Saint Sadist

by Lucas Mangum

  “But workers, you must be purified.”

  The slide changes. The screen now shows an emaciated man with short hair and drawn features being hoisted onto a cross.

  “The Martyrdom of Saint Philip. Like Christ, he died for a cause. Too, like Christ, he was hung from the dead wood. His body, used by the Earth, though he never gets to see her. Fucked from behind. A meaningless death. Meaningless suffering.”

  He pauses and scans the audience. It’s for dramatic effect. I know this, because I’ve seen fundie preachers do it all my life, but even though I know this, it still manages to work.

  “But your suffering, your toiling and humiliation, your agony, your blood, sweat, tears, shit and piss . . . it all has meaning. And that’s all we really want, isn’t it? For our hurt to have meaning. See, life hurts, whether one is martyred or not. It’s up to you to give it meaning. You can believe it matters to some bearded man in the sky who doesn’t like it when you masturbate, or you can offer it to the true source of life, your Mother God, the Earth.

  “Now, some of you know this story, but we’ve got a new face in the audience tonight.” He gestures to me. “Everybody say ‘hi’ to Courtney.”

  Many turn to greet me. I wave at them, suddenly tingling with shyness.

  “What I’m about to recount is mostly for her benefit, but maybe hearing it a second, third, or fourth time will reenergize some of you in your faith. Now, back when I was a climate scientist, after I had yet another grant denied, I reached a breaking point. I’d never had a drink in my life up until then, but after I left the office that day, I aimed to get plastered all to hell, and I accomplished my goal with admittedly admirable gusto. Beer after beer. Whiskey shot after whiskey shot. I put them down like an old pro. I don’t remember leaving the bar that night, but I do remember what happened after. I came to at a stoplight. The signal was green and the person behind me was leaning on their horn. In a panic, I hit the accelerator much too hard. I couldn’t hold the steering wheel straight. I veered off the road and down a wooded embankment. Feeling every jolt, I begged the descent to stop. Though an atheist at the time, I prayed. I prayed to anyone who would listen. I didn’t grow up religious, so I didn’t even know to whom my prayers should be addressed.”

  Another pause. I lean forward almost involuntarily. I’ve heard so many conversion stories in my life, I can predict every beat like a dramatist picking apart a play, yet in the mouth of a master storyteller, the listener’s knowledge of the formula doesn’t matter one lick. And Ambrose is a master. He’s better than any preacher. He’s better than Daddy. I imagine him a bard in ancient times, relaying some thousand-line epic he’s somehow managed to memorize. His words have the potential to form the backbone of a new civilization.

  “So, I prayed to the Earth. I’d fought so long trying to defend her, or so I believed, I figured maybe she owed me one.” He scoffs at himself and shakes his head. “She did spare me that day, but not because she owed me. She spared me because she had something greater in mind. I was to be her prophet. I caught a glimpse of her then, oh sweet Gaia, and I emerged from the wreckage of my Prius unharmed, though shaken to my core.

  “Due to my driving under the influence, I spent some time in prison, and it was there that I received my instructions. I was to find a stretch of land and make a New Canaan. I was to preach a new gospel. The Gospel of Gaia. The Revelation of the Mother God, Earth Herself.

  “Courtney, I’m addressing you directly. You and your unborn baby were not brought here by accident. Your Mother, your true Mother, and not the one who betrayed your safety to your abusive tyrant of a father, has a purpose for you. Will you accept her calling? Will you stay with us? Will you suffer and see and be truly purified?”

  4

  THIS MOMENT IS AN ECHO. As Ambrose’s call resonates within me, I recall the first Sunday after my seventh birthday. There, too, I was directly addressed by a man giving a sermon. The logic behind it was that, having turned seven, I had reached the age of reason. It was time to choose whether or not to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. The preacher told the story of Lazarus and the rich man. He relayed that the story is not a condemnation of riches but simply an illustration that one’s status in their mortal life will not always be the same in the life hereafter. He was also careful to point out, however, that decisions made in one’s mortal life affected their station in the afterlife. Hell was very real, and if I didn’t reject my sin (which up until that point had consisted solely of being born) and call on Jesus for forgiveness, I would end up there when I died. The sermon was designed to send me running to the altar so I could receive the Lord. Instead, it sent me running for the door.

  I ran all the way home, barricaded myself in my room and counted the minutes until my parents got home. I don’t think I took a single breath from the time their car pulled in to when dad’s footsteps stopped outside my room and he demanded I open the door.

  He gave me little time to decide. Not three seconds later, he kicked the door damn near off its hinges. He stormed in and took me by the hair. He threw me face-first on the bed and yanked down my pants. He spanked my ass raw.

  The entire time, he cried that if not for the Lord Jesus, he would’ve died of alcohol poisoning somewhere on the streets before his fifteenth birthday. Died and gone to Hell, he said, had Pastor Tisdale not taken him in and shared the Gospel with him.

  When he finished and fell, out of breath, to his knees, I collapsed in front of him, a sobbing half-naked mess, and confessed Christ as my savior. I did it mainly out of vain hope I would never again suffer such a beating, that the Messiah would deliver me from this, my private Hell. Had this been God’s covenant with me that day, he never made good. It was I who freed myself. First, by using my cunt to take away my father’s power. And then by running away to start life anew.

  Here I have a chance to do so, under a new god, yes, but perhaps one I can trust. One I can feel beneath my feet always, one I can take in and out of my lungs at will. Gaia herself, sweet Mother.

  Again, I run, but this time, my path is to the altar. This time, I bow of my own free will, and receive true salvation.

  Tribulation

  1

  AFTER A MONTH OF WORKING the fields, I build up a tolerance to the aches and pains of back-breaking labor and the leftover discomfort from the accident. At four months pregnant, I’m starting to show quite a bit. I’ve got itchy skin around my tummy and tits. I get out of breath a lot easier and I’m always hungry. I vigorously rub cocoa butter on my belly to ward off the appearance of stretch marks. Despite these symptoms, I have a tremendous amount of energy and I want sex all the time. My craving for sex is different than before. Instead of wanting the control that it usually brings me, I find myself wanting to experience the closeness of sexual intimacy with another person. It’s something I’ve never really wanted, or even considered, and something I’ve certainly never had.

  Several potential candidates for partners reside in camp, but I feel the strongest attractions to Nurse Danvers with her severe demeanor and gentle touch, Ambrose with his delicate features and impassioned way of speaking, and Marley, of course. Of those three, Marley is the only one who shows any interest. I often catch her leaning on the van and gazing at me while I work, or making eyes at me across the cafeteria. I always smile and wave, but I don’t know how to initiate further interaction. Not only have I never dated anyone, it also seems like no one here is romantically involved. I wonder if there’s some rule against it.

  Nonetheless, I follow Marley to her room one night. She turns to notice me, just before she enters. She cocks her head, smiles and nods for me to come inside.

  “I was wondering when you’d come see me,” she says.

  “No one stopping you from visiting me.”

  She hums and grabs the sides of my face. Her fingers work their way into my hair. She kisses me and I tense. I’ve been kissed before but never with such softness, never with such true affection. Her tongue, while clear in its inten
tion, moves tentatively as it works open my lips. I open to receive her. She tastes like black forest cherries. I slip my arms under hers and pull her close to me. A surge of strange desperation makes me want to squeeze her tight, but I refrain, so as not to scare her off. Her mouth separates from mine and I feel a definitive void left in its wake. She takes my hand and guides me to her bed.

  “We have to be quiet,” she says. “I’m sure you know that.”

  I nod without knowing the implications, but I take her word for it.

  She sits me down and asks if she can take off my pants.

  “Yes, just—”

  “What is it?”

  “No one’s ever—”

  She smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”

  I raise my butt a few inches from the mattress so she can pull off my jeans. I help her the rest of the way by wiggling my feet out of the cuffs.

  “You okay?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Lay down.”

  I shimmy backwards on the bed and do as she tells me. She crawls between my legs and lowers her face into my sex. If the quantity of my pubic hair or the musk I’m sure I’ve attained from a day working the fields bothers her, she gives no indication. I shut my eyes and inhale a seething breath. I’m not even sure what it is she’s doing except it’s something with her tongue, and it feels amazing. An orgasm draws closer and with it, the voices return, but they don’t torment me. They speak Bible verses, the ones I read on my own, in secret, when no one was watching.

  My beloved’s hand by the hole of the door,

  My bowels were moved for her.

  Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken;

  Neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate,

  For the Lord delighteth in thee.

  I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.

  The temptation to cry out is great. I bite down hard on my lip and shut my eyes tighter as my cunt explodes with pleasure, and the waves course through my entire body, making me tremble. She reaches up and grabs my tits. I whimper.

  I am a wall, and my breasts like towers: then was I in her eyes as one that found favour.

  A second orgasm comes on the heels of the first.

  Blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.

  I used to finger myself while reading Song of Solomon, but no orgasm I gave myself came close to the two Marley has just given.

  She climbs onto the bed and pivots so we are in a sixty-nine position. Her taste is an exquisite blend of sweet and sour. She moans against me and I against her. This time, we’re headed to the brink together, inching closer and closer, pleasure like water in a kettle, building toward its boiling point.

  I would cause thee to drink

  The juice of my pomegranate.

  And I saw a new heaven and a new earth—

  The holy city, New Jerusalem—

  Behold, I make all things new.

  Revelation is coming and so are we.

  But just as we’re about to plunge over the edge, the door bangs open.

  Marley yelps and rolls off of me. I sit up. Nurse Danvers stands in the doorway. Her eyes are dark, but her mouth is smiling.

  “Well, well,” she says. “Isn’t this interesting?”

  I cover myself with the blanket.

  “Ms. Danvers, please,” Marley says.

  “You should know better, Marley.” She turns to me. “And you, Courtney. You still must be broken. I’ll have no choice but to report this to Ambrose.”

  “Please,” Marley says. “We won’t do it again.”

  The fear in her voice is contagious.

  “Ambrose will surely see to it.”

  2

  TWO WOMEN, INCLUDING THE BITCH that tried to kick me out of the room where Iscariot hanged herself, lead me naked outside across the fields in the dark. Danvers walks ahead, carrying a torch. I don’t give anyone the satisfaction of screaming or struggling. Fuck them. They don’t deserve it. I’ll find some other way out of this. I doubt they mean to kill me. Other than ending my life, there is nothing they can do to me I haven’t already done to myself.

  They take me to an old but vibrant green tree and Danvers uncoils a rope she’d hidden up her sleeve.

  “Gonna crucify me?” I ask.

  “Poor girl,” she says. “Charming to the last.”

  I spit at her and it lands on her collarbone. She clinically wipes it away.

  The two other women hold me against the tree while Danvers ties me up, my hands above me like I’m striking some kind of ballet pose. My legs are tied tightly together. Then she does something utterly strange: she licks my face.

  “This is the last time you’ll taste like this,” she says. I think she’s talking about Marley’s pussy juice, but as if reading my thoughts, she corrects me. “Unbroken flesh.”

  “I was broken a long time ago,” I say. “Your threats are—”

  She slaps me hard. Then she spits on me.

  The three women leave me tied in the dark.

  3

  AMBROSE VISITS ME AT SUNRISE. I’m thirsty. Exhaustion and pain weigh down every part of me, but I can’t collapse. I’m tied too tight, stretched too taut. When I see the cult leader approaching, I try to raise my head, but I’m too weak. I’m far from broken, which may seem inspiring, but it’s actually pretty awful: it means I’ve much more to endure.

  “This is the most beautiful you’ve ever been,” he says.

  “So let me down. You can fuck me.”

  “If you think such promises can soften my heart, you’ve learned nothing.”

  “Bullshit, Ambrose. You’re still only a man, and you know it.”

  He shakes his head and makes a tsk-tsk sound.

  “I’m no mere man. I’m a saint. I’ve purged myself of such cravings. Pleasures of the flesh don’t interest me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says, and unbuckles his belt.

  For a moment, I think I’ve gotten to him. He does plan to fuck me. Maybe after that, he’ll let me go. He slides off his belt. I lick my lips.

  “Come on. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He smirks and gives a dry laugh. He folds the belt in half, and then I realize I’ve been mistaken.

  Even though I brace for it, the first lash across my belly makes me cry out.

  “You will break, Courtney. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He strikes me again. This time, it’s across my tits. Again, I’m helpless to contain my outcry.

  The third lash lands across my ribs.

  I think three will be it. Three is sacred to religious weirdoes. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll stop.

  He doesn’t. He whips me again and again. The strikes come so quickly I can’t catch enough breath to scream between them. The pain is so exquisite I think I’ll give birth right there, shitting out a premature baby boy, squealing with feeble lungs and choking on amniotic fluid. I lose count of how many times he hits me. He’s tireless. I can’t believe his stamina. He could probably fuck for hours. I don’t know how long this punishment goes on, but when he does finish, winded and soaked in sweat, I try to scream again, but I can’t quite gather the strength.

  I don’t know how long Nurse Danvers has been standing there, but she’s got a canteen, and taking a fistful of my hair, she tilts back my head. Thankfully, it’s only water she gives me. When she stops pouring, I gasp and feel a sense of loss I imagine one feels when someone close to them has died. My mouth works, trying to beg for more.

  “If you drink anymore, you’ll likely vomit,” Ambrose says. “We’ll give you more later on. As I’m sure Nurse Danvers has mentioned, we’ve no intention of letting you die. We only wish for you to break.”

  “I’m broken,” I manage to say.

  He smirks again and shakes his head. “Not yet. And don’t be afraid. Breaking is not the nightmarish thing you might expe
ct. When it’s all over, you’ll see the face of God, your true Mother: Gaia.”

  “Fuck your hippie bullshit,” I say.

  I expect him to hit me again, but instead his smile widens. “I really like you, kid. You remind me of myself. There is no shame in breaking, nor is there shame in resistance. It’s all part of the process.”

  I’m scared, but don’t show him. It’s not myself I fear for. I worry about losing the baby. That would break me instantly, and I doubt I’d see any god after that. So long as my baby is safe, I will resist. He’ll have no choice but to kill me or free me. I doubt he’ll kill me.

  But what about Lady Iscariot?

  I tell myself her death truly was a suicide. There was nothing malicious behind it.

  But deep down, I know that’s not true. Something happened with her. Something Ambrose deemed unforgivable, so he had her killed. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

  I won’t break.

  They leave me tied as the rising sun fills the sky with blood orange fire.

  4

  MARLEY COMES TO VISIT ME at midday. The sound of her approaching footsteps draws me out of a semiconscious state. I can’t lift my head all the way up, but I can move my eyes so I can get a look at her. My skin feels hot, I’m sure I’ve been sunburned. I’m thirsty as hell again. Hungry, too. If they don’t plan on letting me die, they better take me down from here soon.

  “I’m not supposed to come see you, but I had to,” Marley says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I can’t respond. Too tired.

  “I didn’t intend for us to get caught. I . . . really do have feelings for you.”

  She pauses and waits for a response. She glances around. I want to cry for her help. I want to ask her to help me get down. Most of all, I want to ask her if they punished her at all. It’s not that I want to see her suffer like me. It’s just if she does suffer for our deed, it would mean she’s an ally. If she remains unscathed, then it’s safe to assume she’s more invested in this cult than I thought.