This man was not understanding him at all. Had he expected anything different, though, from a fellow priest?

Malachi did not enjoy it, the way Richards' words set a fire beneath his skin in the most irritatingly itchy way as was possible. Like little insects scurrying through his veins, agitating further with every step of their sticky legs. If he was nothing else, he was patient. He had always tried his hardest to be kind, and even if he could not... relate, in the way that most people did with one another, he could at least understand. That compassion was as essential a trait to Malachi's being as air was essential to his lungs.

But some people needed a firm hand.

A really fucking firm hand, and they needed it hard enough that it left an impression in their skin, to remind them of their own idiocy every time they caught a passing glimpse of their reflection.

Seeing as he could not reach through the grate and assault his poor assistant priest...

"You sound as if you wish to leave the priesthood and are looking for an excuse to do so. You should, if that is the case."

Malachi had never met anyone that could count high enough to number the times he had doubted his own vocation.

"You will not feel any better for it. Do you believe that the way that God made you is depraved? Or do you think yourself powerful enough to twist his creation into depravity?"