Saint Sadist

by Lucas Mangum

  “Your baby lives.”

  The face I see lacks the delicacy of the voice. It’s a hard face, mannish and severe. Dark eyes, doll-like. Hair in a tight bun. She wears all black. A Mormon or Mennonite. Or Puritan.

  She’ll have me burned alive.

  Witch, Harlot, Heretic.

  Whore prophetess.

  “Don’t be frightened,” she says. “I’m a nurse, and you’re safe.”

  “Where am I?”

  She smiles then, and when it comes, I glimpse the youth she may have once been. It shimmers across her features like the illusion of water on sun-baked pavement. Even the dark eyes brighten for an all too brief moment.

  And God saw the Light—

  It was good—

  “We call this place The Homestead.”

  And the darkness comprehended it not.

  “What happened to me?”

  Her features become severe again. The warmth I perceived tragically fades and goes dark.

  “You’ve had a terrible accident, I’m afraid.”

  The horn, the light.

  Rapture.

  Horns in all directions.

  On earth as it is in Heaven,

  As below, so above.

  “Hit by a car?”

  “I’m afraid so. You’re very lucky to be alive.”

  “It hurts.”

  “It will for quite some time. You’re broken.”

  Which bones? Where?

  Just me.

  “My money.”

  “Your things have been put into storage. You won’t be needing them for a while. And don’t worry; we’ve no use for your money here.”

  “What is this place?”

  Another smile, less bright. It looks somewhat sad.

  “All will be revealed. You should rest some more.”

  “No, I—”

  I try to rise, but pain forces me back to a prone position.

  Godless, yet prostrate,

  Agony’s supplicant.

  “I assume you have nowhere to go. There’s no one expecting you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been on that road.”

  I grudgingly admit she has a point.

  “You should take all the time you need for recovery. It’s best for you and your baby. You’ll be well-cared for.”

  I note the IV in my arm.

  “Morphine?” I ask.

  “A saline solution. We don’t believe in drugs here.”

  “But the pain—”

  “You’ll endure it, should your spirit prove strong enough.”

  “But the flesh is weak.”

  Gethsemane, tears of blood—

  Take this cup from my lips—

  Another smile. “You’d be surprised.”

  “No,” I say.

  Hello, Daddy.

  Soapy, slippery, shattered,

  Sired and speared,

  Harlot rising from blood-soaked sheets,

  Little girl, no longer,

  Not a dove, a phoenix.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Gyration, sconce shatters,

  Knife held to throat,

  I am feminine power embodied,

  Baptized in holy fire,

  Sanctified with no help from any God,

  Sanctified by falling and breaking,

  My wings on fire.

  Her brows knit tightly with skepticism and curiosity.

  Burn down the house;

  Burn down everything,

  Baptism with fire

  And the Holy Ghost. Selah.

  Iscariot

  1

  SOME DAYS AFTER THAT FIRST night, a scream wakes me.

  Mine.

  No. But nearby.

  The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness—

  No. Not him. Her.

  Prepare ye the way—

  Make straight in the desert—

  The screams give way to sobs.

  A highway for our God.

  Isaiah.

  A chorus of women wail: at least three voices, by grief rendered shrill.

  Weeping and—

  My jaw clenches.

  Gnashing of teeth.

  I loosen my jaw and make an effort to crawl out of bed.

  The IV drip comes with me as I tiptoe to the bedroom door. I turn the handle and creep out into a large hallway, turning my head in the direction of the—(Weeping and gnashing of teeth)—terrible sobs.

  As below, so above—

  On earth as it is—

  I hobble on toward the sounds.

  Every motion is exquisite agony. I’m not sure what’s broken or damaged. Pretty sure it’s all of me. Daddy breaks—But I just don’t know.

  The hallway is dark. An earthy smell clings to the atmosphere: dirt and wet wood, the smell of a fresh grave on a rainy day.

  As I draw toward the cries, I note my solitude. No one else has come save for the three as yet unseen mourners, unless one suffers silently or suffers not.

  I creep on.

  Up close the sobs exacerbate every ache; I feel the grief on a visceral level. It gouges me to the marrow and squeezes every organ dry. Even my unborn child cringes against it.

  I push open the door and see the source of the women’s lamentations: a fourth woman, hanged and purple in the face. Her tongue is out. It appears stuck to her chin, and there are moving black specks on it that upon closer inspection reveal themselves as hungry flies. Their buzzing is a cacophony worse than the women’s crying.

  A man stands in the room, closest to the corpse. He examines the dead woman with a clinician’s detachment, though I don’t believe it’s from a lack of feeling so much as it is for the benefit of the others in the room. He also appears inquisitive, searching for explanations. He places a hand on her forehead and closes his eyes, breathing slowly; in, out.

  A meditation unfolds before me. The women bow their heads. They stifle their sobs and sync their breathing to his. I remain still, a passive observer until one of the women turns and points an accusing finger. Her eyebrows slope down toward the bridge of her nose, almost meeting in the middle, and her mouth becomes the snarl of a savage dog.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here!” she shrieks.

  The others look up. The man opens his eyes. He faces me, expression unchanged.

  “Get her out of here, Brother Ambrose!” the woman says. “This isn’t for her eyes!”

  “And yet, she has seen,” he says, his voice calm.

  All four are watching me, but only he approaches. He moves at a slow pace. Each step is deliberate, purposeful, as if he means to make some sort of statement, or exude a sense of authority. My gaze moves to the hanged woman.

  Falling headlong, burst asunder—

  My eyes shift to the wet, black puddle on the floor, a lake broken by lumps like fecal islands. Flies hover about it like a filthy, humming cloud.

  Bowels gushed out—

  Standing in front of me, the man is gorgeous, like Aryan Jesus.

  Delicate, unlike they who say unto him, ‘Lord, Lord!’

  He has dirty blond hair that falls to his shoulders, and the bluest eyes.

  Angel eyes, Momma would’ve said. As if reading my mind, his eyes drift to the dead, and he speaks one bone-chilling word:

  “Iscariot.”

  The stench of death overwhelms me and an intense spell of dizziness sets in, making my head heavy and my legs like jelly. I feel like I may pass out or vomit or both, and I’m not sure what I’ll do first, but I’m dreading all of it.

  2

  THE STRANGE AND BEAUTIFUL MAN takes my arm and keeps me from falling. His touch is warm and gentle. My gorge settles. My legs regain their strength. In the man’s grasp, I go steady. Everything around me settles, like windblown leaves falling into place.

  “Let’s get you back to your room,” he says.

  With his guidance, walking hurts a lot less.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  I hate how weary my voice sounds.
It’s as if I’ll fall apart like a porcelain mug if I speak too firmly, and exposing vulnerability to anyone, even a man so disarming, distresses me.

  Get it together, Courtney. Right now. Show him no weakness.

  “I’m Brother Ambrose. I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you yet; it’s been a trying week. You’ve already met Nurse Danvers.”

  “Yes,” I say, and wince when I take a bad step.

  Again, I curse myself for showing weakness to this man.

  “Take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

  Sired and speared—

  Shattered.

  “Yeah, I reckon I should watch where I’m going.”

  We stop. He steps around to face me. He cocks one eyebrow and as he stares, it’s as if he’s looking into my soul. I struggle not to squirm under his penetrating gaze.

  “You’ve been through more than just a car accident, Courtney. We both know that.”

  The combination of the words and his soft tone puts a lump in my throat. I swallow it whole; Harlots don’t cry. We rise. From blood-soaked sheets. Virgin blood.

  “How do you know my name?”

  A subtle smile crosses his lips.

  “I know a lot about you.”

  “You a psychic?”

  He returns to my side and we walk.

  “I’d much rather be called a prophet.”

  “What is this place? Some kind of religious commune?”

  “Not as you’d know it.”

  “You believe in God?”

  “Not as you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But that’s not exactly true, is it?”

  I pull away from him. Through the pain, I face him.

  “You don’t know me, and I don’t like mind games.”

  “I was merely asking.”

  He takes my arm and guides me back into step. Too weak to resist, I follow his lead, cursing myself every step of the way. We reach the door to my room and stop. He steps in front of me again.

  “You’re under no obligation to answer my question.”

  “Didn’t think I was.”

  That smile again. It’s kind of cute, and my face goes warm at the sight of it.

  “I like you,” he says. “You’ve got a way about you. You’re tough.”

  “Think I don’t know that? I do.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, and I can’t deny how good it feels. My legs feel wobbly again all of a sudden. I press my feet into the hardwood floor and try to keep myself steady.

  “You don’t have to be tough here. You can just be you.”

  “I’m already me.” I shirk off his hand. “And I don’t plan on staying.”

  His smile doesn’t falter. His eyes gleam like two clear pools on a cloudless day.

  “We’ll see,” he says.

  I soften, despite my better instincts.

  “I suppose we will.”

  It’s my first time flirting with someone other than my father. Even with Daddy, there wasn’t much flirting at all. A flash of bedroom eyes across the table one night; a striptease another—

  Other times, he just demanded.

  “Good night, Courtney,” Ambrose says when we reach my bedside.

  Sired and speared,

  Shattered little girl,

  Daddy’s favorite—

  “Thanks for taking me back,” I say.

  “Sleep well.”

  He kisses me on the forehead, and I lie down, too tired to tell him not to kiss me, and some part of me wanting him to kiss me again.

  3

  I HAVE NO VISIONS FOLLOWING my arrival at the homestead, no dreams either, but there are memories. Scattered, vivid—

  Each piece seems unconnected, lacking a clear narrative arc.

  Moments dotted throughout the yawning void.

  Nothing infinite but infinity’s absence.

  The first memory is not of Daddy or Momma, not Pastor Tisdale or any of the other kids from church. It’s not of anything else I’d expect, like recollections of early visions. Instead, I remember a bird: a robin that came to my window every morning, red-breasted and tiny, with its mouth full of song when I was a little girl. It came every day until, one day, it didn’t.

  I went looking, scouring the yard, feeling a sense of loss and terror I’d never before known and haven’t known since, and, searching outside, I wept. I wept because I knew what I would find long before I found it.

  The bird lay at the base of a nearby tree, its neck and one of its wings bent in unnatural ways, its tiny feet pointed upward, its belly gashed and pulsing. Using a stick because I feared disease, I prodded the wound and released them: maggots, beetles and an awful stink that makes my eyes water just thinking of it.

  I remember Gramma’s viewing. We held it at our home and our living room smelled like flowers and something like the dead bird. Her corpse was like a doll made flesh, but lifeless. Daddy went at me with his belt when I knocked over the photograph display, cracking glass and splitting cheap frames.

  I remember my sexual awakening: two teenagers snuck into our yard, kissing and stroking and each taking their turn on top, though control was always hers. As I watched from the window, I felt a tingling between my legs and a pleasant chill across my unblemished flesh. I was six years old and scared of what was happening to me. Satan himself was touching me, and I found I liked it. Would Jesus ever enter me now the way he was supposed to when I accepted him as Lord and Savior?

  These memories and more swirl through my consciousness, uncollated, and my hand slips inside my pajama bottoms. I picture Ambrose, that sexy, soft-spoken Aryan Jesus, and I slip my first and middle fingers inside me. My thumb caresses my clit. I masturbate, and I pray for sweet release. I’m wet but in too much pain to bring myself to climax.

  I stop and close my eyes and will myself to see visions and dream dreams, but I’m a prophetess no more, nor am I the Harlot. I’m a lost and scared little girl. I’m tired and in pain, and my visions, whether imagination or revelation, do not come. I’m broken again. This time, it brings no feeling of power. This time, my world turns gray. Unable to prophesy, dream or come, but far too stubborn to die (Not afraid though), I despise this static state.

  At least there’s the baby.

  If ye be without chastisement—

  Then he be a bastard—

  Daddy’s Little Bastard,

  Daddy’s Favorite.

  At least there is life inside me, even if its heartbeat is not my own.

  Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee—

  So that her fruit depart from her—

  Ordained thee a prophet unto the nations—

  Burning for burning, wound—

  Prophetess or harlot or faceless vessel,

  I will leave this gray place.

  Falling headlong, burst asunder—

  Bowels gushed out—

  Iscariot, Lady Judas.

  I fall into troubled sleep, yet I have no dreams.

  4

  DANVERS NURSES ME BACK TO health. I don’t know how much time passes, but she says I’m three months pregnant, which sounds right.

  I can feel him again. I’ve decided it’s a boy. Daddy always wanted a son, and I’ll love anything that grows inside me, and I still love my father, even though I never intend to return home.

  While I’m laid up, I think a lot, even more than I usually do. I wonder what my parents are doing, if they’ve gone to the police, if they miss me, if they’re looking themselves.

  For nourishment, I’m given some sort of green drink. It’s soupy and bitter and pungent. Like a liquefied stronger version of kale. The first time I drink it, I throw up, but I sort of get used to it after some days. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I like it, more like tolerate. It keeps me full though. And it prevents morning sickness.

  Nurse Danvers massages my feet each night and keeps my IV bag full of clear fluid.

  Time seems fluid and disordered, and little by little, I recover.
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br />   Danvers takes me for walks, first in circles around the room, then up and down the hallway. When I ask to go outside, she says I’m not ready, that the terrain is rocky, and I only half-believe her. I don’t know why she would lie, but I’m sure she did. Of course, she’s hard to read. Save for moments of curiosity and brightness, she’s always so severe. She reminds me of a Puritan schoolteacher, though she never punishes me like I’ve read such instructors did to their children. She’s simply strict in her adherence to routine and my well-being, so she tells me, and what choice do I have but to believe?

  I still have limited mobility; I can’t just run. More and more, I’m not sure I want to leave. I’m comfortable here. I like being taken care of. Despite her severity, there is a warmth from Danvers, most clearly expressed in the way she touches me. She doesn’t have the gentleness of Ambrose, but she is so attentive, it’s hard to glean anything other than care from her actions. Like an expert masseuse, she applies just the right amount of pressure to me, enough to hurt so good. I feel safe with her. I’ve never felt safe with anyone. Even as I knew the power I held over my father and the men I fucked for money, I feared the slightest misstep could wrest it from me, and put me in danger, though what sort of danger, I was unsure.

  Dasheth—

  So that her fruit depart—

  Weeping and gnashing of teeth—

  In Nurse Danvers’ care, I fear none of this. I’ve come to Abraham’s Bosom and found it a feminine place. But is this the home I seek? Sure, I like Danvers, and Ambrose seems all right, but I don’t like those other women. And what about the hanged woman?

  Iscariot. Traitor. How was she a traitor? Was it simply by the act of suicide?

  If it was suicide. Of course it was. What a weird thought!

  Falling headlong, burst asunder—

  5

  “I BELIEVE YOU’VE MADE A full recovery,” Nurse Danvers says after taking my vitals.

  Despite aches like distant echoes, I agree. I certainly feel stronger, like I can get up and run, and not just because of my restlessness from confinement to a bed. Even if it hurts, I’m determined to move. I anticipate pain akin to the soreness following a workout, not the deep bone-pain that rendered me nearly immobile.