by Lucas Mangum
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“We’re helping you break.”
“So, what the fuck does that have to do with her?”
Ambrose holds the knife to her throat.
“Since it’s obvious there is little we can do to you that can cause you to break, we figured maybe you would break for the sake of a friend.”
“What do you even mean by ‘break?’ I’ve offered you everything.”
“And yet you haven’t seen the face of Mother God.”
“How do you know what I have and haven’t seen?”
“I know a lot about you. Surely you know this by now.” He moves the knife across Marley’s throat, caressing the skin with its cool edge, not yet penetrating skin. “I know when someone has truly broken. It’s in their eyes, in the way they move.”
“Leave her out of this. She’s already devoted to your fucked-up cause. Please.”
“Yes, about that. Even I can sometimes be deceived.” He rears back with the knife, aims its point to her heart.
“But she broke! She told me she broke!”
“And that makes her an even worse type of sinner. She has seen, and yet she refuses devotion.”
“She does everything you ask.”
“Except she led you into her bedroom.”
“That was on me. Don’t blame her for that.”
He brings the knife back to her throat.
“You won’t kill her,” Danvers speaks up. “You mustn’t.”
Ambrose glares at the nurse. Danvers holds his gaze.
“It isn’t right,” she says.
“Heretics must be punished.”
“So kill me,” I say. “Let her go and kill me.”
The offer of self-sacrifice escapes my lips without me even thinking about it, and once I have spoken it, I’m surprised with myself. Save for that bird in my window and the baby in my womb, I’ve never given much thought to another being’s life. But Marley was kind to me. However brief our relationship, she taught me about a sort of love I never expected to feel.
“Please let her go,” I say.
“There must be another way,” Nurse Danvers says.
Ambrose glances from me to her. His face is a mask of pure rage. He turns back to Marley and slashes her lovely throat.
I scream in protest and try to break free from the arms holding me. Danvers rushes to Marley’s aid, but Ambrose shoves her to the ground. All the while, my lover bleeds, a crimson waterfall running down her slim torso, spilling down her legs, soaking into the earth.
I don’t stop screaming until Ambrose punches me in the face, and I go dark.
4
WHEN I FIRST COME TO, I’m blessed with the brief state of ignorance one always enjoys upon waking. But then I remember, and it’s as if someone has hollowed out my chest with an ice cream scooper. I’m weighed down by grief. I lack the strength to scream or cry or even move. I’m broken beyond my limits, but I wonder (more like doubt) if I’m broken by Ambrose’s standards. He’s a monster, a sadistic saint.
Saint Sadist.
With great effort, I roll onto my side and hug my knees to my chest. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could die. I wish Marley hadn’t died.
I need to leave.
The fact comes to me in such a frank manner, which is all the more frustrating when I consider leaving is likely impossible. How can I possibly escape when my door is guarded? When I’m as beat up as I am? No, I fear I’m doomed to endure their torment until my body just surrenders.
Or sees the face of God.
Yeah, fat fucking chance.
My gaze drifts to the rafters on the ceiling. I remember the hanged woman. I stare for a long time. Then I sit up and clutch the sheet in my fists.
This is the only escape.
One hand goes to my belly.
I’m sorry, baby.
I stand up, sheet in hand, and reach for the rafters.
As I’m tying the sheet, I hear voices outside my door. Though I can’t make them out, the sound of them sends me back down to a seated position, taking the sheet with me. I watch the door. Two sets of footsteps walk away. The doorknob jiggles then turns.
Nurse Danvers enters. We stare each other down. When the door shuts behind her, I spot what’s in her hand: a metal coat hanger. I cringe and back away.
She’s going to abort my fucking kid. That’s their last desperate attempt to break me, whatever the fuck that even means.
“Please don’t! Oh my God! Please. I’m broken! I’m broken! Please, no! Not my baby!” The words shoot from my lips rapid fire, instinctually. I shriek variations on these pleas over and over, crawling backwards onto the bed and wrapping myself in the sheet, pressing myself against the wall and wailing at Danvers to leave.
She looks down as if noticing what she’s holding for the first time. She tosses the hanger to the floor.
“You need to do exactly as I say,” she says.
I watch her, not for instruction, but to try and figure her out.
“Get dressed,” she says. “You’re getting out of here.”
My lips tremble before I finally say, “What?”
“You heard what I said. Ambrose went much too far today. God knows what else he’s capable of. He’s obsessed with you, God knows why. I’m getting you out of here. Tonight.”
“Okay.” The word comes out slow, an uncertain drawl. Then something snaps inside me, and that near-paralyzing grief that made every move so sluggish, except for the act of making a noose, finally lifts. I dress in a hurry.
“Now, take my hand, and speak no more until we’re outside,” she says.
I follow her orders and we leave my room.
5
THE JOURNEY TO EXIT THE building is painfully slow. We move on our tiptoes in utter silence. At any moment, I expect a door to swing open and Ambrose himself to block our path, that bloody knife in one hand and Marley’s severed head in the other, the eyes open and accusing me, justifiably blaming me for her violent and unnecessary death. Pain flares throughout my body and questions race through my mind. Though Danvers gave somewhat of an explanation, I find it all so hard to believe. She’s been so dutiful to Ambrose my entire time here. Was it really the death of Marley that had pushed her over the edge? Was that all it took or was there a series of events of which Marley’s murder had been the final straw?
Ten paces from the exit, that bitch from Lady Iscariot’s room steps into our path, pointing a finger in our direction with her face twisted into pure rage. I don’t even know her fucking name, yet she’s hated me from day one, been present for every moment of my torment and loved every last blood-soaked bit of it.
“Where are you taking her?” she asks Nurse Danvers.
“Out to the tree, of course.”
“Why wasn’t I invited?”
Invited. As if hanging me from the tree is some kind of party!
“I didn’t want to wake you, Sister.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change. “Does Ambrose know about this?”
“Of course he does.”
The woman narrows her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“I believe that’s your problem.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Go right ahead.”
The woman balls her hands into fists at her sides. She trembles. I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She wants to say more, but I get the impression Nurse Danvers outranks her somehow. This is confirmed when the woman steps aside. We go out the door hand in hand.
She takes me to the van (Marley’s van), and opens the door.
“Climb in,” she says.
“Are you coming with me?”
For the first time since first laying my eyes on her, her expression betrays uncertainty.
“I can’t,” she says.
“Yeah, well, I can’t drive, so what now?”
Her features tighten.
“Get in,” she says.
I climb into the driver’s seat.
She points out what I need to do. It seems simple enough. She says I’m lucky it’s an automatic.
“Well, thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it.” All of a sudden she seems very sad and very old. “I fear Ambrose has lost his way, and I’m not sure how much longer our little paradise can sustain itself.”
“So come with me.”
She shakes her head. “I made a promise. I’ll go down with this ship, even if it means I must burn.”
I try to wrap my head around her logic. When I find I can’t, I nod and say, “Suit yourself.”
“Where will you go?” she asks.
“Anywhere but here.”
She nods. “May Gaia protect you.”
I grimace and shut the door. Something dawns on me.
“Where’s my money?”
“Back seat.”
I look behind me and see my backpack. I reach inside and make sure the money’s all there. It is.
“Thanks again.”
I reverse and turn so the front of the van is pointed toward the road leading out. It’s easier than I thought it’d be, almost as if something is guiding me. Danvers’ question echoes in my mind.
Where will you go?
I decide to head to the only other place I know. I decide to go back home.
Prodigal
1
I DRIVE THROUGH THE NIGHT and most of the morning. Everything hurts and I’m so goddamn tired, but I keep going. I stop for gas only once. When I reach home, I park at the end of the driveway and stare ahead. The house looms at the opposite end of the path. More than The Bad Place, it’s the Big Bad itself, a living and breathing entity that feasts on oppression and suffering. My suffering. My family’s. Even my father, the agent of this horrible, hungry creature.
How the hell did I end up back here? Home. Where all the fucking hurt is. The place I took great pains to escape. Maybe this is some sort of cyclical hell, and I’m doomed to put myself in perpetual danger. Myself and my child. I am truly a doomed soul. Beyond redemption.
Despite my misgivings and fears, I drive forward and stop in front of the house. I get out of the van, each step shaky and uncertain. I shuffle up to the front door and lift my hand to knock. I keep it suspended in the air. It trembles like the rest of me. My baby kicks. Daddy’s baby kicks. I shut my eyes and take a breath. Then I open them and knock. Every passing second as I wait, my heart feels like it’s about to explode through my chest, spraying blood and rib bones and chunks of muscle against the door to Daddy’s house.
It’s him that opens the door. He stands before me and doesn’t say a word. His jaw is set tight. His eyes are wet either from alcohol or tears. I don’t know what he’s going to do next. I don’t know what I’m going to do next. It’s as if we’re both puppets, controlled by the hands of a drunken master, subjects to their whims, no matter how illogical or dangerous. His gaze lowers to my baby bump and his eyes widen. He reaches out and I don’t cringe as he presses his hand against skin containing our child. The gentleness of his touch is unlike any I’ve ever known him to show in all the years I’ve known him. It’s the sort of touch I imagined a father should bestow upon his daughter, even under the perverse circumstances that cause the touch to take place. Our eyes meet and then, without me giving it any more thought, I fall to my knees at his feet and wrap my arms around his calves. It’s like Mary Magdalene at the feet of Christ, and I do cry, the tears falling on his bare, hairy toes like sparse drops of rain.
He reaches down, grabs me under the arms, and lifts me to my feet. We stare into each other’s eyes again and then we embrace. I am defeated, therefore home, no matter how depraved, is my only refuge.
I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry.
Over his shoulder, I see my mother walk up behind him. Her eyes are wide, unbelieving. Her lips are parted. Her body slumps and I think she’s about to faint.
“Courtney?” she says, lips trembling. “You’re home?”
I press my lips together and nod. She joins the embrace. The family is back together and I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
There are no beatings. There are no sexual advances. Instead, my parents lead me to my room and tell me to get some sleep. And even though I can’t believe it, I actually do slip into the thing I’ve not experienced in what feels like years: real sleep, not merely the bone-deep exhaustion pulling me under into fitful blackness broken by troubled dreams.
2
FOR A WHILE, THINGS RETURN to normal. Well, better than normal, I’d go as far to say. Daddy doesn’t beat me. He doesn’t try to fuck me. Momma doesn’t seem so afraid of everything. I wonder what changed while I was gone. I wonder what changes came about on account of my return. We eat meals together like a family. We sit around the television and watch dumb reality shows. We go into town for food and other provisions. No one speaks of anything. No one even mentions the baby, at least not directly. Momma sometimes makes references to my delicate condition.
It should all be more than a little disgusting, considering our history, but it actually feels kind of nice. Despite everything, I come to feel glad that I’m home.
Really, for the first time.
That’s all before the angel starts visiting me.
It’s the angel who fell from the sky during my vision from the road.
And it speaks.
3
THE MESSAGE ISN’T ABOUT MY parents. It’s not about my baby. It’s about Ambrose. Saint Sadist. The monster horrible enough to send me running back home.
Usually, in my visions, the beings that appear to me don’t speak or, if they do, I don’t hear them. But this angel speaks, and I hear it loud and clear.
“You have to go back,” it says. “Ambrose has lost his way.”
I try to speak; I have so many questions, but I can give voice to none of them.
“You don’t need to speak,” the angel says. “I know everything you’re thinking.”
Despite the angel’s words, I try to move my lips. I don’t like that I can’t.
“Your speech will return in time, but in the presence of holiness you will be mute.” The angel draws closer to me and I feel something strange come over me. I’m not quite cold, not quite hot. I’m warm, but covered in gooseflesh. My pain is gone and my child is caressing me from the inside, creating sensations in my belly unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, something alien and wonderful. Better than divine. To call it divine cheapens it. The word divine, any word, cheapens the presence and nature of God. Reduces it to something oversimplified and all too human. Broken and hurtful.
I expect guilt over bringing the baby back home to wash over me now, but instead, I experience a strange peace of knowing. I did what I had to do. Besides, Daddy seems okay now, and even if he isn’t, I can always leave again. The world is at my feet. My baby will see the face of God. I will see the face of God.
“You will,” the angel says. “However, you won’t see it here. You must go. Ambrose has lost his way. You are the future of The Homestead. Through you, others will see the face of God, not through that murdering heretic.
“Killing Marley was unforgivable. She must not go unavenged.”
You want me to kill him?
“Yes, you must kill him. You must make him pay for his sins. The wage of his sin will be death, there will be no holy blood to spill in his place, and you must be the avenging angel. You must take his head.”
The angel produces a curved, golden blade and holds its handle out to me.
“With this.”
I’ve never killed before.
“That doesn’t matter. Everyone has the killer instinct inside of them. You know you have it. You’ve felt it before.”
I remember Simon in the hotel, me prepared to stick his switchblade into his jugular. I think of Marley, killing to protect her former lover.
“The only thing that held you back was the possibility of inconvenience, of entanglements with the law. Otherwise, you’d have killed him without a second
thought. Ambrose has hurt you far more than he did.”
The angel is right. I hate admitting anyone is right. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for me, with my own hands. I am the hero of my own story, my own messiah.
“This is true,” the angel says. “This, too, will be for you, for truly, I tell you this, you were meant for much greater than to raise your incestuous child in the same walls where you lived your childhood torment.
“You are the Goddess. You are the Gateway.”
It steps closer with the blade, pressing the handle into my hand. I close my fingers around it, and supernatural energy pulses through me, something that makes me believe that even after the angel departs, I will feel no pain.
When I wake, the angel is indeed gone, but the blade remains in my hand. And the pain, the pain has stopped altogether. It’s not even an echo. It’s as if I’ve never felt it at all. A miracle healing has taken place, the work of an angel, an angel that could have come from no other heaven but the one burning inside of me.
I am the Goddess. I am the Gateway. Through me, the others will see the face of God. Ambrose will pay for what he did to me, and unless the others repent, so will they.
I tighten my grip on the hilt of the blade and rise to my feet.
Daddy’s favorite.
Little girl no more.
Harlot rising from bloody sheets.
Harlot turned prophetess whore.
Turned avenging angel.
Turned Goddess and Gateway.
For the second time in my life, I’ll run away from home. This time, I won’t come back.
My parents can’t pretend the horrible things they did or didn’t do to me never occurred.
I must leave them. Yet when I reach the front door, something stops me: a paralyzing sense of panic that arises in direct conflict with the confident voice that spoke so recently in me. It surprises me. I’ve wanted to leave home for as long as I can remember. For a while, I did manage to stay away, but I returned, and now, now something powerful is stopping me from leaving again. Some subconscious apprehension holds me in place. Despite the strength of this apprehension, I can’t believe it. Why would I want to stay when this place and the people within it have caused me so much pain? I’m completely torn. My hand grips the doorknob even as I fall to my knees. I can’t bring myself to turn the knob or stand, yet kneeling on the floor of this house fills my belly with a ball of dread.
