Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  I can thank Catholic school for forcing me to read obscure and irrelevant bullshit, but I know this much; Rephaim means 'the dead ones'. Apt.

  You're beautiful, and as empty as a hollowed out husk after the weevils have binged. You're a void. You're gorgeous yet you're deader than the dude they nailed to a crucifix.

  If he wasn't a crazed fanatic he'd be perfect. He's a walking wet dream, his package the kind that inspires lust just by filling focus with toned, taut, muscular. Even his voice is seductive. He's perfect for baiting stupid women.

  I am firmly marked up in the terminally stupid column.

  But I'm not completely idiotic. If he wants to 'be friends' I'll play that card for every cent in the karma jar.

  Smiling, fighting the tightening of apprehension in my gut, I accept his proffered hand, letting him help me up for our 'little one on one time'.

  Well maybe he is built like an angel – all over. One on one time alludes to doing the dirty. The pious sure like to live up to their reputation of fornicating with anything that owns legs.

  I have legs... it's a given, right?

  Guided with his hand in mine, he leads me out of the decrepit stone cell into a weakly lit corridor. Bare bulbs hang way up high, adding their sleazy ambiance to the maleficent crypt.

  Long legs in black jeans stride next to mine, while my state of undress gnaws at my composure. He wants me to feel victimized and vulnerable. This is all about his power and my perception of it.

  I've read books with men like him as the main character, and it usually involves bondage. The irony isn't lost on me. I guess where there's a stereotype there's a grain of truth.

  “Where are we?” I ask, breaking the oppressive silence punctuated with his echoing footsteps.

  I'm barefoot and at a clear disadvantage.

  “The new Jerusalem,” he says, glancing down at me with a happy expression, banishing my logic with his killer good looks.

  Right... so he took all the sweeties in the medicine cabinet and is gaily frolicking down the rabbit hole.

  “Oh,” I mumble, choosing silence over small talk. This dude is way weird. He's got a severe case of the insanity virus. He's hoping it's contagious.

  I'm guided into a plush lounge, over warm and springy carpet, down more stone steps, to a narrow corridor. He pushes me ahead of him, “Ladies first.”

  Anxiety mushrooms, cold perspiration beginning to accumulate in my nape. I have no choice. I don't want to fuck up my only chance of escape by being petulant.

  Here goes nothing.

  Graciously inclining my head to acknowledge his chivalry, I walk on, the cold stone numbing my toes, the dusty floor making every step gritty and icky. He has a weakness, housekeeping. Funny, I have the same shortcoming.

  Emerging at the end of the claustrophobic passage into a boiler room, my sixth sense explodes in dire defense mode. This is way off. The recollection of my dunking in his holy water comes on strong, and I twist to face him with my insides heaving.

  I'm so afraid now I'm having difficulty breathing.

  He gestures to a ladder backed chair, “Have a seat.”

  I look at it, then back to him, “I'd prefer to stand.”

  It makes running and fighting a shit load more accessible.

  “Julie, do not insult my intelligence. Sit down, girl.”

  The coaxing persuasion has left his tone, leaving it coarse and menacing.

  Shit.

  Inhaling, my limbs becoming viscous with fear, I take the three steps, perching on the edge of the chair, looking up at my abductor.

  There has to be a way out of this. I fervently wish I'd spent more time watching the crime channel instead of reruns of True Blood.

  He paces, his jaw muscle twitching while he muses over whatever issue is chewing his addled mind. Reaching a decision, he stops, clasping his hands behind his back, staring down at me with hair as long as a hippie's, trailing to his waist.

  “For starters, I would prefer you call me Father, or Preacher John.”

  I nod. I can do that. I'll leave the cussing censored for his ego's benefit. “Okay.”

  Hemming me in, he squats to his haunches, clasping my knees and staring me in the eye, “Julie, God's ways are not the ways of man. His methods come from heaven, and I need you to understand that in heaven there is a definite hierarchy system. It's a pyramid where everyone answers to their superior, and in turn they each answer to their superiors, leading all the way up to the Most High glory of the trinity.”

  “I know, I've been to church Preacher John. I know how it works.”

  Smiling unexpectedly, he looks like I just showed him a copy of Star Wars signed by George Lucas himself. Ecstatic barely scratches the surface.

  “I knew you were chosen by him. He clearly knew what I could not. This is an excellent revelation, Julie. Then you'll understand why I have to mark you as one of his tribe.”

  “Uh... what?” Mark me? Like how?

  “The righteous wear God's mark, on their right sides–”

  “I know they do preacher, but that's after we die,” I object, alarm throwing armed grenades into my stomach.

  “Julie, during the rapture we do not need to die to ascend to his glory. You have been chosen to receive it now,” he says, reaching out and holding my face in that passive aggressive thing he does.

  Fuck!!

  Reaching behind, he pulls a thick leather strap out of his back pocket. “You're going to need this.”

  Before I have a chance to process this, to react, he's moved with the speed of Neo inside the matrix, his hold on my head brutal, the revulsive strap locked hard up to my jaw, distorting my mouth when a metallic buckle tinkles its mocking mantra against my skull.

  He catches strands of my hair when he secures it, the tension so tight it's an improvised torture device. His chest is hard up in my face, forcing me to lean into the chair's unforgiving wood, and despite slinking to escape through his legs he catches my left wrist, securing it just as fast with another strap from his Mary Poppins back pocket.

  Slamming me to the back of the chair with a harsh grip on my throat, his breathing comes in excited gasps, hissing at me with lunacy dilating his pupils, “You understand the word and grace of our merciful god. Baby girl, trust me, this is so you will be absolved and ready to receive his glory.”

  Zip-ties manifest from every pocket, securing me to the death chair in a matter of seconds.

  Fuck ... oh my fucking shit.

  Spasms of terror convulse my body, my leg jittering compulsively, the knock of my heel on the floor enough to unhinge my precarious grip on control. I'm going to piss myself right here.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, siphoning air in wild suction, my chest heaving with stressful exertion, the fresh grip on my upper arm snaps my eyes wide.

  Staring up because I can't move my head, I flinch at the presence of the glowing iron, the tip white hot and so close to my skin I emit a muffled shriek of panic.

  Preacher boy smiles, licking his lips with blatant desire when he says, “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. [Luke 3:16] For indeed our God is a consuming fire. [Heb 12:29].”

  Resting a heavy hand on the crown of my head, his voice rises in demented fervor, “Fire purifies you of your sins and frees you from Satan's hold. You are dead to the Father until I resurrect you by cleansing you in accordance to his commands.”

  Trying to shake my head, hot tears dribble a sting down my cheeks; I'm agitating and squirming to evade the inevitable.

  He shakes his head, beautiful brown eyes narrowing to skewer me with disapproval, “Julie, my sweet shugah, do not resist. That is the evil in your body struggling. Hush child, soon you will be delivered from this infestation of evil.”

  Whimpering in an endless litany of panicked shrieks, the madman continues his sermon, the tip of the fire-iron the only object of my neurosis.

  “For if he were not expecting that those who had fallen would rise again, it would have been su
perfluous and foolish to pray for the dead... Therefore he made atonement for the dead, that they might be delivered from their sin.” [2 Maccabees 12:44]

  The number and symbol press to my skin with such diabolical speed that despite the forewarning nothing prepares me for the incinerating agony. Flesh blisters, saturating the air with sizzled skin, burnt hair, my bladder opening, my body convulsing, seizures abolishing my muscle control with seismic violence, banishing all awareness. Fire floods my blood, the throb so vicious and excruciating I am outside myself and simultaneously inside, suffering an endless orgasm of scalding agony. It ebbs up and down and up and down in merciless lava, roasting and scorching, cauterizing my neurons, reducing coherence to a pinpoint of savage existence.

  “Almighty Father, deliver this child from evil...” bellows over the ricocheting scream.

  I'm screeching, I can't see, I can just hear my anguish as if astral surfing in another galaxy. My primeval howl is the sound of a soul amputated, a spirit cleaved, permanently disfigured.

  My final breath is stolen by a hot mouth smothering the air from my lungs, separating me from oxygen when he shoves his tongue in my mouth, giving me his corrupt Judas kiss.

  “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away,” whispers in my ear. [Revelation 21:1-4]

  The straps release, leaving me to slip brokenly to the floor, the pulsating agony in my arm all consuming.

  The hand that punishes and delivers pain thumbs away my tears, his jubilance blatant, his nefarious voice distorting, “Now I will bless you, for the seeds of the lord only fall on fertile soil. I have cut out the evil at the root and now it is time I bestowed on you the holy seed of God.”

  The fist of pain becomes the hand of shame ... my state of undress all too clear now that I am helpless, suspended inside my excruciating torment.

  Weak, traumatized, the hand on my throat holds me down on grime while the 'savior' defiles … raping my dignity … contaminating my soul with his.

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief

  ~ Isaiah 53:10

  Preacher John:

  I miss my savior, the one who came before me and who died when he was only thirty-three. I baptized our brethren at his command, I followed his teachings, I sat at his feet in awe of his passion and conviction. It is my memory of Victor that gives me strength to continue, knowing that one day I will rejoin him in a realm of everlasting love.

  Staring at the images flashing like the eyes of a fly of the chosen seventy-two, I am elated that my humble parish houses the same number that Christ chose to go forth and spread his good news, the same number of wise men who lead the tribes of Israel with the Sanhedrin. It is a portent of great blessings ready to rain forth from our Father.

  Fidgeting, waiting for his call, I stare at the phone, wishing we spent more time in brotherhood than in saving souls. It's selfish I know, and I'm sure God will smite me for even thinking it, but I miss my brethren. I miss the leather and the exorcisms.

  The digital bleep announces God is calling and I snatch it up on the first ring, slipping off the chair and to my knees, bowing my head respectfully for when the Almighty Alpha speaks.

  “Yes Father?”

  “Anoki. I've been watching you, John. What I see displeases me greatly.”

  Clenching my hand until my knuckles ache, I stare at the floor, worry filling my eyes with tearful shame, “I beg your forgiveness, Father. I am weak without the savior to guide me.”

  “He was the first Omega, and he was never weak. Your reservoir is full, the cup is overflowing, you have an unsanctioned number of sheep in your flock.”

  “The virgins will be sacrificed, it is only temporary–”

  “John, it is I, your God speaking. Do not interrupt me boy.”

  “Yessss f-father,” I whisper, bending to rest my forehead on the floor, prostrate in my contrition, cold sweat festering in my armpits, the fear of his ire jarring my hold with tremors.

  “You have failed me, John. What happens when you fail me?”

  “Father, how have I failed? I spend every minute of every day in your service, I do only as you command–”

  “You have overstepped your authority, boy. I gave you laws and commandments, and yet you desecrate my house with unclean sinners and undisciplined flesh.”

  “F-father, please. I beseech your mercy, please Father, listen to me. Take my confession, forgive me, grant me penance – they are temporary. They will be disciplined and sanctified before they die. I would never lie to you Father for you know all my sins–”

  “Yes I do, and I see lust manifesting in you boy. He who falls victim to the sins of the flesh is no longer my child, no longer one of my chosen people...”

  He heard my thoughts, he knew I was wishing Victor was still here, he knows I am dissatisfied... oh God, he's going to smite me. He is, I can hear it in his voice.

  “John, open the door. Your God is here. He will reclaim his temple and banish the temptation luring you.”

  Dread floods my legs, weakening my muscles, turning sinew to useless string, and it takes a mammoth effort to push up off the floor, all the blood in my head, the veins pounding in my temples.

  “Yes Father,” I whisper, dropping the phone, sucking in a wounded sob. Shoving my knuckles hard against my lips, desperation seizes me. I wish he'd let me beg for forgiveness.

  He is here.

  Trepidation weights my thighs as I press the buzzer, disengaging lockdown, popping the door open to our Alpha, our God.

  Slumping to my knees, head bowed, I wait; clenching my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. Crippled by the incoming condemnation, I ride the seizures flexing my muscles with the apprehension of my doom, convulsions rattling my prone spine while I listen to the confident footsteps echo up the stairwell; hard boot heels pounding on the metal grid.

  “Father forgive me, forgive me... oh God please forgive me...” I pray, absently rocking, my intestines oscillating with such turmoil bile burns up the back of my throat.

  The black boots of our brotherhood halt in front of my knees, their presence are all I can see this close to the floor, his hand claiming my head, his harsh voice spitting, “John, temptation visits you because you are weak. Are you weak, boy?”

  “Yesss f-father.”

  “Must I punish you for your weakness?”

  “Y-yes.” Oh God, have mercy on my soul.

  “The devil likes to tempt the chosen. You are my son, Victor's first disciple, you have a target on your heart. Evil must be exorcised. Yes?”

  “Amen, Father. Praise be your name.” The jitters grow so violent that I am shivering like an addict before my Lord.

  “Go to the chamber. Remove your clothes, lie down and wait for me. I will forgive you your sins after I have punished you for your shame.”

  “H-how?”

  “Do you resist my love, John?” he says, his tone sharper than razor-wire.

  “N-no Father, I just...”

  “The punishment for sinning is to rid your body of hair. You know the law, boy. Get the wax ready, I will be there shortly.”

  “Y-y...es F-father,” my baritone cracks, husky and shaking.

  Weak and dizzy with panic, I kiss his dusty boot. Clinging to his ankles with both hands I rest my nose on the floor, tears falling and blinding me, pleading for mercy, “Please Father, f-forgive me. I'm s-sorry–”

  “I will, son. I will. Now go, be naked before your God so he can remove your sins.”

  I have no words, terror the size of a meteor is lodged in my throat, the turmoil shriveling my gonads up to my stomach.

  The wax, fuck.... the wax... oh sweet Victor, have mercy on me brother. Deliver me, please deliver me from the pain about to befall my weak flesh.

  It takes all of my courage to walk the steps to the tribulation table, to strip down to nothi
ng but my skin, vividly reliving the first time God took my hair. I was only twelve and it was painful enough then, now I have chest hair, my legs are a man's, I have matured and this is going to devastate me.

  Setting the pot of wax on the portable gas, I look into it until it bubbles, fostering alarm as it becomes viscous and clear. It is that clarity my mind lacks. How did I let my vision solidify like cold honey that I could not foresee how I was invoking my Alpha's ire? I have failed. I am an oozing boil on the body of Christ... a shame to my brotherhood.

  Stretching out on the cold metal table, clenching fists, I have to get through this. The alternative is a sentence I'm not ready for yet. God burned them to death out in the desert; he murdered his high priest because he was provoked to anger.

  Twitching from nerves and the frigid metal surface, his voice reaches me from the doorway, “I remind you John, of what happened to my priests. Moses and his brother didn't heed my instructions, and I said unto them, 'Aaron is not going to enter the promised land, he is going to die because the two of you rebelled against my command at Meribah. Take Aaron and his son Eleazar up Mount Hor and there remove Aaron's priestly robes, put them on Eleazar'; and there on top of the mountain Aaron died.”

  Looking up at the man now looming over me, wearing his holy leathers of retribution, my heart blasphemes against my God because it is pumping so hard it feels like my chest is a voodoo drum at the pinnacle of the sacrificial ritual.

  His tone is garbled through the slit for his mouth, terrifying the bejebus out of me, “John, need I remind you what happened to Aaron's sons when they presented me with a fire offering I hadn't commanded? I burned them. They went beyond the limits of their authority, thinking they had autonomy because I ordained them all with blood on their right ears, hands, and feet. You try my patience, boy. So tell me, do I sanctify you by removing your hair for your punition, or do I smite you so there will be no more rebellion?”