by Poppet
He said it himself.
Men are called gods.
And they fucking believe it!
The grip in my hair is a choice to comply or die.
Blinking against the pain, my voice watery and unsteady because I still want to puke, I hoarsely whisper, “You alone are god, there is no other god.”
“There is no other god like me,” he smiles, releasing me. “I am a jealous god, and now you are mine.”
If you were truly god, then who would you have to be jealous of? You know you are deficient and a liar, and that's why you insist the rest of us swallow your bullshit.
You can print it in a book but that doesn't make it an infallible honest fact. You tortured an entire nation until they obeyed and adopted your mental delusions, but the truth is that your own words betray you. You know you are not 'god', and that's who you are jealous of. And that's why you get your way through pain instead of through love and compassion.
This is your M.O, one that started on the Exodus, one that continued through the inquisition, one that waged wars against peaceful tribes... it's mean and despicable. You may not be the him who once led people out of Egypt, but you share his madness. Love wins every war, but you sir, you wage war with individual souls, you prey on the frightened and despairing, you make your victims weak before you attack them. You wear them down and grind down their spirit.
That's a warrior's approach.
What I am, is a prisoner of war.
And you and your ancestors have a shit load to answer for.
Chapter 8
For the Lord corrects and disciplines everyone whom He loves, and He punishes, even scourges, every son whom He accepts and welcomes to His heart and cherishes.
~ Hebrews 12:6
Shauna:
A siren warbles between us, soft and disquieting.
Striding to the wall, he presses a button, “Yes?”
“Alpha, Seth has returned.”
He presses the gold button again, “I'll be right there.”
Abandoning the communication he turns to me, seeming altogether pleased with himself, “Woman, it's time you bathed. I will leave you to rest. The broken brides will tend to you.”
Reaching me, hooking my elbow and forcing me off the floor and walking forwards, he says, “You have three days to pray, to prepare, and then you will have your future presented. You will do as I order or I will have you stoned to death. Understood?”
I nod, stumbling because I'm feeling horrifically weak, the premonition of doom fading my ability to focus. I'm drenched in dread, it's so immediate that I think I'd rather risk his ire and defy him. But then again I am nothing if not weak. If I was ready to die I would have sealed my fate twenty minutes ago.
I belong to him now, and what he says goes.
My thoughts, emotions, and opinions on the matter, are no longer a right of my existence. I'm a captive.
Victor, this is your fault. I should be a normal widow, not palmed off like a fucking orphan to your demented family. A family that has no concept of caring, or love. We're just possessions. Literally. We're possessed by the evil which dictates. By calling him god I've let his deficiency become my master. I'm a puppet and he's the one who will use me until he tires, until the novelty wears thin. And then I'll have my mouth sewn shut to serve the next victim, and he'll call me a broken bride. What he fails to recognise is I am that already.
Left in a new room, on a different level, the sight of my own belongings gives me both comfort and relief. I'm glad to accept the mercy. Climbing fully clothed into the shower, I turn the water on as hot as I can bear it. I wait four minutes, grateful he has somewhere else to be, before surrendering to the sobs, to fully embrace the horror, hardship, and reality, of a thrice shattered heart.
~~~
Seth:
Kneeling, remaining absolutely still, I know I'll be lucky if I survive this night. I'm tired from being on intercontinental flights for twenty-two hours, and then some. Excluding the drive to the compound.
Exhausted is an understatement.
Footsteps echo down the stairs, stiffening my back, impending jeopardy reducing me to a boy who had no strength to fight his father.
He stamps when he reaches ground level, bellowing, “Well?”
Maintaining position, I stare at the floor, “I have failed.”
“Between you and Jude you should have recovered him!” His yell makes me flinch, and I dare to twist, to meet his irate expression. Prowling aggressively towards me the sight of blood on him makes me blanch. He's in a killing mood. Shit! Bad timing, seriously bad timing.
He doesn't hesitate, pounding his massive fist into the side of my head the moment he's within reach, bending over me to spit in my eye, “I should cut you up and use your bones instead! Except you've never been worthy of reverence! You've turned no one, you've resurrected no one, and the one time I give you responsibility you fuck it up!”
My spine is objecting. He clocked me left while I was kneeling, any second now my vertebrae will give me the kind of agony that paralyses a man.
Lifting my head off the floor with a fist snarled in my hair, he decks me over and over, the burn of knuckles on bone eventually numbing, the pounding reaching the point where my nervous system shuts down to preserve sanity.
Victor would stand, argue, be persuasive. He was a snake charmer even if he lost everything he ever loved to our father's wrath. Me, I lost the last reason to stay when Victor died. I thought Alpha would be pleased when I obeyed, bringing Shauna to the familial grounds, following his orders. But I should have known better. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for this man. Nothing. He thinks he's perfect, and the goal-posts for perfect shift constantly.
He's roid strong, manna manic, and with his elevated levels of cortisol and adrenaline I'm violently kicked across the floor, down the chute, dropping toward the sinner's den, where saints go to be martyred.
Free falling into darkness, the impact winds me, hot blood burning my eye, the throbbing severe enough to be loosened teeth.
Lying still, the motion of breathing is excruciating. I'm a trained warrior, yet I've never dared to test my mettle against Alpha. I don't have his rage. It hurts me, it wounds the part of me that has only ever sought his approval, craving his love.
I wish it didn't matter, but it's the only thing that's ever mattered. If I resist or defy, he'll kill me. He's always looked for a reason and I've done my damnedest not to provide him with one.
Victor couldn't have survived those bullets, they were too well placed. He's long dead and long incinerated. I can't bring back a body when every winter the crematoriums are operating at maximum capacity. Winter ends lives, it takes the frail, the tired, the frozen.
He knew I'd fail. It's been two months since my brother perished. There's no grave to dig up, no mausoleum or crypt to rob, how can I magically manifest a body that's burnt to ash?
The door opens, the vision stepping into the sand pit now dressed in his leather armour, holding a canister of liquid nitrogen in one hand, a whip in the other.
Jesus Christ!
Wrestling to my feet, shaking the dizziness from my head, I back up, struggling to find purchase for my feet on the uneven ground.
“Father, please...!”
“Please what, boy? You fucking failed!”
The hostile strain in his voice, the edge of hysteria, it reminds me of that crazy TV chef when he's stripping his cooks of their dignity.
Holding my hands up in surrender, sweat is pumping out of me as the jitters take hold, “I couldn't, dad! He was dead too long! There is no body to recover!”
The tip of the whip slices into my cheek when he shouts, “Don't ever call me dad! Not ever!”
Clutching my hand to the agonising sting, I'm desperate not to have the liquid nitrogen torture. He can whip me so I'm scarred for life, just not... not the LN... fuck!!
As if psychic that's exactly what he does, his need to inflict punishment an addiction he can't control
. He's never been able to control it; and I feel like I'm being attacked by Medusa herself, every which way I twist, turn, hunch, it connects, slicing though my cotton shirt, shredding my trousers, sand sticking to the blood coating my skin, the stinging a unique form of torment.
Weeping, sobbing, I curl over, leaving my back facing him when I pull into myself like a tortoise, wishing I'd been born with an exoskeleton so I didn't have to live through this hell every five years.
His panting is satanic and harsh, the lambasting cracks loud as bullet shots in the sinner's pit, the exertion and effort beginning to wear him down. Next he'll piss on the wounds because uric acid burns.
My father lives to humiliate and punish me.
Surrendering, weak, broken, I lie still when he kicks me over, stamping his boot into my gonads just to watch me flinch up, snapping his heel back to slam my face.
I'm burning as if lying in a lake of lava, hurting, crying, but still I refuse to fight him.
So many times I've wanted to give him the bible, open... to two passages. Turn the other cheek... and - Jesus wept.
Coughing on blood, the dribble of my mouth bleeding runs faster than it should into my throat, I hack it out, gasping through the pain, groaning, “I love you dad.”
Urine fills my open mouth, sluicing over the cuts in my face, it's a pain that's soul deep. Flinching, spitting, retching, recoiling and flipping to escape, the motion gives him his desired result. My spliced back is exposed to him now and the sting of hot piss is enough to make me screeeeeeeam.
Chapter 9
Suffer the little children
~ Matthew 19:14
Shauna:
Noise out in the entrance hall raises my hackles. What the hell is out there?
“Hello?” I call to the faintly lit passage.
A shadow hulks monstrous proportions onto the piece of wall I can see from my position in bed; the light is cast from the lamps which stand either side of the elevator.
It makes a wounded groan, splitting my hair with instant duress.
Holy shit!
Flicking the bedside lamp on, I reach for the hefty bible left for me to read. Wielding it like an anvil I go sneaking to the threshold, peeking around the corner as fast as I can.
A man with wet hair is sliding in his own blood, flat out on the floor, struggling to get traction every time he tries to push himself upright, leaving macabre streaks on the pristine tiles.
“Hello?” I call to him, stress prickling my pores.
Flopping onto his side, he stares at me, cradling his chest with his hands as if it hurts to breathe, muffling through swollen lips, “I'm sorry.”
He's unrecognisable, but I know the voice.
“Seth?” I ask, soft, scared.
Holy hell, I can't handle the curve balls that life keeps pelting at me.
Extending his arm, rigid fingers tremor at me, silently beckoning me to him. Dropping the book with an ominous thud I pad quickly over the cold tiles, the foul smell coming from him singeing my nostrils.
“Jesus Seth, what the fuck happened?”
He's smeared with fresh blood, it's still seeping out of the cuts criss-crossing his body, his shirt in tatters, wet, unpleasantly fragrant.
“Dad,” whispers, reducing him to a silent sob, his shoulders shaking. His expression of instant grief is enough to crush my heart.
Nothing breaks me faster than seeing a grown man cry.
“Your dad did this?” I whisper, sitting on my legs, not knowing what to do. I'm afraid to touch him. He's oozing blood wherever I look.
Grimacing, he nods once, squeezing his eyes shut, tears escaping with the motion.
Oh god! I swallow thickly, grief at his hurt overwhelming me. This is horrendous. Everything I am wants to comfort, but I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I suck at medical emergencies.
“Tell me what to do?” I coax, holding his hand, it's the only appendage I know I can touch without inflicting more agony.
He's a doctor, he'll know what to do.
Sagging, pressing his forehead to the cool floor, he mumbles, “Milk.” This time I see the crimson coating his teeth, escaping with drool when he groans.
Milk? What?
Boosting into action I go to the magic intercom on the wall, pressing the button, “Hello?”
Silence greets me.
“HELLO!” I shout, beginning to panic.
A hand grips my ankle, making me squeal when I reflexively jump back and face behind me.
The prone man shakes his head, real slow, mumbling, “Can't speak.”
Oh right! I forgot that the 'broken brides' are deprived of the joy of eating. They get their food from medical nutrient drips.
God gave me an education in cruelty and depravity over dinner.
Clearing the lump in my throat, I press the button again, “Hello? I need medical assistance. Bandages, disinfectant, pain killers, all that jazz. And milk.” Releasing the button, I drop to my haunches, asking Seth, “What else?”
“A disciple to help.”
A disciple? This is fucking mental.
Standing, I press the button again, “And a disciple. To help.”
I feel ludicrous requesting a disciple, but that's how this cult roll.
Sitting down next to him, I hold his hand again. I have no words of comfort to offer, but I can attempt to soothe him with touch. I can't tell him everything is going to be okay, because it's not.
It's never going to be okay again.
The lift doors opening feels instantaneous and I watch as two women and two men step out, crowding me and Seth. His grip is slack, as if he's horribly weak, and faint convulsions constantly pass from his hand to mine.
Now more than ever I wish Victor was still alive. I wish someone would punish god for all the hurt he's caused.
The big man with piercing blue eyes leans down, pulling me away, “Give us room to work, sweetie.”
Sweetie? Not 'sugar'. He's an import, like me. I've heard a few voices in the corridors and they sounded American. I assume I'm somewhere in the States.
Seth opens his eyes, staring tortured pupils into mine when I'm forced to relinquish my hold on his hand and get out of the way. He's my only friend, the only familiar face.
What if he doesn't make it?
What will happen to me then?
The two dudes bodily lift him, carrying him between them, trailed with the weird women who all have long hair, sewn mouths, and wear long unisex robes that turn them into hermaphrodites.
That has to be the most unsexy wardrobe I've ever seen. They shuffle after the gents, carrying supplies in transplant boxes, walking into the wing opposite mine.
I haven't gone snooping. I'm afraid to. I don't know what my boundaries are and the last thing I want to do is give Herr God an excuse to put me back into 'storage'.
Trailing after them, I hang back, leaning against the door frame to his quarters, watching across a marine styled lounge to the open bathroom door opposite. He shrieks when they peel his tattered shirt off his lacerated body, discolouration plain to see with the first three swabs of antiseptic.
The women leave the men to their expert ministrations, running water into the tub and pouring in quarts of milk. This is all very Egyptian, and weird.
When his trousers are cut off I look away, listening instead.
“James, you take his left, I'll support his right.”
Glancing back their way, I wonder which of them is James.
With Seth's arms slung across their shoulders it looks like they're carrying a paraplegic to the bath, slowly lowering him into it.
I can only imagine how the milky bath-water is turning pink with blood. Antsy, wound up and ready to snap, I walk to his bar fridge, opening the door and peering curiously inside.
Selecting wine, I grab a glass off the tray and pour myself a measure from the already uncorked bottle.
Sitting down, I wait, wishing I could understand, and help.
The wait is inter
minable, but after much scurrying and coming and going of the silent sirens, the big dudes carry him bandaged and clean, and wearing loose pyjama bottoms, down the passage, away from me.
The blonde is the first to return. He stalks into the lounge, looking me over in my pj's and glowering at the drained wine glass, “You're still here?”
Where else am I going to be? It's not like I have happy hour to get to.
“He's my brother-in-law, I didn't want to leave him,” I snap, irritated by his condescending scowl.
“We're his brothers, we're fully capable of taking care of our own.”
“And you are?” I ask, standing, barely reaching the top of his bicep.
“Andrew.”
Cocking my head, I find his lack of conversation telling. If he's Seth's brother, that makes him Victor's brother too. And by default, then he's also my brother-in-law.
“So we're family?” I pry, becoming more and more self-conscious the longer he stares at my rack. Silk nighties aren't exactly expert at hiding cold nipples. If anything they highlight them, and he's staring like he has a fixation on breast-feeding.
Sighing, glaring at me with bland grey eyes, he looks behind him as if wanting back-up before facing me, saying in a monotone voice, “We're adopted. Most of us are his adopted brothers. But yeah, in a sense we're family.”
“Is Seth adopted?” I ask, surprised by the revelation in this expansive family. He looks so much like Victor that I never questioned it, until now that is.
He shakes his head, answering “N–”