Page 42

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

I’m fucked.

I’m so thoroughly fucked.

I suck in my own breath, the oxygen turning into carbon monoxide, the burlap bag over my head cutting off more than just my sight. Rope cuts into my wrists like razor blades, my skin rubbing raw with every attempt at twisting free.

With a sharp turn, my body is thrown down to the seat of a car, landing on my shoulder.

There’s a searing pain that shoots through my muscles at the impact.

I wriggle myself, trying to sit back up, but it’s useless without the help of my arms. The adrenaline coursing through me has only heightened, making me feel like a caged animal.

It might be stupid, but I kick the seat in front of me, hoping it’s the driver’s side. Rough hands capture my ankle, squeezing until I’m squealing in pain.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep voice threatens.

I never even saw them coming, too distracted by my own woes that I let someone sneak up behind me before I could ever make it home. Now, I mentally kick myself at being so unaware of my surroundings.

“Pull up right there.” The same voice orders.

The car comes to halt, the ignition turning off.

The bang, bang, bang of my heart drumming inside my chest overwhelms the sounds of the two men shuffling out.

I can barely make out what they’re saying, my mind racing, trying to find ways to escape.

Only, I can’t see, my hands are tied, and I have no idea where I am.

Fingers wrap tightly around my bicep, yanking me up and out of the vehicle. I stumble, my knees sinking into mud before being righted onto my feet.

“No! Stop! Let me go!” My growl is high pitch, of a pubescent boy rather than a fierce man.

Fear slithers like snakes down my throat and into my gut, squeezing my insides so violently I just might die like this – a coward.

Neither one of the men acknowledge me, just pull me forward by my arm, dragging me up a flight of steps. I trip over each one, not on purpose, but it doesn’t hurt that it delays whatever they have in store for me.

“Move!” The second, younger voice demands in my ear.

He must be the one gripping my arm, suffocating my blood flow.

I stumble forward on a brutal shove, falling to my knees. I can feel my bones crack as they collide with the cold tile beneath me, the thud echoing loudly. Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to cry.

“My child.” A third voice, laced with grandeur, fills the room.

“Father, I’ve completed my quest and brought you an offering. A new recruit.” The younger man says with pride.

“Let’s see him.” says the so-called Father .

The string around my neck is untied allowing the burlap sack to be ripped off my head. I suck in fresh oxygen, but all that fills my lungs is corruption, malice, and darkness. The air is so ripe with evil that I nearly choke on it.

With wide, frightened eyes I take in my surroundings.

Between me and an altar is an older, skinny man with long, greying hair tied low in the back of his head.

He’s draped in a red cloak, a thin black rope holding it closed.

His beady eyes assess his gift, sunken in dark, wrinkled sockets making him look like his soul has been suctioned out of him.

He lifts his hand, his boney fingers resting on the top of my head.

My instinct is to flinch and back away, but I’m paralyzed with fear.

There’s very little light in this church, casting shadows along every broken statue.

A large cross stands tall at the north of the room.

Nailed to the wooden post is a battered replica of Jesus, a goat's head replacing his own. Its horns protrude from behind the ears and those black marble eyes bore into me, watching my fate play out. I wasn’t brought up religious, but even I know the sight of anyone’s God disfigured and showcased is downright sick.

Black paint coats what would have been beautiful stained-glass windows, Satan’s mark tainting the stories they tell.

Dizziness causes the room to spin, the other two men on either side of me blurring.

“He looks young.” Father states, tipping my head back to get a good look at my face.

My eyes squeeze shut, refusing to acknowledge the monster in front of me.

“How old are you, boy?” He asks.

Those fingers like the devil’s talons grip the sides of my face, pinching when my response doesn’t come quick enough.

“You’re going to want to answer me.” He leans forward, his breath like rotten roadkill.

“By the looks of your fresh face, I doubt it’s ever seen a lick of pain and my apprentice, Bordeaux here, has a penchant for rough housing.

” He twists my head towards the bigger of the two men beside me, the one with the deeper voice, forcing me to cower before the sight.

Bordeaux looks exactly like the beast he is, taller than any normal man I’ve ever seen with thick, meaty body parts that shine with a layer of grease.

His thinning strands of dark hair are slicked back across his scalp as if he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s aging.

He’s not fooling anyone, but I don’t think now is the time to enlighten him.

His fat upper lip lifts in a snarl, revealing crooked, yellow teeth and the nostrils on his bulbous nose flare, the long hairs sticking out.

I can tell he’s the type to shave daily, not a hint of a shadow across his jaw.

The thought baffles me considering he practices no other forms of hygiene.

Even his wife-beater and jeans are worse than those of a mechanic working twelve-hour days.

“Thirteen.” I manage to squeeze past my squished lips.

The cloaked man whips my face back towards him, my neck muscles straining with the forced movement. Letting go, he stands, clasping his hands behind his back. His gaze never leaves mine as he addresses the younger man.

“You chose the easiest path, preying on the youth.” He accuses, the man shriveling inside himself.

“How do you propose we convert such an innocent soul? We welcome those who have been accused of sinning against their own God, showing them that they still belong in this world, that they have a family when everyone else has shunned them.”

“I-I-”

“However, an innocent soul is easily corrupted, molded into the perfect follower.” Father murmurs, speaking his thoughts out loud. “Fair enough, I’ll allow it.”

A relieving breath rattles out of the man, his shoulders relaxing. He’s dismissed with a wave of his hand, leaving behind a life destroyed.

“Just a child.” He leans back down, sniffing deeply.

“Young, innocent, so... malleable.” Boney fingers rub white stubble in thought.

“I’ll need time to think on this, Bordeaux.

I’ve never come across a potential convert at such a young age.

” Turning to me he asks, “Boy, will you accept Satan as your master? Will you worship alongside the family and praise humanity in all its unholy forms?”

A bushy eyebrow quirks in wait. My throat is so dry, words catch in my esophagus.

“No, no. I didn’t think it would be that easy, though I thought I would give it a try. Well, won’t this be quite the challenge?” He snickers to himself. “Bordeaux, take him downstairs. Let him think about what I've asked. Maybe some solitude might help him find an answer.”

Thick fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me to my feet. My eyes widen at the realization that I’m not going home, worse yet, I’m being dragged further into this nightmare.

“No! Please! Let me go!” I scream, throwing myself to the ground, hoping my dead weight is too much for him.

It’s not.

The soles of my shoes squeak against the tile as Bordeaux tugs me with ease. When we meet the stairs, I finally force myself to use my legs again, afraid that the concrete will cause permanent damage that may never get fixed.

The air down here is thick with moisture, a dampness clinging to the cold walls.

It’s just a concrete box, a dungeon with one lone naked light bulb in the center of the ceiling.

To the far wall, across from the stairs is a twin mattress, stripped of any sheets or blankets.

To the wall left of that hangs two metal chains with wrist cuffs, a rustic smear on the ground below.

They taunt me, I can practically hear the sound of metal on concrete as if they’re clanking together.

The only other things in this room are a metal bucket and a cheap, white wooden chair facing the shackles.

A violent shutter courses through me, vomit threatening to erupt like a fire hose. I try to swallow past it, the thought of having to live with puke everywhere motivating enough to hold it in.

Bordeaux shoves me down, purposely missing the mattress. My head bounces off the concrete with a sickening thud, my vision clouds with pain. Flipping me to my stomach, he unties my wrists, my shoulders aching when they’re finally released. I don’t dare move though; too afraid he’s going to kill me.

“Welcome home.” He chuckles.

I remain still, waiting on a bated breath until I can hear his heavy steps clamber up the stairs. It isn’t until then that I finally let out a terrified sob.

Days blur by one after another. Each day, Father descends the concrete steps in his red cloak, seating himself in the white chair. Each day, I huddle in the corner, away from him.

I can’t remember if this is day three or four, but my stomach is so empty it’s starting to eat itself. My organ screams at me, begging for substance, only I have been given nothing. My lips crack, the skin flaking and peeling away, water only coming once a day in the hands of Satan’s preacher.

My muscles are weak, and I’m exhausted. I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t know why I’m even fighting anymore.

“Are you ready to accept Satan as your master?” He asks me again, sliding the small plastic cup of water my way.