All of Ismael's attention was on assembling his gorgeous miniature model of Notre Dame de Paris.
Beneath the scant light of the ceiling lamp in the sacristy, he glued the pieces together gently, struggling to get out of the way of his own shadow. The day had been sticky and humid, but also peaceful. And while most couldn't appreciate these sweet moments of quietude, he wasn't like the rest. He knew them to be a gift, something precious.
His lips stretched in the faintest smile as he said, "A little more..."
Someone pounded on the back door, the one that led to the alley, breaking the silence and souring his good mood. Ismael adjusted his glasses and cast an angry look towards the constant banging. Oh, for heaven's sake! After the thirteenth frantic knock, it became apparent that ignoring it wouldn't make it go away.
"Just a moment, please."
"F-father, it's me. Marcelo."
The priest rolled his eyes. He was fond of the boy, something that no one could deny after the number of books he'd lent him (Abe had often compared his compadre's love for his private library to the love other men feel for women).
And why wouldn't he care for the kid? They had more things in common than their similar upbringing by single mothers—such as their fondness for playing chess and putting puzzles together. However, every now and then his altar boy failed to understand the concept of 'Me Time.'
Reluctant to open the door, Ismael dragged his feet as he wondered if the day to replace his altar boy had come. After all, Marcelo had already turned thirteen.
The problem was that finding a substitute, no matter when he did it, would cause a commotion in his congregation. Doña Josefa and most of her group referred to Marcelo as 'the most pleasant boy in the entire town.' Not the type to come home with dirty knees after a game of marbles, Marcelo enjoyed quieter hobbies instead, like collecting broken wristwatches and repairing them. He used to say that bringing them back to life, giving them their purpose again, made them special.
His altar boy preferred to spend his afternoons away from home, which did not mean he liked outdoor activities, not by a long shot. He did not find sports, or any physical activity appealing; which, in a country obsessed with baseball, did not make him popular among kids his age. And since his stuttering and scaly skin didn't help much either, he ended up having no one to hang around with except for Ofelia.
As far as Ismael knew, once they crossed paths in first grade, she took care of Marcelo both in and outside the school, always making sure no bully would lay a finger on him. Since there seemed to be no reason for their friendship, their relationship remained an enigma to most, including Ismael. Ofelia was the daughter of a couple who never missed Sunday morning mass, whereas Marcelo had never met his birth father, and his mother was more interested in keeping her current boyfriend happy than anything else.
Despite this, from that very first recess bell, not a day went by without the two of them sharing laughs and secrets. As with any friendship, there had been arguments, even some terrible ones, but it never took long for whatever problem they had to vanish.
United by a bond stronger than blood, Ofelia and Marcelo were soulmates, and it seemed their friendship would last forever. Until the tragedy of that night changed everything.
"My God," Ismael muttered, opening the door as fear seized his throat. Marcelo's face was livid and splattered with red. "What happened to you?"
"N-no..."
Ismael put his hands over the boy's shoulders and found his clothes were soaked.
"Are you okay?"
"Not," repeated the altar boy, on the verge of tears.
As the priest tried to wipe off the blood with a towel he had on hand, a deluge of questions flooded his head, but the one that scared him the most was...
"Where are your wounds?"
"Did not."
"I'll take you to the hospital."
"Not!" Marcelo grabbed his arm. "D-did..."
"What happened?"
"He d-did not deserve to live. He was rabid."
With trembling hands and shaky legs, Ismael stepped back. A thread of blood ran down the altar boy's cheek, like a red tear.
"Marcelo, what did you do?"
"I n-need to confess," he said to the priest, dropping to his knees. "F-forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."