes, your sleeping form resurfaces, and every time I breathe, your scent overwhelms me. I can’t bear it. In those moments, I fantasize about you and relieve myself.
But, Cinq, I don’t defile you with obscene fantasies. What I desire is small, simple things.
For example, your lips.
Cinq, your lower lip is so plump that it appears soft and full, with a slight indentation in the center. I want to touch that spot.
I want to press my fingertip there, to feel the smooth texture of your lips for myself.
How would you react? Would you flinch in surprise, trembling slightly, your face helplessly frightened as you pull away? If you were to reject me, I would feel unbearably lonely and wretched.
Cinq, Cinq.
This is what lonely yearning feels like.
I prepare cheese and wine with great care for you and place fèves in galettes each year, knowing how much you love them. I imagine your joy as you discover them.
I think of you always. I long for you at all times.
Cinq, for you, I could gather all the best things I have, pack them in a box, and offer them without hesitation.
But, Cinq…
I… I don’t want to be rejected. I can’t bear it. It would be too unbearable.
Cinq, for your sake, I have led the sinful beasts of this village. To stand before them, I had to dredge up the darkness buried deep within me.
Now, within me coils a black goat, a demonic nature.
And yet, when I remove the white goat mask, my appearance is grotesque, unnatural. I have never met anyone like myself.
If you were to see my true face, you would surely despise me. You would turn away from me.
Ah, Cinq.
Even though I deserve your loathing, I still cannot bear to see everything I’ve cherished and gathered for you—all of myself—thrown away like garbage.
That’s why I can’t approach you first.
Instead, I will wait here, imagining you in my mind until the day you come to me, deeply wounded by your terrible sins and seeking my forgiveness.
Even if it’s cowardly, it’s less miserable this way.
I can’t call this love. It’s far too selfish to be love.
The more I yearn for you, the more despicable and cowardly I become. This cannot be love. This is filthy longing, vile desire. That’s what I believe.
But, Cinq, Cinq.
If you were to accept someone like me…
Ah, Cinq, Cinq.
I might stand there and cry like a child.
Quiel let out a long groan.
“Ahhh…”
