Page 127 of Eternal

AZRA

“Take Me To Church” by MILCK

Present

W e came back yesterday, I didn’t even unpack.

He dropped me off at my place, asked if I wanted him to stay over and I simply kissed him goodnight and went upstairs. He smiled like he understood, like he knew I needed to be alone. To get my head straight. To get ready for the meeting I had coming.

The desert heat in Vegas feels thicker today. It’s heavy and clinging to my skin as I kill the engine of my bike and slide the helmet off. My eyes sting from lack of sleep. I had to rearrange my apartment when I came back because of the state I left it in. And it took me almost all night long.

Gosh I’m stressed and excited. Because this is it.

This is the last piece. The last fucking puzzle piece.

I keep replaying her face. Lena’s face. No, Emily’s. She changed her name.

The photo is still burned into my brain. The church hall, and her in the background, barely visible. Not looking at the preacher. Not looking at anything. Just… lost.

She was never there by choice. I know it.

I park near the coffee shop, an indie little place tucked between two worn-down thrift shops, and I see her. She’s changed again. Shorter hair, darker too. Eyes darting like she’s expecting someone worse than me.

I almost turn around. But I don’t. I step inside and meet her eyes through the window.

Emily.

I push the door open and she looks up. Her eyes meet mine. Neither of us smile.

She watches me sit across from her like she’s weighing something in her head, whether to stay or bolt.

“Emily?”

She nods.

“I’m not a journalist,” I say quietly.

“I know,” she says quietly. “You don’t look like one.”

I blink, startled. Then let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh in another lifetime.

“I saw the photo.” I start, and she nods. “You were there,” I continued.

“I grew up there,” she says. “My parents brought me in when I was six. They called it a retreat. Said we were special, chosen .” She fiddles with the chain around her neck, and I see it, a small cross resting above her collarbone.

Still worn. Still there. “They were watching us. Everywhere. And when my parents understood that it wasn’t a simple church, they wanted to disappear.

But I’m pretty sure they never left alive.

” She blinks like she’s remembering things.

“The doors were locked, the windows too. They used God’s name for everything they did. ”

I swallow hard. “What did you see?”

Her eyes glaze over, not with tears, just distance, like she’s floating somewhere far away and letting me see it.

“Women. Girls. Boys. Brought in on the weekends. Some never left. Some were handed off to men in suits who never gave names in exchange for a big bag of money. It was weird. Cause my parents disappeared pretty quickly after we arrived.”

A pause. Her voice lowers.

“They told us our pain was holy. That silence was proof of obedience. That if we didn’t fight, we’d get rewarded. The girls who cried too loud got taken to the back room.”

She looks at me again. “I was one of them.”

My hand tightens around my phone.

“I got lucky. A janitor helped me run. He’s probably dead now. But that night he left the door open for me, and I ran for hours in the woods and mountains until I found a car to bring me back to the city.”

“And you changed everything,” I say.

“Everything I could. Name, state for like 10 years, hair. I still feel her, though. Lena. Like she’s a little ghost I carry in my lungs. And a few years ago I decided to come back here.”

Silence.

That cross... it’s not hope. It feels like a wound she keeps wearing around her throat like a confession. That cross is similar to the one Christian wore, and it’s making me sick, because he never wore it with conviction. He simply used it against me.

“Why the cross?” I ask.

“Because I still believe in God,” she says quietly.

Bullshit.

“Not their God,” she adds, voice soft. “Not the one they used to justify what they did. That wasn’t God. That was control.”

She breathes in slowly, like the air still burns her lungs. “I believe in something else. Something quiet. Something kind.” A smile, tired and honest appears on her lips. “Faith isn’t the church. It’s what’s left when everything else is gone.”

My jaw clenches. I want to laugh. Or break something. Instead, I speak. “These people twist faith into control, into fear...”

She meets my gaze then. And she knows. She knows who I’m talking about.

“You’re right about that,” she says.

I should hate that. I should tear it apart. Because faith twisted by the wrong hands ruins everything. It ruins people, it ruins women, kids, families. Fucking lives.

Because it turned men into monsters. Turned monsters into martyrs.

Turned me into this.

I feel something crack open in me. Because I don’t know what I believe in anymore. Only vengeance, maybe. Only the idea that this has to end with all of them dead.

“You’re sure it’s the same church?” I ask as I show her the picture again.

“I’m sure. The compound was hidden in the hills outside of Spring Mountain. You can’t just walk in. It’s invite-only. Tied to private donors. Lawyers. Judges. Senators”

Of course it is.

She leans in, her voice a whisper. “They call it The Gathering. Once a month. You’ll need a way in.”

I nod. “They hide too well.”

She watches me again, carefully.

“I didn’t give you this. If they find out I talked or that I’m still alive…”

“They won’t,” I cut her off. “They won’t live long enough to track you.”

She slides a folded napkin toward me. “They’re… They’re dangerous, really dangerous.”

I almost want to laugh.

Dangerous.

She’s scared of them. She has no idea she’s talking to the thing they should be scared of.

What’s more dangerous than an angry and abused woman?

Exactly. Nothing.

I lean in slightly, eyes never leaving hers. “Why would I be?”

She hesitates. “I’ve seen what they do. The way they hurt people. The way they smile while they do it. No guilt. No mercy.”

The smile sharpens.

“Yeah,” I say. “And I’m worse .”

Emily’s hand trembles as she lifts her coffee. She hasn’t touched it. The cup clinks quietly on the saucer again. “Listen to me,” she murmurs, barely audible. “Do you even know what they are?”

I do. I really do.

But she continues, and I feel like she always needed to let it out but never had the chance to.

“It’s not a church. Not really. It’s a goddamn club.

A club for monsters dressed as saints. Deputies.

CEOs. A few of them ran for Senate. One of them was a judge who sentenced a kid to ten years for stealing a phone, while he funded the child auctions under that roof. ”

I flinch. Not from surprise. From rage.

Emily continues, voice calmer now, like she’s remembering something she’s tried to bury under layers of years and name changes. “They called it a cleansing sanctuary. You know what that means, right?” Her laugh is short and dry. “You probably do.”

I nod once. That’s all I can manage.

“They’d host these on the last Friday of every month. The sermons were public, for the media to take pictures, only a few minutes before closing the doors… that’s when the donors stayed behind. And the kids too.”

She looks down, twisting her fingers in the hem of her sleeve.

“They always told us to smile when the men entered. That God loved grateful girls and boys.”

I feel something bitter crawl up my throat. Memories.

Close your eyes. Breathe. Forget.

“Emily,” I say, soft.

She lifts her chin, tears glassing over her eyes but none fall. “You don’t need to say it. I survived. Not all of them did.”

She pushes the napkin further across the table, and I see more writing now, not only an address, names, coded titles. Brother John. Overseer T. Wolsh. Mother Hanna. The Holy Room.

“I’ve heard whispers about the Holy Room,” she says. “It’s where they take the favorites.”

I ask, carefully, “Were you ever…?”

“No.” Her voice hardens. “But I saw girls come out of there and never say anything ever again. And no one asked questions.”

There’s a long silence. I look at her, really look.

Faith…

“I always thought maybe God left,” she says softly. “Like he saw what happened and then… stopped watching. But sometimes, I wonder if he was waiting for people like us to come back, to burn it all down.”

I sit back. The napkin feels heavy in my hand.

“You’re brave,” I tell her.

She scoffs. “I’m terrified.”

“Still brave .”

She looks at me. “If you go there… don’t go alone. And don’t trust the ones who say they left. They didn’t. Not really. Once you wear that mask long enough, it starts looking like your face.”

“When you go back home today, I’m going to need you to be really careful, Emily. And if you ever feel like you’re in danger, or anything, you can always use the number I called you with.”

She leans forward.

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in years.

She nods. And just as I get up to leave, her voice stops me. “Hey,” she says. I turn. “Don’t lose yourself in this. Don’t let revenge become your faith.” Her fingers brush the cross at her neck again. “I hope you get justice. But I hope you get peace too. You can’t pray for revenge.”

“Too late for that.”

She smiled and said one last thing, “Be careful.”

She doesn’t say anything else, she simply watches me for a long second like she’s trying to figure out if I’ll survive what I’m walking into.

I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve already survived worse.

I leave her with a nod and swing back onto my bike, helmet strapped tight like armor. The engine roars to life beneath me, steady and loud. The only thing drowning out the voices trying to claw their way up from inside.

This is God’s will. You’re impure. Let me cleanse you.

His voice. Her stupid indifference. That fucking house. That cross swinging from his neck, against my forehead.

I twist the throttle harder than I need to.

This is God’s will.

I need… I need to breathe. I need to breathe now.

I park urgently in some side street downtown. Empty. Quiet. Hot wind slicing through my jacket. The alley smells like piss, but I need it.

I need stillness.

I walk.

Step after step, boots hitting cracked concrete, heartbeat rising.

My breath shortens. My vision swims.

I see it all in my head. Girls. Bruises. Chains in velvet rooms. Holy words used like blades.

I stagger.

Lean against the wall trying to swallow it down, but bile rises instead. I double over and throw up behind a dumpster.

This is nothing . What I feel is nothing . This is nothing compared to what they did. What they’re still doing. What they’ll keep doing unless I stop it.

I spit, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and straighten up.

My hands still shake. My ribs still ache.

But I walk. And take back my bike.

I can’t break . I can’t break when I need to act.