Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  “Welcome back,” he smiles, seeming uncharacteristically friendly, the hand on my arm giving it a squeeze.

  Looking around, it dawns on me that I'm in a hospital room.

  Memories come back the second I search my mind, looking for reasons why I'm here. A tiny knot of terror seeds in my gut, the change in my heartbeat broadcast to him via the annoying blip on the heart monitor.

  “It's normal to fear me,” he states, acknowledging my pulse. “But know this, right now I have no reason to hurt you. Like my son I am a skilled surgeon, I saved your life, I resurrected you and recreated you whole. You are safe here, no harm can befall you unless you anger me.”

  Oh, well that makes everything just peachy. I'll be your puppet, a mindless minion, and as long as you're happy that's all that matters. My happiness can go get fucked because clearly the only person that matters in your egotistical and fucktarded head, is you.

  Look, I know humans are selfish by default. We all seek personal fulfilment and are happy to surround ourselves with people and interests which enable our indulgences and support our preferences, people who fit our world-view. But even the flawed acknowledge that not everyone wants to eat steak tartar and raw eggs, not everyone wants to be spanked before sex, not everyone likes an olive in their martini, not everyone likes to wear red. We are different and diverse, and that is our beauty, that's what makes humans endlessly entertaining and infuriating. But here, in this world, in your prison, you are the only one who counts. And in this you feel entirely justified and entitled, uncaring that it's offensive and selfish.

  He's put it on the line. I'm fucked. No matter which way I look at this, I'm screwed.

  Yet the megalomaniac has the ability to surprise, because he does, helping me sit up, unplugging the anodes from my skin and withdrawing the catheter imbedded in my arm, sealing it with a band-aid, wrapping me in a black velvet robe, helping me stand, coaxing me to the next room, forcing me to walk slowly until I'm in the space where the smell of my favourite food assaults me.

  My stomach growls loudly as I sink weakly into the chair he pulls out for me, almost giggling at the bowl of butternut ravioli in a sage and white wine creamy sauce, a margarita waiting in a cocktail glass, the entire room lit with candles. Softening the pain, helping to staunch the wound of my endlessly bleeding soul, softly dabbing at the oozing scars which riddle my heart.

  He knows my favourites, which is weird in and of itself.

  Sitting next to me, he lifts the remote next to his knife, filling the awkward silence with HIM. I know them and am familiar with the song slithering between us, The Sacrament. It's a lovely song which relaxes, it soothes.

  I haven't had a decent meal in…?

  “How long have I been here?”

  I notice I only have a spoon next to my plate, whereas he has a knife and a fork. Trust issues, huh? Paranoid is as neurotic does.

  “Seven weeks.”

  The revelation shocks me, snuffing my appetite before it can fully bloom.

  “How long was I … infirm?” I pry.

  “Long enough,” he says, reaching out again, holding my hand covered with his, in that non-invasive manner that offers comfort rather than anxiety. “Eat, I have much I want to show you and to weather it you need your strength.”

  Sipping the cold slurry of the salt laced margarita, I watch him, wondering why he dresses like an average guy when he considers himself god.

  He's certainly got confidence, he holds himself as if the world owes him a BJ, but why … why god? Why does he feel so inferior that he'd construct that kind of warped logic, to go so far as to fashion an entire environment around his delusion?

  Playing it safe, I guess I don't have to say grace if I'm 'eating with god at his table', and go for the soft target, easing into the conversation. I need to understand.

  “God, if you are god, what does that make Victor?”

  “A god. He's made in my image, he is a god in his own right. Men are made in my image, and they are gods.” He's slicing a steak so fat and rare that it's excreting blood onto the porcelain of his plate, every incision executed with deliberate cuts.

  Watching him, I note that every slice is exactly the same width as the one before it. He's precise. OCD precise.

  “And did you sanction the books and information in the bible?” I query. It's hard to make dinner conversation with 'god'. I can't ask him about work because 'he rules the universe and everything in it'. It's nuts, and I don't even know how to go there.

  “To a degree. It was once more comprehensive than it is now.” He pauses, taking a sip of red wine, staring at me with that inscrutable gaze over the rim of his crystal goblet.

  “Oh…” I lick my lips, swirling the creamy sauce around my ravioli, wishing I had the courage to just ask, but I fear retaliation if he perceives I'm undermining him.

  I'm not stupid. I know that if you intend to get through the dark you have to find a way to navigate the night.

  “Shauna?”

  Swallowing against my apprehension, I meet his perceptive gaze, “Yes?”

  “Speak. I give you permission.”

  Oh gee, thanks so much your honour.

  “Uhm… I was wondering if you put that in the bible?”

  “I did, but it was edited out of the Old Testament, yet it is still referenced in the New Testament. It says: Is it not written in your Law, I said, You are gods? So men are called gods by the Law … it cannot be set aside or cancelled or broken or annulled.”

  Leaving his cutlery propped against his dinner plate, he reaches out, holding my hand again, saying in that deep voice, “My word is law. No one has permission to undo what I have commanded.”

  Sitting back, extricating my hand, the ache is back in my chest. I know I need to eat but my appetite is crushed by grief.

  “What ails you, woman?”

  “Heartbreak. I love him and I feel abandoned … it's irrational but it's … it's …” Bowing my head, dabbing at my eyes with the napkin, I wish I didn't have to be a guest, a hostage … I wish I could just hide away to wither in private.

  “Do not grieve for my son, he is beyond this place of contradictions and hardship. If he truly loves you he will resurrect his corpse. I am god, and I am merciful. I am love as much as I am discipline. You will lack nothing if you accept supreme love over the love of my offspring. Do not provoke your lord, my ire is not a garment you wish to wear.”

  Nodding, I keep my focus on my terrine, forcing another mouthful, making myself chew, forcing myself to suffocate my humanity for the sake of his insanity.

  Reaching for the margarita I drown in tequila, relishing the chill that floods my body from the crushed ice. I never want to feel again. I want to numb myself to everything.

  Emotions are what make us human, and they are the greatest infliction we suffer. If I don't care you can't hurt me.

  If I don't care you can't hurt me.

  If I don't care you can't hurt me.

  How do you amputate your personality and depth of feeling for the sake of survival?

  He refills my cocktail glass from the shaker, and I guzzle it, needing to drown not just my sorrows, but my self.

  ~ Chapter 7 ~

  The Lord said that He would dwell in the thick darkness.

  ~ 1 Kings 8:12

  (KJVDA)

  Shauna:

  I've had too much to drink. I'm so inebriated that I'm warm, mellow, and giggly. The stilted tension slowly dissolved and oddly he's entertaining even though he's deranged.

  “Seriously, it was repulsive.” He shrugs, giving me a chagrined smirk, “What would you do if you were me? I had to choose priests just so I didn't have to smell them, having them shout fetid breath at me with their rotten teeth. They were rank, sweaty from the desert heat, and I could smell them and their decay coming, their body-odour stench was a living entity that fouled up the atmosphere. After they walked into my tent I was sick to my stomach for hours, forced to call up wind just to refresh my shitty acco
mmodations.”

  Giggling, I smile, shaking my head. I can picture it vividly.

  Companionably holding my hand, he smiles widely, “So I chose just one man to intercede for them. I shaved his hair to rid him of lice and forced him to don fresh robes and wash before coming into my home. Cleanliness is close to godliness is a phrase coined because only the clean were granted access to me. They had no concept of personal hygiene, it was something they had to be taught.”

  Shuddering at the imagery, I am so relaxed that stress is a mere memory. I find is vaguely amusing that he's taking twenty-first century credit for teaching mankind hygiene. Ha!

  His hand is big, able, neat, clean. He is so OCD that I can only imagine that being subjected to filthy people must have been torture for him. It makes me laugh out loud.

  “And they smelled offensive. There wasn't toilet paper in those days and they stank of faecal residue left to turn ripe with body heat and sweat.”

  The thought of it sours my stomach and I cover my mouth, shaking my head, “No more, I don't want to think about it because my imagination is so vivid I can smell it. It makes me feel ill.”

  Twisting onto his side, lounging on the couch next to me, resting his head on the backrest, he stares straight into me, his voice soft and intimate, “That's why I gave them manna. The dysentery was a plague in and of itself. Nothing keeps in the heat, bacteria thrives, even the water contained slime, and yet they drank it because they were ignorant. It was a lesson in patience teaching them to collect morning dew for fresh and clean liquid, and I gave them an escape from their ignorance while leading them away from the black land of Egypt.”

  “Manna?”

  He nods, reaching across me to retrieve a clay jar, unplugging the cork and shaking out a white pill. He offers it to me on his palm, “It tastes like honey, like an opiate sweet.”

  “An opiate?”

  He laughs, and it's robust and gruff, “It's a unique blend of comprehensive vitamins blended with a cocktail to make you forget your woes. The base is cornflour which is why it can be ground up and turned into flour for baking. I thought of it all when I manufactured it. I'm immensely proud of this invention.”

  Taking it, I inspect the omega symbol stamped into the top, with the word manna pressed into the underside. It looks like a headache tablet.

  Reaching over, he takes it back, “I don't want you taking it. I'd prefer you to remain pure.”

  I shrug, having no desire to sample his weird drug.

  Reclaiming my hand in his, he lifts it, kissing the back, smiling deceptively at me, “Shauna, we need to get formalities out of the way so you can settle in properly. I can't give you any freedom until you've been dedicated to me.”

  “What does that entail?” I ask, now decidedly drowsy and lethargic.

  “I need to take you down to floor three, to the temple, to bless you.”

  That sounds painless enough. If it gives me freedom then I'm all for it. Nodding, I give him an encouraging smile, “Okay.”

  Manoeuvring so he's sitting upright, he runs his fingers through his hair, looking as tired as I feel, watching me with that approachable expression, “The wall of remembrance is a little museum to my time when I began my campaign. When I chose to structure religion and dedicate a following to preserve my memory amongst the unclean and deficient. You'll enjoy the tour.”

  Taking the hand he's offering, I let him draw me up, using him to remain steady now that I'm tipsy and my hunger has been laid to rest. Sagging against the shiny wall of the elevator, I am ready for bed, and am looking forward to being shown to my room so I can just curl up while I'm in a good mood. He's done his best to distract me from my woes, and for the consideration I'm grateful.

  The doors slide open and he tugs my hand, guiding me out of the moving trap into a mysteriously lit corridor lined with doors, portraits, and plaques. He points to the door at the end of the wide passage, “We're going in the end door, I'll meet you there in a second, I just have to prepare.”

  Nodding, I watch him vanish behind a lacquered ebony door, leaving me to wander along the walkway that feels ancient, as if set in a pyramid someplace in the East. The décor here is very different to his suite; all raw sandstone, wall mounted torches, and elaborate museum pieces lining the walls as if he's a collector of rare artefacts.

  Stopping at a 'mummy' wearing a breastplate, I read the plaque, 'The ephod given to Aaron'.

  Strolling slowly, I read random plaques that catch my interest, staring at gems which are fashioned to look like dice, reading the information beneath the exquisite items, 'Urim and Thummin given to Aaron and inherited by his sons. The tribe of my priests'.

  Daring to touch them, the weight of obscure history settles like a serious mantle over my soul.

  This is his passion, this is something he's immersed himself in so thoroughly it's become his identity. This collection is extensive and must surely predate his lifetime. This is a familial crypt, heirlooms passed from generation to generation, and the value of these items and their antiquity is plain to see.

  He has a right to be proud of his acquisitions, and perhaps this is like an old family version people equate with the first freemasons. Back in the old days families took it upon their bloodline to protect secrets, to protect valuables, to hide them from the public for safekeeping and preservation. Maybe, just maybe, this is deeper than his madness. Perhaps his own childhood environment instilled in him the importance of preserving this collection and the tales that go along with them, so he'd not just be proud but consider their safeguarding a matter of personal protection. They're part of his identity as much as DNA is.

  Reaching the designated door, I look around. Standing in this hall of remembrance, I read the plaque on the door I'm about to enter:

  The Blood Covenant between the Lord God

  and the tribes of Israel:

  Exodus 29:19: Kill it and take some of its blood and put it on the right lobes of the right ears of Aaron and his sons, on the thumbs of their right hands and on the big toes of their right feet.

  Throw the rest of the blood against all four sides of the altar. Take some of the blood that is on the altar and some of the anointing oil, and sprinkle it on Aaron and his clothes and on his sons and their clothes. He and his sons and their clothes will be dedicated to me.

  Exodus 24:6: Moses took half the blood of the animals and put it in bowls, and the other half he threw against the altar. Then he took the book of the covenant, in which the Lord's commands were written… Then Moses took the blood in the bowls and threw it on the people. He said: “This is the blood that seals the covenant which the Lord made with you when he gave all these commands.”

  Dread consumes me. I had no clue that the bible I kept in the top drawer even contained these words. It reads like an evil cult, one led by a madman. This is the blood covenant? Seriously?

  A heavy hand wraps meaty fingers around my neck, and his amused tone chaffs my calm, “Go in, Shauna. It is time you were dedicated to me.”

  Dedicated? He's going to cover me in blood? Oh my god!

  He opens the door, forcefully guiding me into the interior with the hand on my nape, and I stare at a Bedouin themed room. It's like standing inside an exotic tent.

  There's a plain wooden table on which stands a huge bronze bowl, the thick aroma of blood strong in here. It smells like a slaughterhouse without refrigeration.

  Releasing me, he locks the door, pocketing the key inside the weird robe he's now wearing. His eyes are sparkly, as if he took something when he went off alone.

  Anxiety knits my blood and doom imbeds inside that unnamed region where my quintessence hides.

  “Shauna, please, sit,” he says, gesturing to the enormous den of pillows piled on the left.

  Sinking onto the nearest vividly woven cushion, I stare up at him, knowing there is no way out of this.

  “It's imperative you understand the way things work around here. To be mine means you and I share a blood covenant.
Women were created so that when they reach sexual maturity they are mine for seven days every cycle. The sign that they are mine is when blood expels from your womb, marking you as an animal in heat and at your highest fertile peak in the month. None of my people may have intercourse when a woman sheds blood, as a sign of allegiance and worship to me, but to make men holy I ordained them with blood. To mark them as mine I circumcised their genitals. Before me you are naked and there is nothing hidden from my omniscience.”

  “Uh huh,” I mumble, getting that bad mojo vibe again.

  Crouching in front of me, he rests on his haunches, holding my legs through my robe, “There is no shame in this. It's how you were created. Mankind has forgotten that all women and their children belong to me. Every life is mine, and during the days of the blood covenant a woman is my property alone. You are all mine and only I may touch you during your menses.”

  This is severely fucked up.

  “Oookay.” What do you want me to say? That I'm violently opposed to your deranged narcissism? So you have an excuse to prove your might? Na-uh, not today.

  “But initially I had to give my people a physical sign of this covenant so they'd fully comprehend that blood is the sign of life. Blood in a woman is a portent of her ability to create life and carry it to term. But the men needed to understand they belonged to me just as much as their women did. So I ordained them. That's what I intend to do with you now. I'm going to mark you as holy, as one of my tribe, as one of my people.”

  Because you need a ceremony to satisfy your delicate mind. You need allegiance and ritual to feel secure. I get it.

  So I nod, granting him permission without resistance.

  I read the plaque and I know what he's about to do.

  I've lived through worse.

  His smile is euphoric and he leans forward, planting a wet kiss on my lips, whispering excitedly, “I knew you'd understand. I just knew you would appreciate how special this is.”

  And you are so dark and deluded. Why would god, who created everything in this universe (supposedly) demand animals be slaughtered so people can bathe in blood for the glory of god. If anything, he'd be opposed to that practice, because it goes against the principles of creation, of the sanctity of life. He would be pretty fucked off by the killing of a life he created - just for the sake of the ego.