by Poppet
“NO! HOW DARE YOU! YOU'VE MURDERED MY BABY AND NOW YOU'RE CALLING MY HUSBAND A MURDERER!”
“Nurse! Nurse assistance please!”
I'm wailing. I can hardly breathe. I'm breathing in and my body is getting no air. So hot, I can feel the pressure gathering in my head like it wants to explode like a pressure cooker; like an egg in the microwave.
“Shauna, I'm so sorry for your loss. But your husband is a wanted man. He has broken many laws. If we find him, he will be arrested.” She sounds really sweet and concerned.
His voice says, “Your brother-in-law has confirmed that you were married and that you signed a prenup.”
“Seth? Is he here?”
“He is your doctor, is that correct?”
“Y … yes.”
“We've given him clearance to see you.”
“Please … ” I take her hand and squeeze it as the nurse injects more shit into my body, “Find Victor. I love him. Please … ”
She nods and her partner leads her out of the door where I hear him say, “Well that's a classic case of Stockholm syndrome.”
I'm so angry, but I can't focus as the sedative takes control of my body.
I thought about that tree, and the wind. I did not bow and I did not break. I became the wind. I was soaring free. I was strong, and happy, and free. Nothing can catch the wind. Nothing can hold it, hurt it, break it. I was the wind. But the wind doesn't blow any more. The world that I lived in has dissolved like tears left in the sun. Evaporated to nothing.
“Oh Victor …” I miss … you.
I do not hear when the door opens again. I do not hear the entry of a new man into my life.
I do not hear his words as Seth holds my hand, saying, “His wife shall not be married outside the family to a stranger. Her husband's brother shall go in to her and take her as his wife and perform the duty of a husband's brother to her. Deuteronomy 25:5.”
THE END
I would like to thank Surrounded by Idiots (SBI) the rock band from New Jersey, in particular Scott Norton, for permission to use their songs and lyrics in this novel and for all promotional materials. Also a huge thank you to the South African rock band Feedback, for permission to use their songs and lyrics in Darkroom and for promotional material, (in particular Nic James and Marc Klein). Also thanks to Andy Chester for permission to use Float.
My biggest gratitude goes to author Drew Cross for influencing the character Victor and the flow of Darkroom's plot.
Lastly, thank you to the people who share my life, who don't complain when I'm stuck at my computer for months, writing and editing. Thank you for your unwavering support and patience. My success wouldn't be sweet without you to share it.
SATANARIUM
by
Poppet & Troy Lambert
A Darkroom Novel
#2
A Wild Wolf Publication
Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2013
Copyright Author Poppet and Troy Lambert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.
All characters and places appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The goth club Golgotha is pilfered from Poppet's novel titled Heresy.
The cover image is used with permission from The Vodun Haunts, and the photograph is by Jacqui Van Staden.
www.wildwolfpublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-907954-35-1
There is no end to the writing of books
~ Ecclesiastes 12:12
~ Chapter 1 ~
Ruin will come on you suddenly -
ruin you never dreamt of!
~ Isaiah 47: 11
72: Julie:
The hand descending on me shakes, long fingers clutching my cranium when he leans over me, applying brutal force, the sweat on his brow finally submitting, slipping down his nose to drip onto my breast. “Do you accept Christ as your lord and savior?”
No, I don't. I have free will. I fucking know I have free will and it's mine to hold onto. I will not submit to this deranged cult!
Staying silent, I wish he'd stop squeezing my head, crushing my vertebrae with the pressure applied on my crown.
“DO YOU!?” bellows in my face with the stench of cigarettes and whisky.
“No.”
I say it meekly, hoping he can see this is as ludicrous as I think it is. I was made in 'god's image' long before the concept of church was conceived by power hungry men. Men who hate women without a shred of proof but a propaganda story in the first testament. If you think I'll accept your cunt of a god you can think again asshole.
Why can't creation be organic, why does something have to get the credit for it? It's a natural process that has fuck all to do with a deity. Mankind's ego is specimen A in the experiment bubble. A man must be credited with the impossible, always a man, fucking always. Fuck you buddy, women give birth which makes you inferior. And your kind have never recovered from that inferiority complex.
“The devil uses you! He has possessed you! I must deliver you from evil!” His rage seems about to explode all over my pathetic ass, but he keeps it in check, hissing so close spittle flecks my face, “God does not permit dirty angels to walk this Earth.”
Hallelujah you fucking lunatic. I'm not the one acting crazy and shaking like I need a fix; if anyone is acting possessed it is you. The only way into heaven is through the eye of the needle, check out my tattoos mister, I'm going and you sure as fuck aren't.
The hand vicing my head snatches my hair, yanking me off my knees, dragging me toward the stoup of 'holy' water. Fighting against the aggression, I struggle, planting my feet, desperate to get out of his hold, to get away. Wriggling against the pain, I grit my teeth, the spikes of torture forcing tears to smear my vision.
Stopping abruptly, his grip on my hair so tight my scalp is screaming, he sneers, “The devil resists. I see you Satan, I know you're in there. This child is not yours, she is mine. I will deliver her from your wicked ways and your diabolical influence. I will baptize and flog her until you are purged from this flesh!”
“You're fucking mad!” I shriek, struggling with all my might against the brute who is so much bigger and stronger than me, and clearly certifiably insane.
This isn't a fair fight and he fucking knows it.
Before I can flinch he's punched me flat in the face.
Shock-waves pulsate right through my head, my nose throbs, radiating agony through my cheekbones and jaw, the numbness pumping in livid heat, hot ferrous hemoglobin inciting me to convulse in a dry heave, running to paint my mouth with the first sacrifice.
Breathe. Brutal pound with every heartbeat. Searing waves bombing my eye sockets. Blood spurting in cathartic enthusiasm.
Panicked, holding my hands up defensively, I try to duck to avoid his punishment, but his grip is too strong.
Jesus! Fuck! Sinking my nails into the forearm, I'm battling to focus on his free hand, paranoid he's just getting started on his new mission – to 'save' me. How do they see 'save' as a free pass to assault? To invade my free will, my space, violating my body with manhandling and force? Lay your hands on me again buddy and I'll bite your fucking finger off.
Coughing, I spit blood at him.
“I made them sacrifice their babies and do things that would defile them so they know I am god! You are unclean Julie, and it is my god given duty to pour salt in your wounds to evict the cloven footed from your soul. You have been tainted by Ezekiel 20 verse 25 and I will free you from the possession festering in your young body. You dress like a whore because the devil wants me to fuck you. He has sent you to tempt me to fall into sin. I see through the lie Jezebel, and I will deliver you child! I will deliver you! I am immune to his sin!”
Hauled with a brutal yank by the fist wrapped in my hair, I'm plunged into the birdbath of water, the chemicals preventing it from growing algae attacking my split lip and bleeding nose.
Water gushes up my nasal cavity, my blood hazing the water, the shocking cold of it smothering hope from my heart.
The acidic bite on my wounds incinerates with excruciating malice, the need for air overwhelming, my eyeballs scalding.
Help!
Fuck!
Flailing manically, losing my footing, the force applied slams my head into the concrete bottom, stunning me, wiping my vision with a cosmos of black punctured with frenzied light-spots.
Consciousness oscillates in and out, my lucid clarity muddying when my limbs cave, my heart laboring so hard it's gonging through my chest as if distended to fit a giant.
It's an eternity before I'm dropped to the floor, incapacitated, hysterically sucking air.
It's awfully dim when I stare up at the shadow looming over me; vaguely aware of hot hands yanking off my skirt, lifting me, taking me into the absolute dark of the temple. I have no energy to fight. Desperately inhaling, trying to oxygenate my body, I'm dropped from a great height, the impact on the back of my head so severe my ears block and red blisters across my focus.
A black book thuds next to my cheek, billowing dust into my eyes. Panting, stunned, I wish I'd never taken a smoke from this stranger, I wish I hadn't flirted with him because of his looks ... I wish ... I wish I was home.
“Welcome to redemption Seventy-two. God protects his own. This is for your safety until we free you from the devil's clutches.”
The clang of a metal door reverberates with a hollow peal, abandoning me to fester in my fear, alone in a mamba-black cell.
Something with narrow legs and antennae scurries up my naked leg. The horror is so visceral I scream, emptying my lungs, plummeting my awareness back onto the precipice of blacking out.
The abyss is so dark, so icy, so nefarious, it blankets me in the terror of cold sweat. This isn't anywhere near heaven, it's deep in the catacombs of hell.
“Fuck you!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a hoarse gasp. It's as broken as my freedom.
Preacher John:
The Lord delivers them to me in so many ways, these shattered, possessed, and wayward delinquents. Some need nothing more than a gentle touch and the simple guidance of the word of God.
Somehow there are always seventy-two whom cannot heed the good book without my loving assistance. He delivers them to me. They bum a smoke, smile, and flaunt their sex to lead me into temptation.
Me!
A priest of the most high. Who do they think they are dealing with? A mere mortal who can be beguiled with the allure of gratification? Fuck no. Praise be to Christ I can be tempted no more.
It’s the devils. The satans cloud their minds, making them see things that are not there, opportunities that do not exist.
The devils come from the Tempter. The Evil One. He has a role, he tests the devout, he tests them all, exposing the sinners for the Lord. The satan of sex is a hard one to exorcise, and Julie has it. I will exact much joy in leading her to salvation.
Can I get a witness? I think I can, glory hallelujah, amen. The Holy Spirit is my witness as it was our savior's.
I ruminate over her young body and how she strutted her tight belly in front of me, stretching provocatively for the smoke I offered. Her hard nipples were plainly free of bondage, obscenely poking into the flimsy tank top suctioned to her ample bosom.
The whore of heaven is strong in this one. God bound her, as I will bind Julie.
Reacting involuntarily, I am uncomfortably erect with the memory. Julie would like nothing more than for me to open that cell and fuck her with my discomfort, giving her penance and absolution in one easy sacrament. Her soul is not yet repentant; not yet worthy of the righteousness my cock would bestow upon her.
Who is ready?
Number 23.
Reaching under my disciple cloak to stroke the rigid perfection, I turn and stride away from cell seventy-two. The numbers go down as I walk; seventy-two is the last cell in the martyrs wing of this hallowed stone building. Down in the dank decay of the bottom level.
Some say it was luck, but I say the will of the most high brought me to this sanitarium, with its dungeon and its perfect number of cells. Tomorrow the deliverance of number seventy-two can begin in earnest. Right now I have a need to bestow salvation upon one who is nearly delivered of her possession. Twenty-three has progressed remarkably, and will soon be ready to meet Christ face to face. She doesn't need to know I call him Victor.
My stride lengthens as I think of her auburn locks and toned legs. The haven that lies between them is always moist and ready for my holiness, although it was not always thus.
Halting, I knock on the door; I like her to know I am coming. I like her to be ready for me. She whimpers beyond the barrier and that gladdens my heart, blessing me with divinity's cheer. The whimpering is part of the game we play. Building her anticipation, I slowly turn the key, letting the clunking of the chamber disengaging ping the door like the chime of a clock. The time is nigh. Sometimes purging is a slow process, wrought through patience, endurance, and the bottomless well of my love. Swinging the door on rusty hinges, I slam it against the wall. She cowers in the corner, and though she has heard it dozens of times she flinches at the sound.
“No, please,” she begs.
No means yes. Satan cannot deny me. No is nullified and meaningless in this crypt. My god is more powerful than any of his deceptions. Satan speaks on her tongue, and I have a cure for a lying tongue.
“Are you ready to receive the lord your God?” I ask, hoping she will embrace the offer with the obedience of a woman born again and free of original sin.
She briefly shakes her head, her eyes wide and alarmed. Changing her mind, she nods. Oh how the conflict blossoms within them when the devil and god wage war for a soul. Seizing frail shoulders, arresting her quivering body, I draw her to me, fingering faded freckles with possessive fingertips. I no longer sanction kissing her; my lip is still healing from the last time she bit me. Disobedient bitch.
Firmly holding her, ensuring my grasp communicates that a struggle is the sign of the devil resisting my ministrations and my pedigree as God's own; I part obstructing clothing to free my gift of salvation. I know she can feel my evocative blessing probing eagerly toward her belly, ready and willing to do God's bidding, just as I can feel her lust coating the delicate lace she wears when I slide my fingers into the waistband to finger the receptacle which must be filled so her cup overflows with blessings.
Her sob is provocative, plaintive, submitting and rejoicing in the sound of a dirty angel ready to accept the glory of God. Such joyous adoration at my arrival makes me throb with anticipation.
She coaxes a smile out of me, her gaze willing me to pin her to the wall and grant her absolution. Once difficult to subdue, now her weakened state makes it easy.
Dropping her modesty to the floor, I simultaneously free my circumcised and ordained rod, hooking her leg over my arm. Her suppleness makes this duty a blessing on a weary servant. It is time to part the resistance with my staff, with the power given to us by God, parting her the way the Red sea submitted to Moses' authority. Only God is allowed to part her when she is red with blood, glory be to him. Entering the soft warmth, I slide my omniscient essence into the sinner, blessing her with God's first aspergillum. We must purge from the inside out, it is the Alpha's way.
She reacts with a harsh cry, her nails trying to find purchase on my shoulder. Feeble, her nails bitten to the quick, she cannot.
While I slam into her, forcing punishment and absolution into the possessed, tiny fists piston against my back, but my ruthless thrusting forces her to relent, her submission preceded with struggle. The fire in my body inflames passion as I glorify my Alpha, injecting the Holy Spirit into the vacant hollow within her.
Without us they are
empty, and so very tempting to Satan. They are his little puppets and strumpets.
I pray God will find it in his loving stewardship to bless her with freedom from Satan, forgiveness for her evil, purging all sin residing within the one who descends from Eve and her wicked ways.
Defying God is their nature, it is our duty to cleanse them of their ingrained resistance. They were created to serve Adam, we must subjugate them, keeping them pure with daily purging, daily blessings, entering their temples and casting into them the seed of God's first creation, letting the spirit blossom, crowding out sin.
God created the male first, the female is inferior because she is a receptacle, without us to seed God inside them they remain barren, just empty shells without purpose. We must help them by delivering them, by connecting them to the perfect creation, the perfect form, the one who was given dominion over all animals.
Without us they are nothing; just mindless entities waiting for our guidance. They need someone to serve. That's why God made man, he made woman so she'd have someone to worship, to adore, to glorify God by submitting to the power of the greatest, the original, his first choice made in his image, his first manifestation, his ministers.
In this duty we show them a glimpse of paradise, the peace awaiting them in the afterlife if they embrace their duty and worship God through obedience, submitting to male subjugation. God chose only men as his priests because only we can bestow on them his salvation. We are free of sin and only by connecting with us can we free them of theirs.
Her initial struggle denies she is exorcised of the evil in her flesh, housing devils in her body which manipulate her to oppose salvation.
Repenting under the onslaught of my holiness, her legs spread wider to admit me deeper access, to excavate her soul of vile resistance.