Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  Tripping over the bible next to my mattress, I stare at the toxic issue of my duress. I need to get off the manna and communion wafers. I need to con him that I'm having 'god given' hallucinations without a catalyst. I need to read that piece of dogmatic madness to pull it off with any conviction.

  It's gonna take me years. That book is longer than the names of the fallen in every World War and our time in the middle east. I'm claustrophobic in here. I need sun, air, wind, and I'll never bitch about rain again. I'm trapped and it's beginning to gnaw out my soul. If I ever get out I will never complain about the little things again.

  He's put priorities into perspective for me, freedom is autonomy, it's the ability to come and go as you please, to do and believe whatever the heck you want. To whack off in private, to take a dump without someone listening, to pop a beer open after a hard day's work. Being idle is enough to make anyone insane. Being hemmed in, in such a confined space, is even worse.

  I have to read that book. I need to get inside John's mind so I can make sense to him, I need to connect to his hopes and the ideals he's fostering for me. His 'god' sure don't give a flying fuck if I live or die.

  I'm a false prophet, fuck a brick I almost laughed. No kidding old man, no kidding. He's a staunch bastard who looks like he gets off on humiliation and pain. I have no chance with him because I'm not sadistic. I'm an average guy who had an average life.

  And I didn't know it then but I was fucking happy being mediocre. I had food, I had a double bed, I had hot showers, I got to hang out with my bros, life was dayam fine, and then I had to let my ego respond to a preacher psycho by thinking I'd show him a lil respect for my personal space, and now look at me.

  John laughed, tellin' me 'pride comes before a fall'.

  Resigning myself to the research required to get out of this predicament, I get comfortable on my bed, opening the black book. Flipping through it, reading here and there, I'm grateful I'm not far sighted, or reading this tiny writing without spectacles would be a bitch in a barnstorm.

  I mean shit, this is Genesis and it's already got humans being invented on the sixth day, mankind invented after that in Eden, starting a whole new race cos there's other folks and tribes here, dominion over women and animals, two chicks humping their pa - and it's written like they wanted it cos it was a shame not to have kids. Well color me silver cos I'd think the greater shame would be having a child out of wedlock. Isn't that the scenario that got good old Mary in such a pickle? Virgin my fucking ass. If you'll believe that, you'll believe anything.

  Crap man, this reads like some old fuck's wet dream. It's his fantasy because he's a widower and needs a lay so bad he's thinking his daughters should be up to the task of taking some jizz for their old man, take one for the dude with the dick and he'll blame it on alcohol. That stuff is devil's juice, and who doesn't like a bit of devil's juice eh? Hell yeah, I sure miss the single malts and bourbon. Ain't no chick alive or dead who wants to screw her own pa. Only in his wildest dreams... for sure man.

  This is psycho shit.

  How is it any different to Scientology? That was started by a book too. It doesn't mean some supernatural creature wrote it. It could easily have been an anthology collection by a bunch of sexually frustrated nerds with a hard-on for BDSM. And then some idiot decided to make it the basis and foundation for a religion. Bigots.

  I mean fuck, this is like taking a book full of short stories, from erotica authors and authors who have a stiffie for horror, bung them all together, sell the book, make your money, everyone has a private wank at what they're reading, then a thousand years later someone finds it, claims it was written by god, and starts a cult where if you don't join you die, or start a war. Bham, mission accomplished. Cos by my logic none of this makes an ounce of sense. It's like believing in dragons. Have you ever seen one? No! But do they exist, oh hell yeah, cos I read it in a book.

  This is retarded man.

  The lock on my door spins and it flings open, revealing a dude standing in that black devil outfit. Horns on his head, slits for eyes, zip for a mouth, all 'power ranger' in his demented glory.

  Staring at him over the top of the bible, I'm getting a fucking bad vibe.

  “You read the good book?” he says at me, gruff like a chain smoker; and he sounds like an immigrant.

  I nod, eyeing him warily.

  “Carry on then Sixty-six, you get a star on your chart,” he says, dropping half a loaf of bread on the floor where he stands, and two tablets of manna which bounce and scatter.

  Fuck you.

  Testing my new theory, I smile, making out all friendly, “Thanks. God bless you.”

  “Yes he does,” the fucker says, all snide and proud, slamming my door closed, releasing me to take a deep breath of relief.

  I'd bet my left nut these guys are on steroids. I can see why they were 'chosen'. Ain't a one of them under six-four, and they're hefty fuckers. The only one who makes them look wanting is their dictator.

  I know there's a camera and mic trained on me, so I smile again, muttering, “Praise god.”

  I'm marginally grateful that John is no longer injecting opiates into my bloodstream and feeding me protein shakes. I lived on that shit for weeks and had the worse diarrhea of my life.

  •

  Preacher John:

  I've chosen to maintain a level of darkness and intimacy, opening her door holding the lit candle, a sign of god's light in a world blind with sin. Taking it easy, I put my bucket of wares down on the floor, closing the door and spinning the lock.

  She's asleep, curled tightly into herself, lying on her left side. That alone is a sign of contrition as it was Ezekiel's penance.

  Getting comfortable, I lift her hand, guiding her arm by the wrist, maintaining a locked grip, suspending supple skin above the flame of the church candle.

  Counting, I reach four seconds when she snaps upright, wide awake and struggling to pull her limb back.

  “What the fuck! Ow! Fucking, Jesus fuck!”

  “Do I have your undivided attention, Seventy-two?”

  “Yeeeeesss!” shrieks at me, the sinner now up on her knees, wrestling to lift the sensitive flesh under her forearm away from the flame.

  “It burns, doesn't it?” I ask mildly.

  “What the fuck, John!”

  Laughing at her outrage, I tug her closer, barely straining against the pull of her body weight. One arm, when I am weak, zero effort. They are indeed inferior.

  “Julie, God's wrath burns. Is this what you want for your soul?”

  “Noooooo–” she wails at me, her answer shuddering into a serrated sob.

  “Then why do you sin?” It's a simple enough question.

  Clenching her jaw defiantly, she tilts her chin, looking down where I recline on one arm, the gal up on her knees having a deluded moment of superiority, “Because I do not believe in god, or hell, or heaven, or any of it.”

  “And that is why you are here. You sin because of your disbelief. You don't just have a satan of corruption within you, you have the worst kind of possession. The greatest lie is satan fooling the world that god isn't real, that he himself isn't real. I'm here to reclaim your soul.”

  “I have free will you stupid fuck! I can believe whatever the freak I want!”

  Drawing her close, expending force to lock her down, poising her chin above the flame, I smile at the forsaken child, “Here in the satanarium we exorcise the madness of satanic denial. Here we free their hold on you. You are mad, Julie. He's made you crazy and you believe his lies.”

  Her eyes are watering, a red blotch marring her chin, suffering evident in her expression.

  “Shall I burn you to the devil, or should I burn you to god? His fire purifies you, Julie. Choose the flame which collects your soul.”

  She squeals, shaking now, panic and fear claiming her pretty face. “I'll die regardless.”

  “Yes you will, but if you choose god you will know mercy. Quickly Julie, before I put the flame to your
nipple, choose your afterlife. God or the devil?”

  “God,” gasps at me, the scent of scorched hair fizzing across the flame from her long bangs.

  Releasing my grip I let her crawl to the corner, hugging her knees, tears wetting her face with the dew of imminent rebirth.

  Shaking my head, I open my fist, offering her manna, “Take it. Swallow it.”

  “No.”

  “I will discipline you if you continue to resist my guidance.”

  “Why do you call it a satanarium?” she mumbles, her inhalations jagged, her voice wavering with emotion.

  “It's a sanitarium for those claimed by satan. Few are chosen, and god chose you. He saw hope for your redemption and bid me offer you salvation. To set you free from the madness induced by the satan within you.”

  “You're fucking mental.”

  “You think that because you aren't in control of your own body, or your thoughts. You are caught inside an illusion and it has made you a dirty angel. You are here for purification.”

  She scowls at me, her face radiant in the soft glow of the candle's flame. Offering her my hand again, I demand, “Take your manna or I'll shove it down your throat the hard way.”

  “It's not manna, it's contraband,” she argues, trying to be brave but betraying her dread. Graceful fingers tremble where she holds her naked legs. She's such a slender package of woman. There is something about the five foot woman that reaches inside my soul, calling to me. She's satan's siren. I can't wait to purge her so I can have her all to myself. Visually tracing the naked thigh, the pixie toes, the tiny wrists, I ache to pin her down and show her the meaning of dominion.

  Looking back at the pouting lips and wide eyes, I explain, “It's so you can know heaven on earth. It is god's promise of paradise, and it alleviates suffering. He gave it to the people of Israel so they would follow him to the promised land. That's all I'm offering to you, Julie. Take your manna, follow me to the promised land.”

  “And if I don't?” she whispers, her voice tremulous.

  “Do not test the lord your god. Do not provoke him to anger,” I warn, beginning to tire at her petulance.

  “Fuck you, preacher. Fuck you and your god!”

  My patience snaps and I launch forward, gripping the fragile wrist and yanking her out of her corner, the force sprawling her over my thighs. Palming her head, I butt her face into the concrete floor, depositing the manna next to the candle, leaning over her tush and slipping off my flipflop, moving fast and sure I slap it hard on the prone buttocks facing me.

  I can smell her.

  She squirms, struggling, but it's a simple maneuver to plant my elbow into her spine, leaning down, pressing the vertebrae until the bones feel pinched, repeatedly tanning her hide with a flat rubber sole.

  “Do not provoke my ire, Julie. Do not!”

  “You're a sick fuck! Sick!” shrieks at me, blindly reaching behind her head for my arm, doing her best to put up a fight.

  Dropping my impromptu paddle, I flip her over, gripping her face and squeezing it with every ounce of strength I possess, poising my free hand as a fist above her eye, “You will swallow your manna or I'll beat you broken. I'll show you how I feel about satan, because he makes me crazy enough to take my rage out on the weak flesh of those he's possessed. Are we clear?”

  Taking her simper as compliance, I snatch up the white seeds, dropping them in the mouth I'm holding open. Reaching for the candle I move it so hot wax drips under her eye, lowering it near her eyeball, “I will burn out your eyes because you use them to serve Satan. Swallow your manna and redeem yourself.”

  She struggles, her head pushing back against my hold, her throat working, gargled objection festering the air between us until she begins coughing.

  Releasing my grip, lifting her into sitting upright, maintaining my hold on her, I reach for the alcohol, handing it to her, “Drink.”

  She gulps, spluttering at the cocktail in my water bottle.

  Hoarse, she gasps, “God above, what is this shit? It's hundred percent proof moonshine.”

  Hugging her to my chest, keeping her spine against my front, sitting with her while I lean back against the wall for support, I prefer this position, she can't fight me like this. My arms lock her in, preventing struggle. She wriggles, the heat of her covering me fills my penis with the craving to do god's dirty work.

  Ignoring my urges, I explain the liquor, “I need a painkiller, so I chose alcohol this night.”

  “Why do you need a painkiller?”

  She's warm; soft; fuck it's doing evil things to me.

  “You may have noticed I've had a haircut. It hurt.”

  “Oh....” mumbles, and I can hear her thoughts clocking over while she plots a new attack. “So like, what makes you think you work for god?”

  Idle chitchat, Satan's forked tongue is flicking out of the perfect mouth.

  “I am one of his angels. I'm the angel of death.”

  “Yeah right,” she scorns. “You're just a man. A fucked up psycho man.”

  “Angels look like men. You are so easily deceived, Julie. Daniel ten verse sixteen... the angel who looked like a man. It's all over the bible, darlin'.”

  I really don't have the resilience tonight. Unwilling to wrestle with the sinner in her, I put my thumb inside her collarbone, using the technique employed in churches the world over during the 'delivering' of the holy spirit. Impostors. There is only one way to give a woman the holy spirit. And men never lost it. So calling them up to be reborn is a spit in God's eye.

  Pressing her pressure point, I relax when she slumps, resting heavily against me in the perfect peace of the unconscious.

  Shoving her aside, I unhook the fleece from my hips, freeing the desire I have to worship god. He makes me potent, hard, ready. His force is so strong in me now that I know I'm forgiven for my transgression. Being careful, after the struggle and the stressing of the wounds on my back against the cold enamel of the wall in her cell, I budge open her legs, snapping off the annoying underwear that denies god's holy men access to the temple.

  I have the key to the temple, and I do not hesitate to go in.

  Lying on her, taking comfort in the weak inhalations which force her back to rise and fall in a subtle rhythm of life, I slide inside the provocative heat, shouting to Alpha, “Praise be your name and your power, to your glory forever and ever!”

  The smell of forgiveness makes me giddy, the lubricating musk released during worship vanquishes my woes, leaving me to lick the tears off her eyelashes, resting my razored cheek on hers, my skin so sensitive that I understand God's wisdom.

  This is how we experience heaven, on earth. The sensation of smooth skin running against hairless flesh is enough to blow my load. It's addictive.

  The release rocks my bones right up to my jaw, freeing me to adjust her, laying my weary head on a plump cushion made to wean infants. My precious Julie, so pretty and petite, so comforting in submission. Sucking it, kneading it, the hard tip is rigid against my tongue, inciting me to bite it.

  Holding the mound in front of my face with my free hand, it pleases me greatly that she hardens in subconscious praise.

  Inside her, when satan sleeps, is a beautiful woman worth saving. Snuggling up, planting my hand between her legs, resting it there where it's warm and velvet, I say my prayers, thanking Him for restoring my faith.

  ~ Chapter 14 ~

  The person who sins is the one who will die

  ~ Ezekiel 18:4

  72: Julie:

  The ache in my lower back is severe, my chin throbs, and I make to roll, to alleviate the discomfort, but I can't move. Sagging against the thin mattress, the smell of mould contaminates my skin, eliciting a shiver. When he leaves here he goes up steps. Maybe I'm in the basement?

  It's dank and dark.

  I hate it here. Holding the heel of my hand against my throbbing forehead, I stare up, mentally assessing damage. I remember John was in here, forcing me to choose the lesser of two evils
. It's a shame that such a good looking man is so screwed in the head.

  Chaffing down a dry swallow, my mouth is chalky. I'd kill for a cigarette, and a cup of coffee. Yeah, I might sell my soul for those.

  What the hell?

  Heaving against the weight, weakness rattles my arms and I grunt with the effort to push up.

  The movement on my leg detonates calm and I'm screaming before I know what the hell is going on. The familiar feeling of fingers cupping my mouth to muffle my voice careens my heart to the next universe, the terror too intense, the screech stuck in my throat sawing off my sanity nerve.

  “Shhh, for heaven's sake, shhhh.”

  Sweat explodes, breathing impossible, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling, asphyxiating, suck air, siphon, desperate, heat pirouetting my mind in frenetic circles, spiraling, humidity clutching my face, lungs burn … BURN!

  “Fuck. You're hyperventilating. Breathe girl, calm down, it's just an attack of nerves.”

  Flopping back, blood bleeding red across my eyeballs in blasts of light-spots, my head pounding like a toddler with a spoon and pot; incessant, hard, brutal, chaos washes through me, disjointing sound.

  I can smell the sea of sin through the cracks in my mind, where the mud boils black with brimstone's slick spill of hate.

  Hot lips cover mine and he exhales hard, expanding my chest, scorching me down to my shame, the residual hope I kept under my heart peeking out long enough to evaporate in the nuclear blast of his violation.

  Hands paw at my hair, pushing it away, breath blowing in my eyes, “Better?”

  “I want to die.”

  The weight pinning me to the bitterness of hell adjusts, a loud click igniting a flame in purgatory, dancing wild gyrations to turn his shadow into a giant monster slithering across the ceiling.

  Sitting up, twisting away, exposing for a moment two deep gashes across his back - reaching his shoulders, he smiles when he faces me again, offering a cancer candle... a tiny gesture of normality... of mercy.