Free Curse of Stigmata (The Judas Reflections) by Aiden James, Michelle Wright

adolescence, I needed to prove to myself I
was
clever enough, and not the stupid ox he thought me to be.
    I stole small artifacts from my father’s collection and those of neighbors I had access to. When I could get away, I’d take my ill-gotten gains to sell in the marketplace, delighted in how lucrative it became. Over time, the thefts had gone unnoticed, my father was too distracted, and my mother uninterested in the comings and goings of her brood. Their complacency encouraged me to continue, which I did, brazenly. Even going as far as burying the small quantity of precious silver I earned close to the house in a small box. By then, the greed set in. The more I had, the more I wanted. It was never enough.
    I didn’t bargain on the day my father began to notice items missing. Some were gifts bestowed on him in gratitude, others bought at auction or market. I had chosen the good items, the most saleable and left the oddities naively convinced he would never point a finger my way. I was wrong, he knew me better than I anticipated.
    I feared his wrath and the rod more than my spoils, so reluctantly I confessed to everything. I got the rod anyway, and he expected his artifacts back. Discovering I’d sold them all, he was angry and horrified, lashing me three times more for good measure.
    “If this is a sign of what’s to come, I must surely beat the greed out of you. I cannot have a son of mine stealing. God will surely curse you; theft is the work of Satan!”
    Simon Iscariot was a firm man who believed most sternly in the holy word of God and all that was sacrament. I had become the thorn in his side, a bad seed, the black sheep who ultimately caused him the greatest shame. Rachel was me, a headstrong dishonest girl with a devious nature and a lust for gold far greater than her well-being and thought for others. I imagined stigmatics to be devout, clean living creatures. Not so, this one.
    “Stop daydreaming and dig by the small bush,” said Rachel breaking my thoughts. She had been marched out of the house by Juan, apparently to confess. “I swear on my life, it’s there.”
    “You had better be telling the truth this time,” I told her. “We’ve dug at least a hundred molehills for nothing.”
    She shrugged as if my words were meaningless. Juan passed me a mug of wine, something to calm my steadily rising anger, and set out to dig near the bush.
    “I’ve hit something!” he soon exclaimed, pushing the spade down on what sounded like a wooden object buried just under the earth.
    “It’s my box, I know it is,” Rachel said.
    With our bare hands, we dug out a muddy locked box. I wasn’t foolish enough to ask Rachel for the key, as she would conveniently forget its location. Thus, I wasted no time in using the edge of Juan’s spade to break it open. Gold, silver and jewels tumbled onto the uneven ground.
    “I only want my coins, the rest is yours,” I assured her.
    “That suits me. I’m taking what’s mine and leaving immediately. I’m considering a journey to Paris for a new wardrobe then off to Lake Como and Venice. I hear the men there are desperate for women, they’ll grab your hand and kiss it when they don’t even know you.”
    I could not disagree more; her delusions would surely bring her a bounty of sorrow. The only safe haven would be across the border to Spain and beyond. Drifting to Paris to purchase fancy dresses would be madness. Then again, why did I care what she did? I went back to searching for silver shekels, hopefully buried amongst the contents.
    “Part of this collection surely belonged to your father,” I said. “There is far too much here to be donations for you.”
    “Some. There was much more but he spent it drinking and on visits to the Maison’s de Tolerance. It was there he caught syphilis and lived in shame of his condition. He paid dubious physicians for all kinds of concoctions and supposed cures. Nothing worked. He would have died soon anyway. You just sped it