Page 57 of Satan's Spawn

And I wanted nothing more than to break her in that stairway, so much my cock is going stiff just thinking about it.

It goes from stiff to rock solid as I envision those turquoise eyes and pale skin. The tiny gold flecks in her iris’.

It’s like staring right into one of those Caribbean oceans. Rebecca is perfect, and I fucking hate it.

Because so wassheon the outside.

My mother was so gorgeous nobody ever suspected the monster lurking behind the beautiful features.

And this new girl can pass for her daughter.

I hate everything about Rebecca and what she represents: my pain, my past, and now my present. If there was any chance of me easing up on her like Saint’s been suggesting, it turned to dust after that name spat from her lips.

How dare she fucking defy me.

Challenge me.

Make mefeelthings.

But even worse, make me remember things.

“Stop, mommy! I can’t breathe!”

My head gets shoved under the water again.

“You need this baptism, Isaiah! The longer you stay under the better.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid myself of the memory. It’s no use. One minute I’m sitting in an empty locker room, and the next I’m seven, desperate in my attempt to fight my mother off. I can feel her nails biting into my skin, smell that lavender soap, and see her wicked face through the ripples of the water.

“I will force this devil out of you! I will release your soul from his clutches and make you a true child of Christ.”

A hand gets free from Mommy, so I swing it, catching her in the cheek. It’s enough to stun her but not to stop her from holding me under the water.

“You see? This is exactly why the Lord won’t accept you.” She adds, much calmer than before. “It’s why you’re still here.”

There’s blood dripping from the scratch I gave her, but Mommy doesn’t try to wipe it away, she just stares down at me with that scary smile, then pulls me out of the water by my hair.

I cough so much it hurts my throat.

“Mommy…please…no more.” I beg, telling her my chest is burning, but she shoves my head under the water anyway, leaving me struggling for breath again before pulling me out.

“One day you will thank me for these cleansings, Isaiah.” A few seconds pass as she stares down at me, humming the opening of a church song, one I hate the most because it’s what she sings when she does weird things to my body.

“In your name I sing thy praise.” Mommy sings slowly, lifting me up with her hands until I’m standing. “Your faithful servant I remain.”

I shake my head, knowing what comes next and I wish she would stop. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

“I’ll follow in the pious way,” Mommy continues the song, bringing her mouth closer to my private spot. “Deny Satan until my dying day.”

The sound of my phone ringing catapults me back to the present, to the locker room, where the entire P.E. class is still out in the gymnasium.

I contemplate sending my Dad to voicemail since I’m sure a call at this time means very few things—criticism being top of the list—and I’m in no fucking mood to listen to him complaining about my “indecent behavior” so he calls it.

“Antisocial Personality Disorder” so the bullshit psychiatrist he forced me to see, used to call it.

Despite every impulse telling me to ignore my dad, I reach for my cell off the bench I’m sitting on, and bring it to my ear after accepting the call.

“Crayton, are you there, son?” He asks when I don’t bother greeting him.