Page 16

Chapter fourteen

Lucien

Past - 5 years old

“ L ondon bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London bridge is fall…ing… down… my… fair… la—dy.”

She’s going quiet again; she only does this when she has had too much of the fire water or when daddy has put the poison in her veins again. I squeeze out of her hold while she sinks lower onto my bed, in my tiny room. Looking down at her, my brows furrow. I don’t like it when she goes sleepy like this; it makes my heart sad. She is so pretty though, mommy is. She has dark hair like me and the same color of eyes. Daddy says I’m her copy; I would love to be a copy of her, just without the fire and poison.

All that I have in my room is a bare mattress on the floor and my blankie along with a couple shirts, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, and a single pair of sneakers sitting by the door. For when daddy says I must change my clothes. Mommy gets me a new shirt sometimes with superheroes on them; I want to be a superhero one day save all boys and girls from bad men and have all the noodles in the world.

Noodles are my favorite.

Crawling around her, I can see she isn’t moving and there is blood coming from her arm again. Grabbing my blankie, I wipe away the red stuff and sit down crisscross-apple-sauce next to her, listening for daddy outside of my bedroom door. He is mad today and locked us in here, which is nice. The church man said that daddy’s anger is no good and must go away, so he puts us in here to save us. When he is mad, he is really mean to mommy and me—gives us owwies.

“Mama?” I whisper, reaching to play with some of her dark hair.

Nothing.

“Mama, wake up.”

Nothing.

“Please Mama?”

I don’t like the silence; it’s always like this after daddy leaves.

I have to wait for her to wake up before I can leave my room and get a snack, I feel safer with her. I love snack time; it makes my tummy sound like a doggy. It makes grrr noises and feels weird, but I know that means it needs yummies. But I must wait, like a good boy.

Pushing away from mommy, I crawl over to my toy car that daddy kicked when he threw her in here with me. Sitting with my knees under me, I reach for it and start running the wheels across the brown carpet. Making vroom sounds while I picture driving it fast down the road and over the hills so it can jump. If I ever grow up, I want a car like this one.

It is red with what daddy calls a ‘spoiler’ on the back. It looks like a big fish fin and reminds me of whales.

I like whales.

I play for a little while, but mommy still isn’t making sound. The sun outside has gotten dark, making the room hard to see in, but I can hear her breathe. She’s just sleeping, mommy is tired, always tired.

My tummy is starting to make the grrr sound again, but she isn’t awake yet and that makes me sad. Pushing up from the floor, I walk over to the mattress and drop down on it, hoping it shakes her enough to wake up, but when it doesn’t, I scowl.

“Mommy, wake up!”

Maybe if I am loud, she will open her eyes, and I can have food. Sometimes we go more than one sun and one moon before we have more food. My tummy hurts then, and I make myself sick when I eat so fast because I’m hungry.

I don’t know when daddy got home, but when my bedroom door slams open, light pours into the room, and I jump back away from her, looking over at his shadow. It’s scary—tall and fat—like it will gobble me up if it touches me.

“Daddy, she won’t wake up.”

“I know you dumb shit.”

He stomps over to us, then, leaning over, he grabs her by the arm and yanks her off the bed, and smacks his hand on her face. Sometimes that works, other times he pours water on her which gets my bed all wet and makes it cold to sleep on.

“Clara, wake up! You have a fucking child to take care of.”

Mommy groans just then; a little bit of life finally shown in her hand as her finger's wiggle.

“Mommy!”

“You worthless whore, up and at it. I’m not feeding this little leech. I suggest you get up and do it or he’s going to starve tonight.”

No, not again. I want noodles.

16 years old

It’s been a few years since mom passed away; we moved into a local church within a year of her death. Dad has been so focused on becoming a man of God that he pays me little to no attention, almost as if I ceased to exist. I doubt ignoring your son is part of the commandments, but what I do know is that ‘honor thy father’ is somewhere in our Christian teachings, so I force myself to remember that.

There are days where I wish I was part of another family, or in a family where at least one of my parents care about me enough to ask where I am going at random times, or how I am faring in school. But I’m not and no one at the church cares enough to inquire.

Truth is, school sucks.

Though he’s not the best parent, we haven’t moved in years, and I’ve been able to find some friends. And feel somewhat relieved that there are people who care about me in my life. I don’t get to spend much time with them outside of school, which is trash, so I make sure to get as much time with them while we are in class. I will say that they keep my sane but that would be a lie.

The church is also trying to help me out with a free counselor since dad is now leading the congregation. That’s where I sit now, slouching down on this pristine white couch in the counselor’s office. My hoodie, two sizes too big, blankets me in the only warmth I have ever known. The hood itself drapes over my head to shield my eyes from the glaring light, my untamed greasy black strands poke from the hem of it further blocking the rays. I wear a ripped band t-shirt underneath that I stole from a thrift store, a pair of holey jeans which have seen better days, and a pair of worn-out boots. This is what people usually find me in, and Father hates it, but it’s comfortable and allows me a little identity outside of being the ‘preacher’s son.’

“Lucien, the deal was you come in here to talk, not to brood.”

“I didn’t ask to be here, so why would I agree to those terms?”

“Because it is counseling in your home, the church, or you see a psychologist. Take your pick.”

“Will the church give me a ride, or do I have to walk? Because the way I see it, I’m here so you look good to my dad.”

He sits silently for a few moments, likely trying to reel in his anger. He is fresh out of therapy himself; anger management problems and has an issue with not feeling like he is good enough.

Nonetheless, humans are imperfect, and I have come to learn that the most imperfect ones are those who seek salvation from the Lord. I do the same thing, sometimes. I don’t do it here though, my relationship with God is much different. He doesn’t speak to me about forgiveness or helping those less fortunate than myself. He whispers all the wickedness in my ear, pointing out the faults of others and shedding light on the wolves who hide in sheep’s’ clothing.

God is preparing me for something greater than sitting in a building that smells like moth balls and reeks of old lady perfume. He has been training me, teaching my body to accept more pain than I ever endured as a child.

“Yes, the church will provide transportation as long as you remain in treatment for the next year.”

“And that looks like what? Twelve Hail Mary’s and twenty lashings? You know I don’t feel them anymore.”

“No, Lucien, you attend your sessions weekly for the next year. The church will even cover the costs. We need to control your behavior and get you back on the path of righteousness.”

What a moron—I never left, I only transformed into something worse.

“Alright,” I huff, stuffing my hands into my pockets, dragging out my remaining cigarette. It is a coping mechanism I developed over the past few months. I don’t particularly like it, but the nicotine helps calm my nerves.

“No smoking in here, Lucien.”

“Let me guess, it’s a sin.”

“No, it’s a violation of city ordinances actually. Don’t allow your juvenile choices to get you in greater trouble, my son.”

“Don’t ‘my son’ me, you’re not the head of this congregation. My dad doesn’t even call me son.”

“That’s because, to him, you’re an abomination who should be cast out.”

That stings like hell, even if I already see it as a fact. He hated me when I was five, why wouldn’t he hate me now?

I continued pulling the cigarette out and placed it between my lips. It trembles somewhat as I strike my lighter and apply it to the end. Drawing in a breath, I savor the burn deep in my lungs. The church is preparing me for the world, and God is preparing me for damnation.

23 years old

My muscles are on fire, but it feels so good to be standing here in this moment with a man on his knees before me. Begging and pleading, promising to change his ways and asking God for forgiveness.

I went to my therapy sessions when I was younger, but I’ll have you know, they didn’t have the desired effect. I don’t think I got worse per se, but I did refine myself. Now, I straddle the line of the perfect Preacher’s Son. I attend the functions, help feed the homeless, and care for the broken. Putting on a mask of complacency and devotion.

On the other side of that perfected coin, I am the very thing Father preaches against. The dark, the damned, and the wicked. I have grown into my craft, tailoring it over the past years, and now I can feel God reaching through me as I drag a blade across the throat of a city politician who has an affinity for sodomizing young boys.

It’s one thing to punish the dregs of society but those who harm children are at the top of my list.

Now that I have come to see the abuse and neglect, I endured, I channel God’s wrath and pluck their souls right from their bodies, just as the Lord intended.

When the child molesters whining turns to gurgles and dual-opening gasps for air, I shove him forward where he crashes against the cream-colored carpet of his son’s bedroom. It’s fitting to be murdered in the very room where the original sin took place.

I’m no anti-hero but his son deserves a better life than the one he has been dealt, and I know God will now lead him down a more promising path and into a life without the horrors of his father. The irony is, I begged the night sky for someone who would have done the same for me and when I didn’t receive it, I turned into the very monster I needed.

Standing over the rapist before me, I run my fingers along the blood covering my knife, knowing that his wife is next. But first, I want to make sure he stops breathing, and then watch the life drain from his eyes. Thankfully, that doesn’t take long. When he stills, I roll the man over onto his back and see that his already dark brown eyes have blown wide, appearing even darker.

Good.

Flipping my knife around, I crouch and use the bulk of my body weight to drive the blade through the gaps in his ribs, directly into his heart. I must make sure he doesn’t bounce back from being sliced from ear to ear, and the best way to do that is to damage the one organ that keeps the rest of the body alive.

Goosebumps erupt all over my body when I hear, and feel, the blade scrape against his bones. It’s a dull, grinding sound, almost like I put on several pairs of ear plugs and all I can hear is how the sound feels vibrating through the air. Not only does it silence God’s voices in my head, but it calms me from head to toe, feeding me a level of tranquility cigarettes have yet to bring me.

It’s strange, murdering, but if the Lord demands it then that is what he gets.

Shoving away from the man, I stalk over to the door and exit. My boots carry me down the hallway towards the bathroom where I have managed to confine his wife after subduing her. She’s going to receive the same punishment—death, that is—but hers will be different. There will be no begging and pleading, of course, but she will feel pain.

How could a mother stand by and allow her son to be raped by her husband, his dad, and then go sit in the pews at church every Sunday? There is a special place in hell for her, and she is about to cash in her one-way ticket. If I had the capacity to smile, that would do it for me, but yet, I maintain the level of coldness I need to make it through this kill.

Shoving the door open, she immediately starts to scream, which unluckily for her, doesn’t bother or deter me one bit.

Closing and locking the door behind me, I flip my knife in the air a few times, always catching it by the handle, as I contemplate on how I want to end her life but still get use out of her. I can slice her into pieces, cut her throat like I did her spouse, I could gut her from the pelvis up to the bottom of her sternum—the choices were endless. But no, I have something better in mind.

Flinging the knife onto the counter, I advance on her. She screams and tries to back away from me, but being larger, with longer limbs, I have my hands on her in just a few beats of my black heart.

“No, please!” She cries out as my left-hand twists and knots in her long blonde hair; dragging her along with me as I prepare the large claw foot tub they have in this oversized bathroom. Reaching with my free hand, I wrench the faucet to full blast, turning the hot water on as high as it will go.

As the tub fills with water, and she continues to thrash around, I pull her along with me while I go back for my knife. I need inside of her body one way or another, down to the very fluid that keeps her heart beating.

“Stop begging, it’s pathetic, and it won’t save you.”

In other situations, I don’t talk since they don’t need to know my opinions on what they have done or if they would ever see the light of day again. I only need their fear to continue until the last bit of life fades away.

“Please, I— I don’t know who you are or what you want but take whatever money and jewelry. Just let me go.”

Typical—I want your soul, not your money.

Snatching up my knife, I lead her back to the tub and force her into it. Her screeches from the blistering water echoing through the ornately tiled wet room.

Lord Almighty, if you can hear me, please blanket my ears from her pitiful screams.

Without waiting, I plunge the knife into the skin of one of her inner thighs. She instinctively reaches for the knife, but when she does, I yank it out and do the same thing with the other. Severing both of her arteries. It won’t take her very long to bleed out, so I must work quickly.

“You know what you did. What you let your husband do to your son.”

“I— I.”

“Save it, I have no interest.”

“Did he send you? Shane?”

“Your son? The eight-year-old boy who you’ve allowed to be raped in your home?”

Her silence is deafening while her body starts to pale and weaken. I don’t help her as she begins to crumble into the water; her blood filling and marveling with the liquid in a way that has me drooling. Out of all the problems I have, this is the one I struggle with the most.

“He’s not my son.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he isn’t, he’s the mistress’s child and we took him in.”

That hits somewhat close to home and fills me full of rage.

“You think that matters? He’s still a CHILD!” My voice starts to tremble with fury, along with my arms and the grip I have on her.

“P— please don’t let me die.”

“I bet your son begged not to be sodomized. Since he didn’t get a choice, neither do you.”

Her knees finally meet the bottom of the tub, the water and blood sloshing over the sides of the bath onto the white floor. What is with rich people and needing everything to be white?

“He deserved it.”

Remember that rage I was talking about, about two seconds ago? It’s blinding now. My whole body is humming with the hunger to cause more pain. She needs to pay. Not only will she burn in the depths of hell, but I am going to make the last minute of her life the most painful it will ever be.

Shifting my hold on her hair, I pull her head towards me then slam it back into the edge of the bathtub. The sudden blunt force trauma knocking the voice from her mouth and the air from her lungs. Her eyes roll in her head like they have lost the ligaments that hold them in place.

Instead of stopping, I repeat the motion over and over until I hear her skull crack, and even then, I don’t stop. The way the back of her head caves in, the bone fragments cutting her scalp from the inside out, make me feel a little better but I don’t stop. I want to see the pink flesh of her brain before I am done.

A few more slams later, I know she’s dead and I have made my God a very happy man.