Loving the Cult

by Nicole Tillman

“No, Ma'am,” he replies hastily. “We were just on our way to breakfast.”

  The redhead, who I still don't know by name, approaches me and I fight the urge to cower. I've never been intimidated by an authority figure, but damn this woman is terrifying. It's in her eyes, her tight smile, the way she carries herself; she's lethal. And right now she's staring at me with the affection one might show a cockroach.

  “You will do as he commands. Always, without question. Understood?”

  I can't help but feel like an unruly dog in obedience school. I half expect to see one of those high-pitched whistles hanging around her neck, but she only wears a string of black pearls. I'm not sure if I have a death wish, or if I just want to push my limits here just because I can, but I find the courage to smile at her before speaking.

  “Yes, Ma'am. And, if I may ask, who commands you?”

  Jameson tries to disguise his gasp as a cough, but I hear it... just before the wretched woman smiles, takes a step away from me, and holds her hand out, palm up, fingers pointing at my face.

  “Jameson.”

  Like a robot, Jameson approaches me. His heavy steps come to rest directly between me and the monstrous redhead, and I know what's coming. I can see the regret in his eyes even as he raises his open palm above his shoulder. The regret, the sadness, the angry tears lurking in the corners of his eyes; none of it makes it hurt any less.

  At the sound of Jameson's smack echoing through the dining room, the crowd goes silent, but only for a second. At the speed at which they rebound, I think I'm safe to assume that this is a common occurrence.

  This hit hurt so much worse than the one before, but now I know why. Now I know why Jameson warned me to be quiet, why he told me he didn't want to do anything to me, and why he warned me about people who want to do me real harm. It's her. The puppet master.

  “I'm sorry, Ma'am,” I say as I rub my reddening cheek. I hope she can't sense the trace of sarcasm in my tone, because I don't mean for it to be there, it's just habit.

  “Don't apologize to me. Apologize to him.” She gestures to Jameson who is trying like hell to maintain eye contact with me even though I can tell he wants so badly to look away from my face, away from what he just did.

  “I'm sorry, Jameson.” The words are like stones in my throat, because I know I don't mean them, just as Jameson knows.

  He nods once and the witch actually laughs.

  “See, that's all it takes. A little cooperation makes everyone's life a little easier, don't you think, Jameson?”

  “Yes, Ma'am.”

  “Good,” her smile vanishes as she cocks her head to the side, sending one more warning with the snarl of her lip. “Now go.”

  Before she can change her mind, and because I'm literally about to pass out from not eating, I grab Jameson's outstretched hand and follow him into the dining hall.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Who do we have here?” A young blond man with a buzz cut asks as we join a large group at a table. My heart is wrecking havoc on my ribcage and I think I may very well have a stroke. I don't do crowds, and if there's anything worse than a big horde of people, it's a big horde of crazy people.

  “This is Tess.”

  I expect Jameson to do a more thorough introduction, but he doesn't, and for once, I don't question it. After the fun we had in the hallway, it's obvious to me that if I want to avoid suffering, I need to listen to him.

  “Tess, huh? Is that short for something?” I don't like the look on this stranger's face. Unlike Jameson, he holds no kindness in his eyes, no peace in his posture, and no warmth in his smile.

  Instead of answering out loud, I just shake my head. I figure that's the safest thing to do.

  “Not Tessa? Or Tesla?”

  “It's just Tess,” Jameson answers for me and I touch his knee under the table. It's not a show of affection, just a thank you.

  “So, Just Tess, how are you this evening? It's good to see you weren't injured too badly during your little romp through the woods.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I can feel my eyes going wide as his insinuation sinks in.

  He was one of the three. He took me.

  “Shut up, Bradley.”

  I turn to see a kinder, gentler version of the blond sitting next to Jameson. He's obviously Bradley's identical twin, but they couldn't look any more different if they tried. Whereas Bradley just screams 'bully', this man has a calming air to him. He looks, well, honestly he looks like a hippie.

  His shaggy blond hair dangles in front of his eyes and he runs his hands through it in an attempt to keep it out of the way. His eyes are the same color as Bradley's but softer, with fuller lashes and tiny wrinkles that fold up when he smiles. This man is kind. Even though he shares genes with the mongrel across the table from me, they are nothing alike.

  “I'm Bobby.” He extends his arm across the table and I look to Jameson for a hint. He smiles and that's enough for me. I take Bobby's hand and flash him a thankful smile.

  “Don't listen to that dunce,” Bobby says. “He's an asshat even on the best of days.”

  “I second that,” Jameson chimes in.

  “You know I can hear you, right?”

  The guys decide to ignore Bradley and instead start talking about the weather of all things. The freaking weather! I'm in the middle of some kind of cult prison where I've been slapped twice by the man sitting next to me and they're going on about the weekend forecast like everything is totally okay in the world.

  I'm so caught up in the men at the table, trying to figure out if they are a threat, that I don't even notice the food resting on my plate until the hearty aroma of meatloaf meets my nostrils. I turn my attention to the plate and try not to make it too obvious that I'm salivating. I tune out everything attached to a penis and focus on my food.

  The meal isn't great by any means, but I no longer feel like my stomach is about to turn inside-out. As I drain the bottle of water Jameson offers me, I notice that two other people have joined our table. Two women.

  Slowly lowering my drink, I take in every detail of the women that I can. Both are younger than me and both are brunettes, one with short hair and one with long. The long haired woman, or should I say girl, since she can't be more than sixteen, leans on Bobby's shoulder.

  I would guess that she was brought in the same way I was, but the look in her eyes says something different. The way she looks at Bobby; it's not love, it's not affection- it's obedience. This woman belongs to Bobby.

  The other brunette sits cautiously next to Bradley. There's a good six inches between them and she's careful not to scoot any closer. Her hair juts out at different lengths all over her head and I wonder how someone can have that awful of a haircut. I want to ask her what the hell she's thinking, walking around like her beautician is Edward Scissorhands, but I know that would just warrant another slap.

  I realize I'm staring at them when they both smile and wave. I return the wave, but not the smile. I'm too busy trying to figure them out. One seems completely at ease while the other looks scared out of her mind. I need to know why they're here.

  “That's Lyla,” Jameson says, pointing at the long-haired girl, “and that's Daphne.”

  Lyla extends her hand in silence. I shake it quickly, fighting the urge to scream at her to tell me everything. Daphne just nods.

  “Who else has she met?” Bobby asks, referring the question to Jameson instead of me.

  “Just you guys and Joan, Omar, and Robert.”

  Ah, so the Wicked Witch has a name now.

  Joan. I don't know, I think Crazy Bitch suits her so much better.

  “Joan like her?” Bradley asks.

  Jameson snorts out a laugh.

  “Joan most definitely does not like her.”

  “Yeah, well, once you get her trained, Joan won't have a problem with her. It just takes a while, right Daph?”

  Daphne raises her eyes from the floor and nods enthusiastically.

  “Why
don't you just bring Joan to eat with us? She'll definitely like her once she sees her appetite.” He gestures to my empty plate and I can feel my cheeks heat. I'm not fat, but I'm no supermodel either. I don't appreciate people pointing out my eating habits.

  Turning my head so the rest of them don't see that I'm whispering into Jameson's chest, I whisper, “why does it matter how I eat?”

  For the umpteenth time, Jameson shakes his head. This isn't the time or the place for questions.

  “Stand up.”

  I do as I'm told and stand with Jameson.

  “We're gonna head on up. Talk to you guys later.”

  The twins both fist-bump Jameson and seconds after I roll my eyes, I glance around to make sure no one saw it. I know one person did. Bradley, because he's smiling at me, refusing to blink.

  My belly is full. That was the only goal we had leaving the room and it's been accomplished. As far as I can tell, Jameson doesn't have any other plans, so I follow him up the stairs and back into our room.

  The minute the latch is in place, I turn on him.

  “I want answers. Right. Now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Who are you?” I ask. “And who is that godawful woman? What the fuck is her problem? And what the hell kind of place is this? This is-”

  Jameson cuts me short by placing his hand over my mouth, which is probably a good thing. I could stand here for hours asking him a million questions about everything that's happened in the last however-many hours, but that would be useless. He's only going to tell me what he thinks I need to know.

  Pushing his hand aside, I lower myself to the bed, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. It's my normal 'I-want-answers-and-I-want-them-now' glare, but Jameson doesn't flinch.

  “Are you done?” He asks.

  “Am I done? No, actually, I'm not. There are about a million other questions I could ask.”

  “How about you save those for another time. For right now, why don't you sit down and shut up!”

  His voice grows louder with every word and I know everyone in the hall can hear him. It's a tad bit overkill, but whatever, men are stupid. If he thinks raising his voice will get a rise out of me, he's in for a surprise.

  “Fine.” I lay back on the bed and practically melt into the pillow-top mattress. It’s exquisite. Screw him and his answers, I could just lay here and nap til they come to kill me.

  The bed rocks and I coil my muscles for a fight. I'm vulnerable in my relaxed position, so it would be ideal for Jameson to jump me right now, if that's his plan.

  Apparently it isn't.

  “You have got to calm down,” he says, leaning down so I can hear his whispers. “You can't talk to me like that. Not in public and not in here.”

  “Or what?” I ask, bristling for a fight. “You'll hit me again?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Are you hearing yourself, Jameson? You don't have to do anything.”

  “That's where you're wrong. There are things I have to do, things I'm expected to do.”

  “You're expected to hit me?”

  He raises his eyebrows at me, as if he's surprised I hadn't caught on sooner.

  “Let me guess, you believe that women are subservient to men.”

  “Well,” he says as his face flushes. “in a word, yes.”

  “Ugh, you have no idea how badly I want to hit you right now.”

  “I don't think that would be wise.”

  “Probably not, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.”

  Jameson stands, moves to the other side of the room, and sits on the floor.

  “Better?”

  “Actually... yes.”

  “Okay, so what do you want to know Tess?”

  From the way he talks, I think he's going to set a limit on our little conversation. I have to be selective when it comes to getting answers. Quickly prioritizing in my head, I raise my hand.

  “I get five questions, and you give me five honest answers.”

  “I can deal with that,” he nods. “Proceed.”

  “Is this a cult? No, scratch that! If it is a cult, you'll just say it isn't because people who are in a cult don't actually refer to their cult as a cult.”

  Jameson bites his lower lip, trying to stifle his laughter as he looks down at his hands. “You like that word don't you? Cult.”

  As I process what I just said in my head, I realize how hilarious it sounds. I'm ranting. I have to be very specific if I want to get the information I need.

  “Sorry. My brain got a little carried away. Let me try this again... What is this place?”

  Jameson doesn't look away from his hands for quite a few seconds, and all I can hear is the joints in his hands as he pops them one at a time while he mulls over my question.

  “It's... It's my home.”

  Well, if that isn't the lamest answer ever.

  “Yes, I understand that you live here. I just want to know what 'here' is.”

  “It's a house. It's a home. It's where people like us live,” he says, his voice rising in agitation. “I don't know what kind of answer you're looking for here, Tess.”

  “Okay, okay. Chill. What do you mean by 'people like us'?”

  “The Children of Neutrality. The believers in our cause.” He says it like I should like know what he's talking about, like it's obvious.

  “And what's your cause?”

  He shrugs. “To better the world.”

  Grumbling in frustration, I move off the bed so that I can sit directly in front of him on the floor. This is going to take more prying than I had initially thought. Jameson, as smart and savvy as he seems, is apparently very dense.

  “To better the world? That could make you a million different things- A wildlife foundation, a scholarship program, or freaking Nazis. That doesn't tell me anything at all.”

  Jameson rubs his temples, as if I'm the one giving him a headache.

  I press on. “What... what do you believe? You and these people here, what are you trying to do? Why are you abducting people? What's your end game?”

  Jameson cracks a grin and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “I think you just used up all five questions.”

  “No, I didn't. It's all part of the same. I just want a detailed answer. I want to know where I am, who I'm dealing with, and why the fuck I'm here.”

  “Why? So you can formulate an escape plan?”

  “No,” I lie, although there is some truth to it. I'm genuinely curious. “I just think I deserve answers.”

  He nods, threading his fingers together as he stretches his legs out in front of him, getting comfortable. Apparently this is going to be a long discussion.

  “Okay, uhh, we were founded in 1969. That's when our first house was built. Back then, we had maybe twenty members. The founding families thought that there was too much separating people.”

  I cut him off. “Separating them how? Physically? Geographically?”

  “No, just... as human beings, they said that people were too easy to hate and that certain kinds of hate were bred from differences. They believed that they could eradicate some of these differences, thus ending the hatred.”

  None of this makes a lick of sense to me. Maybe it shouldn't, maybe Jameson and these creeps really are crazy. Every word that comes out of Jameson's mouth could just be psychobabble bullshit.

  “They knew that it would take years, decades, centuries even to come up with a real solution to the problems and so the ten founding families decided to break away from modern society to protect themselves.”

  “To protect them from what?” The more he talks, the less I understand. I had wished for a simple answer, but I feel like this could take all night.

  “From becoming as closed-minded and prejudiced as the rest of the world.”

  “Okay. So, you live here because you don't want to get caught up in... in what? In society? In the way people interact? What you're talking about is a normal human reaction. People act differently towar
d those who are different. I think that's some kind of unwritten rule.”

  “Yes!” He yells. “But it doesn't have to be that way. That's what the founders believed anyway. They believed that we could move past color, move past religion, move past these social norms that had been pulled out of thin air. And we've been working toward building the kind of world they imagined, one problem at a time.”

  Yup. This is a cult, and Jameson is out of his mind. Great.

  “So... your beliefs?” I prompt.

  Jameson takes another deep breath before propping up on his knees and facing me. As he explains his lifestyle, I don't quite know what to think of his behavior. It's as if he's being torn in two right in front of me. He has spells where he's so energetic and behind the cause that you would think he had thought it up himself. But then, there are times when he seems so sad, so lost, and so angry; as if he doesn't believe a damn word he's saying.

  “The founders thought that the biggest problem when it came to social interaction was racism. Color is the highest and strongest border between people.”

  “Okay, yeah, and I agree. It sucks. But how do you fix something as old as racism?”

  “If you don't have races, you won't have racism.”

  He says it as if it's the most obvious solution, as if I'm a moron for not thinking of it sooner.

  “Um, but there are races. There will always be different races, because Asians will fall in love with Asians, Indians will fall in love with Indians, Africans will fall in love with Africans, and Caucasians will fall in love with Caucasians.”

  “And therein lies the problem,” he smiles.

  “What? What problem?”

  “Love.”

  I finally laugh at how absurd he's being. I've always been a closet romantic. I've never had a meaningful relationship, but I believe in love. Even though I never envision having a happily ever after myself, I believe it exists.

  “Love is the problem?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

  “Yes, love.”

  “Jameson, you're an idiot if you believe that. The world would be a much darker place if love didn't exist.”

  “I'm not talking about love in general,” he says, scooting closer to me. “We can love things. We're even encouraged to love this place, this family. What I'm talking about is romantic love. This notion that you can meet one person and pledge yourself to them for the rest of your life? That's insanity. It goes against every primal instinct we have in our bodies.”