Mother of Darkwaters: Book one of the Vessel series

by Tony C. Skye

  Damn. One thing at a time, Tamara.

  She begins walking towards the girl's bedroom she seen earlier from the kitchen. After she passes through the tiny kitchen, across the hall, and into the bedroom, Tamara accidentally swings the girl's feet against the door frame. The jarring causes the other girl to open her eyes long enough to see Tamara holding her own breath and gritting her teeth. The girl with long hair attempts a smile, but her face hurts too much. She places her hands around Tamara's neck and puts her head against the tall girl's chest.

  “You're such a softy,” the teen struggles to whisper. She passes back out. Tamara pulls her closer so her limp body won't fall away.

  The cheerleader gently lays the girl on her bed and pulls a sheet over her naked body. She quietly answers the girl's last statement.

  “If you tell anybody, I'll make you eat it next time,” she teases.

  * * *

  The girl opens her eyes. The bright light causes her to squint. The subtle action sends sharp pains coursing through her cheeks.

  “Ow,” the girl moves her mouth in silence. Her dry throat prevents her from wanting to make any sound. The motion of the silent word sends fiery pulses through her jaw. She licks her swollen lips. Needles of pain fire off where her tongue touches.

  Her green eyes adjust to the room's sunlight. A shadow sits in the corner of the room to the left of the girl's feet. The girl of the house smiles through her pain. The shadowy figure has a blanket pulled over its outstretched long legs. The blanket covers around the figure's neck as it sleeps. The shadowy figure shifts with movement. The girl's heart races in response. Her sudden rush of paralyzing fear makes her giggle.

  Tamara startles awake. She immediately looks at the girl on the bed to check her status. She sees a grin on the girl's face. It is not taunting or playful. It reflects amusement.

  “I see somebody's feeling better,” Tamara says quietly.

  “Not really,” the girl struggles to speak, “I didn't mean to wake you.”

  Tamara removes the blanket and carries over a water bottle she had underneath the blanket. She opens it and offers it to the girl. She watches while the girl winces and takes short quick breaths as she sits up.

  “Thank you,” the girl says in between her sips.

  “So what's up with the late-morning giggles?”, Tamara inquires, “I thought you might still need to cry and pass out.”

  The girl smiles with affection, “Really, Tamara. Thank you.”

  Tamara rolls her eyes, “You have got to stop doing that.”

  The tall blond notices the girl's disappointment, “Well, just don't be surprised if I throw you around a bit if you decide to keep doing it.”

  The girl's eyes seem to sparkle with the news – green eyes of fulfillment and complete satisfaction. Tamara rather enjoys the way the girl looks so fondly at her.

  Hmm. Who knew?

  “You gonna keep me in the dark?”, Tamara asks with genuine interest, “Why were you laughing?”

  “Okay,” the girl agrees. She struggles against her swollen lips, “I was watching you sleep. Then you moved and I almost peed on myself.” She pauses before continuing with the truth, “For real. I was terrified.”

  Tamara sees amusement within the girl's stare. She arches her left brow curiously,

  “And that is why you were giggling?”

  The girl nods with signs of embarrassment and shame. She looks down. Tamara sits down by her sheet-covered legs. The cheerleader shrugs her shoulders,

  “If you enjoy it – you enjoy it.”

  The girl raises her eyes to meet Tamara's inviting gaze. Tamara smiles.

  “Besides, I most definitely enjoyed beating your ass.”

  “Thank you for not judging me,” the girl responds while looking away.

  “Judge you for what?”, Tamara questions, “Being yourself?”

  She looks back at the cheerleader. A small smile of appreciation crosses her sore mouth. Tamara's brows narrow. Her voice becomes serious.

  “I do have one problem with this. I can't let it go. And if you don't tell me, I'm going to skip the part where you get time to heal.” Tamara makes sure the girl understands the seriousness of her threat, “I'll go straight to the part where you always scream and never are able to enjoy one moment of your fear. No more giggles.”

  The girl nervously nods. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  Tamara stares coldly, “What is your name?”

  The girl grins as Tamara smiles.

  “Mandie with an i-e,” she answers the fearsome female fighter.

  “Well, Mandie with an i-e, I have two things to say,” Tamara informs. “First, thanks for the food. I found your note. You're quite the cook. I was impressed.”

  “You're welcome,” Mandie whispers fondly. Her tone is not lost on the cheerleader.

  “Secondly, Mandie with an i-e,” Tamara's tone drops to a whisper, “Tell me why I now want to spend my day with you?”

  “For the same reasons that I want you to,” Mandie's green eyes adores the girl sitting on her bed.

  Tamara leans in to meet Mandie's wanting gaze. She gently brushes her thin lips against Mandie's open mouth. The dark hair beauty gasps from the shocking fire within her bruised and cut lips. Tamara's long tongue separates her parted lips. Mandie eagerly returns the same treatment. Both girls lose themselves within the moment of their emotional connection. Then seemingly out of nowhere, Tamara abruptly pulls away. Mandie sits inside the limbo of puzzlement left behind by the cheerleader's sudden departure.

  Tamara looks into Mandie's confused eyes. “I like boys,” she says breathlessly.

  Mandie cocks her head to the right. She lowers the sheet down to her waistline.

  “As much as you like doing this?”, the proud Mandie illustrates the carvings on her body by tracing them lovingly with her fingertips.

  Tamara's left hand is gently tugged on by Mandie. The girl places Tamara's fingers on the gashes and helps her to trace her own words.

  Mandie softly pleas, “Will you do two things for me before you say that again?”

  Tamara nods, “Yeah. I suppose I owe you that much.”

  Mandie covers herself up with the blood-stained sheet. She moans as she swings her feet from behind Tamara and onto the floor. Her legs tremble weakly while she stands.

  “What are you doing?”, Tamara questions.

  “Two things. You gave me your word,” Mandie holds two fingers up from outside of the cloaked sheet.

  Tamara follows the girl outside. She walks around the house and into the backyard. A cellar door is locked about twenty feet from the house. Mandie grunts as she kneels down to work the combination belonging to the Master padlock.

  “Got it,” Mandie tosses the lock on the ground.

  The cheerleader jumps in to help pull the heavy door back for the struggling girl. Mandie begins walking down the concrete staircase into the darkness below. Tamara follows without a word.

  Click.

  Light fills the cellar. Tamara's jaw opens in disbelief. A man around forty years old is hanging in an x-formation by his wrists and ankles. He is roughly six-foot three-inches tall and is about two-hundred seventy-five pounds. His chest and belly are extremely hairy.

  His head is strapped against the strange contraption along his forehead. A black ball is shoved into his mouth and is held in place by the leather straps wrapping around his head. The man's large brown eyes silently scream for help – help to escape the mad teenager known as Mandie EvéMari.

  Tamara runs to her right and vomits in the corner.

  “It can't be,” the cheerleader begs as she vomits again.

  click-click.

  Tamara turns around wiping at her mouth. Mandie holds out a .09 mm handgun. Tamara shakes her head defiantly, “It can't be.”

  Mandie places the gun in Tamara's left hand, “It is.”

  Tamara's tearful eyes glance over to the scared man. Mandie backs away from the confused cheerleader. She walks
up to within two feet of the large man. She lets go. The white blood-stained sheet floats to the floor.

  “See what you did you filthy pig?!”, Mandie lashes out angrily. She slowly turns around so the man can see the lashings of switch marks across her back. The girl lost her count around thirty-something.

  Tamara stares in horror at the man-woman. Mandie regains her attention.

  “This is the second thing,” Mandie informs.

  Tamara looks at the girl's pointing fingers.

  “Say it out loud, Tamara,” Mandie demands while pointing to the words carved into her body. Tamara wipes her clouding eyes from their water.

  “Say it!”, Mandie demands with authority.

  Tamara's eyes glaze over with the rage that created them. Mandie walks around Tamara. As she passes by, the girl whispers.

  “You're welcome, Tamara.”

  The girl pauses before walking up the flight of concrete and steel. “Say it,” she orders calmly.

  “Revenge will always be mine!”, Tamara screams at the top of her lungs. She empties the .09 mm clip into the man-woman.

  * * *

  “Johnathan Taylor will always be loved,” the preacher from St. Francois First Baptist Church speaks. The short skinny man scans the solemn faces lining the pew rows of his church.

  “Johnathon will be deeply missed by everyone,” the preacher continues, “But he can never be gone from our hearts.”

  Julianna wipes her nose with the handful of tissues in her right hand. Her grandmother's arm rests around her upper-back. She can vaguely feel the woman's left hand holding her left shoulder.

  The preacher rests his palms on top of the glossy pinewood podium. His expensive black Armani suit sets the tone for the words he must speak.

  “Johnny by his friends – known as Little John by his family,” the preacher subtly nods towards the first pew row to his right.

  “He is like the brightest star in the night sky. Johnathan brought light into all of our lives. He brought light to anyone who ever had the privilege of meeting him.”

  The man faints contemplation for a moment before slowly forming a smile.

  “A light!”, the preacher exclaims before lowering his volume once again.

  “Which was so bright,” the man pauses to reverently cover his heart with one palm on top of the other. He shakes his head with his smile widening, “Which was so bright our hearts were always filled with unimaginable joy; whenever, his humble words could be heard by our ears.”

  The preacher watches the crowd's reaction. He is pleased to see some of the grieving faces react with brief knowing smiles. He moves from behind the podium. His hands fall limply to his side framing the illusion they have lost all functionality. He sighs while he pretends to be seeing through the white painted ceiling. He takes a slow deep breath through his nostrils and then exhales quickly to make it seem as if the wind has forced his lips apart.

  “The good do die young,” the preacher closes his eyes as though he is listening directly to the God of heaven. He nods and lowers his head in bowed reverence. His short white hair conveys the preacher's wisdom in these matters. He interlocks his fingers and allows his upper arms to remain limp.

  “The good die young because Satan steals their lives. That old serpent – the devil – who has come to steal, kill, and destroy,” the man declares. He animatedly releases his revered hands. The preacher's left hand forms a fist dangling to his side. His right is lifted next to his head to mimic one of those fan-foamy fingers found at some sporting events.

  “But the enemy has not won!”, the preacher shouts.

  Julianna hears some of the funeral's attendees say, “A-men.” Johnathan's family weeps three rows in front of her. His parents sit next to Johnathan's nineteen-year-old brother. She sees him wiping at the tears falling down his face. Both him and his dad are silent within their grief. Johnathan's mother, however, fills the church with her heartbreaking sobs. Her sounds of grief with the countenance of complete loss upon her face sends Julianna into another wave of her own tears.

  “He has not won because he can't win,” the preacher calms his excited voice.

  “For Johnathan Taylor already belonged to our Lord Jesus Christ. Satan stole his body from this earth. But he did not steal Johnathan away from us. He is with our Lord. He is waiting for the rest of us to make it home.”

  The preacher refolds his hands reverently, “Johnathan would want us all to remember his life. And how he lived each day with so much love and compassion for others.”

  The man's eyes drift down to the boy's mother, “Johnathan – who was never selfish. Johnathan – who was always kind. And Johnathan – who now lives with his Lord overseeing the rest of us.”

  Julianna smiles through the fog of her grief. The preacher man is absolutely correct in his description of her boyfriend, Johnathan. He did love his God very much. There's no disputing that. The boy teen used to drive her nuts with the whole salvation thing. But she loved him with all of her heart, anyway. Who cares if he wanted to believe in a human man getting crucified by the Romans as a means to eternal bliss? It made him happy. And that is what truly matters.

  Julianna, herself, never could quite believe in such a concept. To her, Jesus is a bag of goods created by men who wanted to gain control over other people. “Accept Jesus because He is the only way to heaven”, they say, “You can't get to God without first believing in a human man claiming to be sent for the redemption of everyone's sins.”

  Sure, Julianna was sort of raised in church. That is where she met Johnathan. And she did say the whole 'please come into my heart, Jesus', bit. But she never actually believed in any of it. There are just too many holes in the 'Jesus is the only way to heaven' theory.

  First off, the description of heaven is written by someone who claimed to see it through a vision. And better yet, they were abducted by a so-called angel and taken there via a separation from their physical body. Today, we call them aliens. The visions, Julianna knows is nothing more than some guy on hallucinogens of some kind. And if not, then the man was absolutely insane and needed a therapist.

  Secondly, paranormal investigators are always catching dis-embodied voices on electronic devices. Some of these voices claim to be demons. But never angels. Not once. Not ever. Yet, according to the whole Jesus story, angels used to appear all of the time.

  “Jesus, will be his name”, an angel supposedly told a fifteen-year-old virgin who is now magically pregnant by God. And although, some biblical scholars now say the Virgin Story is a misinterpretation of the actual language, the angel who popped in to announce Mary's rape is rarely disputed.

  Julianna could never believe in such a ridiculous story as this. If anything, the only part which is true, is the part where Jesus is the product of a forbidden love affair or an all out raping of a fifteen-year-old girl. Either way, Jesus is the only way to heaven, not so much.

  An angel is supposed to have appeared to a group of people to announce Jesus' birth. And angels were apparently the ones responsible for removing a big boulder away from His coffin-cave. Angels, angels, and more angels. Yet, it seems after people stopped writing scrolls, the angels stopped appearing.

  Finally, the stories of Jesus are no different than a movie made about witchcraft. In one story, He put mud on His hand, put the mud on some blind guy's eyes, spit on this dude's face, and then told him to go wash it off so he could see. If the guy were truly blind and then miraculously healed, then Jesus performed a spell involving the earth and the water from His mouth which contained salt. Classic witch-movie spell – earth, water, salt, and sometimes blood.

  The most insane part about the Christian's belief-system, is that they believe the only way to God is through a practicing witch. The same God who is also described as frying every single witch in hell.

  And it gets even better. This rape-child warlock apparently goes to hell, takes the keys of hell away from some fallen angel known as Lucifer, and strolls right back out. He then ju
mps into his rotting corpse and flies magically away into the clouds. Come on. Anyone with only a piece of their brain firing in the correct order could see through the insanity of this logic. Yet, millions upon millions of people believe that a rape victim's child warlock is their way to heaven. Johnathan was one of them. But Julianna could never fault him for believing in this nonsense. He could have believed in a magical rock as his way to enlightenment, and Julianna would have loved him no less.

  Julianna does believe in God, however. It's just not like the Christians believe. She believes God is more like a kid with an ant farm, the noon-day sun, and a magnifying glass. Piss Him off and your ass is fried. Period.

  Embrace your sexuality outside of the rules – fried. Open your mouth with vulgarity or a lie coming out of it – fried. Listen to the wrong type of music – fried. Get a divorce – fried. Practice witchcraft – fried. Unless of course, you are a rape-child warlock. Then you can walk right back out of hell anytime you choose.

  Yeah right.

  Julianna sees the truth in who God really is. Johnathan was a good guy. Correction – he was a great guy. He never hurt anyone. He only loved. And he loved her. But now he is dead. And dead is dead.

  Her boyfriend would spend his extra time doing charity work. He'd help feed people by serving them at the local food drives. Those kinds of places where you grab a plate and someone throws a turkey leg on it for you. He did everything the Christian's bible told him to do. But he did more than that. He lived the life. It was who he was. And now he is dead. Taken away from Julianna, forever.

  If God is truly all-powerful, all-present, and all-knowing...then God is evil and cruel. For Johnathan only loved Him. And where did that get him? Not in some fictional place called heaven, that's for sure. Not a fake place created by some kind of hallucinating criminal running from the police. No. Serving God only got Johnathan put in that freaking casket sitting on the stage. Johnathan spent his existence serving a God who refused to let him live past the age of sixteen. That is, if God is really an all-knowing, all-present, and all-powerful being.