by Poppet
Seth:
Months pass so fast in this place. I'm worked to the bone at the clinic, with the long hours because I do everything, including waste management.
Every day I fear leaving her alone, I fear I'll come back to a corpse who committed suicide ten minutes after my departure, so that when I return she'll be cold and the baby will be dead.
I'm going to be a father! The jubilation at such an achievement is marred by her misery, her lack of conversation.
She's like a ghost haunting my bed. She walks, sits, lies, eats, but she doesn't engage. If she isn't given instructions all she does is sit on the floor. She refuses to sit on a chair, believing heart and soul she must be like a dog who is worthy only to lie at my feet.
If only she knew that any dog who is loved wants to climb into your lap and lick your face. Love. She can't feel it. It doesn't penetrate the cage around her mind. Even in bed she curls up at my feet, because Ruth did it when she was told to get a new husband after hers died. Shauna embodies the customs of slavery, behaving as my Old Testament servant. It's freaking me the hell out! I'm not a psychologist and don't know what to do.
Alpha leaves for weeks at a time and that's the only period when I know she'll not be harmed in my absence. He came back with a young blonde thing who he put into storage for conditioning. He trains the new disciples with the kidnapped women held in the bottom three levels of the compound.
I have no access to those levels but my imagination runs riot at how many abducted women are imprisoned down there, awaiting pregnancy, being tortured and resurrected, operated on over and over while the new surgeons hone their skills, tutored by my father.
Down there all they'll hear day in and day out are the recordings of verses reinforcing subjugation, ruin …
God kidnapped virgins in every territory he took the Israelites through. He murdered anyone not of the tribe unless he could use the bodies to grow his legion and influence. Female slavery is his M.O. Female equality was abolished on his rampage. But when it comes to dad I use 'his' figuratively. I'm under no illusion, I know my father is insane. He is the Hitler of the modern era, and the genius of his madness is that no one even knows he's behind this clandestine army and the havoc it wreaks.
The smallest tribe, the tiniest nation of an ancient world, its mad how god now rules the earth, and has for centuries. It's amazing what violence can accomplish.
But what worries me personally is not the global state of emergency, of spiritual deformity now considered redemption and salvation, but what it's done to Shauna.
I owe her, Victor, and myself. I have to make this right. I have to fix it. There has to be a way to fix her!
Stroking the photo in my wallet, I grab my keys. To hell with other women and their problems. Shauna needs me. She's my wife and she comes first.
•
Victor:
Dropping the photo, the latest caught by CCTV in Alpha's compound and printed for me by Jude, the change in her is blatant. A lot of these photos are mine, but I don't think I'll ever pick up a camera again as long as I live.
She's skeletal, drawn, her skin looking so tight over prominent cheekbones, her eyes expressionless, her mouth a permanent twist of tragedy.
My angel's been broken on the torture racks in the underworld, her spirit fleeing into the shadows, her mind cast by the apocalyptic winds of wrath, scattered.
Dropping my forehead into my palms, I stare at the grain of the wood, wrestling with what ifs and a swamp of guilt. She's the walking dead. I did this. I alone am responsible. Freedom is so thin, so fragile, it's so easily demolished.
Getting up, kicking the chair back so it falls in a loud clatter, I stomp to the bag, roaring when I pummel my rage into padding. A broken angel. She's had her wings clipped, the feathers plucked out one by one, disfiguring her.
Stepping in, head-butting the punch-bag, I turn my shoulder in, pumping kidney shots. Roaring again to choke the tears, I elbow strike, ducking and weaving, manoeuvring around the sway and delivering punch after punch, strike after strike, kneeing and kicking.
Working until the sweat is dripping, I slump on the sparring mat, forced to face my karma. She was a normal adventurous young woman and I turned her into a recluse. I systematically cut her off from every support system until even her best friend turned away from the 'drama' of knowing Shauna. I isolated her without a single confidant. I manipulated her so even psychologists doubted her credibility. For what? My ego? All for a book that my father can quote like a parrot, that I can parrot, all of us guilty of taking passages out of context from a book I know is so severely edited only ruin and damnation bleeds ink across the pages.
I destroyed her life for a fucking book! A book that glorifies the evil god of fire and sacrifice. An identity my father stole, taking the mantle of supremacy and wearing it, embodying it with his narcissistic delusions until the impostor became the character he emulates.
He's nothing more than a sadistic drug lord who's been trafficking women for centuries, acting as judge and jury to this planet from the hedonistic squalor of his tabernacle. Instead of eunuchs he has stolen women, gone missing from their lives, raped, beaten, cut up and used. Just vessels for pleasure, for rage, for persecution.
Seth could see it. I thought he was weak and pathetic. I derided my own flesh and blood because he refused to do his duty.
Duty? What the fuck are we?
A legion of mindless killers. His army.
The angels of destruction and madness, plague and wrath. The book and its god is the systematic dismantling of love, destroying the purest forms of it, between child and parent, between a man and his lady. It's a doctrine designed to divide and conquer, and conquer it has. Throughout history it leaves a trail of carnage, death and sorrow. Innocent lives are annihilated because of creed.
A wife is bullshit! It's just a shortcut to slavery. In the big scheme of things there is no need to legally or spiritually have a contract between two lovers. Love will keep them together, not a fucking contract!
His empire is evil. And I was his right hand!
ME!
What have I done?
Holy fuuuuuuuuck what have I done?
I fell in love, and the only one to suffer is the lady who is disconsolate and defeated because I had to own her.
Curling over, I sob. I've never cried. Not ever. The walls have ruptured and suppressed emotions and memories are heaving out of me in shame and grief.
I feel like I have lived my life in a blindfold and now that I can see, I disgust myself.
~ Chapter 19 ~
Hatred stirs up dissension,
but love covers over all wrong
~ Proverbs 10:11
Jude:
Underground in the soundproofed shooting range, I watch him expertly switch between handguns, nailing the target with flawless clusters every time.
He's come a long way in a very short time. His determination is single-minded. The angel of vengeance is back, and he's out for revenge.
It's impressive. Damn impressive.
It was so fucking awesome kicking his ass when we started sparring, but now his agility and strength are back on top form and it's me who gets handed my ass daily. He no longer bruises, the conditioning has paid off. The strength training and lifting, combined with a protein packed diet, has reinstated a lost physique. He looks the part.
At first blocking my punches caused his forearms to swell, he'd bruise when I connected, but those days have evaporated as rapidly as dew in summer sun. Now we train full contact, all bets off, sharpening reflexes to a point that could maim.
Taking the Peltor ear muffs off when he empties the magazine out of the Ruger P, I stroll his way. The gun suits him as he's left handed. I prefer it loaded with .45 calibre, it's efficient and gets the job done. And by the look on his face when he's hitting the target, he plans on making sure whoever gets between him and Shauna never breathes again.
In a few weeks we make our move and the tension be
tween us is building. We'll either be victorious, or we'll both wind up dead. Failure isn't an option he'll entertain, and if I die on this mission then Alpha will never be brought to justice. I won't just be handing the info to the FBI, but Interpol too, and every high level terrorist cell in every western government. I've done my homework, I've made contacts. When they come for him it'll be the biggest shock of his life. Finding out he's not god will be second.
•
Seth:
Advancing up the steps two at a time, I hit the elevator, taking it swiftly up to level seven.
She won't expect me back this early so I walk with stealth, curious to see what she does when I'm at work.
Her soothing lilt whispers down the passage as if she is humming. The thought of Shauna finding happiness in solitude thrills me! The fact that she's found happiness at all is enough to speed my passage, following her voice to the bathroom.
Wondering is she's cleaning, because I forbade it with her pregnant, I peek inside the room, snapping back when my eyes bulge at the horrific sight.
Straining to hear the words, she's singsonging, “I discipline my body and make it my slave, I discipline my body and make it my slave, I discipline my body and make it my slave, I discipline my body and make it my slave …” 1 Corinthians 9:27
Like a stuck record bumping the needle back over and over, the woman is naked as a prostitute, slapping her back with one of daddy's nasty toys. Mortification of the flesh is a fetish I don't subscribe to, but I also know he's programmed her to continuously inflict harm and pain to stress herself and the baby. Both 'keep them humble' in Father's own words.
“I discipline my body and make it my slave…”
This is horrendous!
The cilice I took off her is back on her thigh, and she rocks, slapping the metal chains covered with barbs over her shoulder, connecting with skin already ruddy, covered in scratches and pricks.
“I discipline my body and make it my slave…”
I can't abide my father's hatred.
Launching, I catch her hand, forcing her to lower the metal crop used to flog. “No, Shauna. No!”
She stares vacantly at me, mumbling, “I discipline my body and make it my slave.”
“No you don't. If you'll only listen to scripture to obey me, then hear this. You and I are one flesh, what you do to yourself you do to me. I'm telling you to never hit my flesh again as long as you live. You will not punish it. You will never harm yourself ever, for my sake. I do not harm you for this very same reason. I love you as I love myself, we are one. Understand?”
Tears well in her eyes and for the first time in a long time it looks as if she's seeing me. Her voice keens in grief when she whispers, “A man will leave his father and his mother. Leave his father. Leave his father. Leave his father.”
I understand. I do. She needs me to run away with her. The question is how?
Pulling her up, I fold her against me, kissing her temple, “Hush, baby. Shhhh, I heed your plea. I will. I'll fucking find a way.”
Taking away the tool for self-harm, I bend, keeping a grip on her, unclipping the cilice and shoving the blasted thing in my pocket. He's fucked you up so bad and I'm about to lose my self-control.
Guiding her out of the coldest room in my suite, I sit her on the bed, “We're getting out. It's time to reconnect you to the things that matter.”
I'm dashing around like a lunatic, needing to get her out now. Pulling a sorbet yellow dress over her head, I tug it down, tying the halter straps behind her neck, grabbing her sandals and tugging her into a stand, then a walk, “Come with me.”
“Not to go outside. Forbidden.”
“Fuck forbidden. I'm your husband and you'll do what I tell you.”
Jesus!
Taking the elevator down, I hustle her to the car, shoving her in, slamming the door and bolting to the driver's side. I only dare to breathe like a normal human when the compound is sliding away in the rear-view mirror.
Saturated with relief, I take her hand, holding it in mine while I drive with one hand.
She stays silent, staring dead ahead, unseeing.
“Shauna?”
“Yes?”
“Wind down your window, look at the view.”
Obeying, she winds down the glass, staring out at desert scrub and grass.
I know a tiny oasis where I used to play as a kid. I'm hoping it still has the stream and flowers.
Turning off the road, meandering slowly toward my destination, I smile when I see the glint of running water in the glade.
It's hidden behind rocks and to my knowledge only Victor ever knew about it. It was our den. This is where we came to be pirates conquering the savage lands, smiting heathens in our quest to convert sinners to saints.
Man, we were severely fucked up too.
Alpha's approval no longer matters a damn. He's lost my respect completely.
Cutting the engine, I go around to her side, putting her sandals on her feet and assisting her out of the vehicle.
“Come,” I coax, walking her toward our den. The yellow flowers of the agave are in bloom, the juniper in the air strong and fragrant, and to my delight the yellow poppies are in flower as we round the corner to my secret hideout. Stooping, I pick a Mojave aster, sitting down on a boulder and drawing her onto my knee, presenting her with the pale purple flower, “For you.”
The breeze is soft as mother's breath, playing with the tendrils of long brown hair which cascade in waves over her shoulders.
Her blue eyes look bright, and she blinks, looking at the flower.
“Shauna, take it. It's yours.”
She looks from the flower to me multiple times as if in a quandary.
“Please Shauna, take the flower.”
“But …”
“You are beautiful and delicate, you should have flowers every day. You should be surrounded with beauty, you should be allowed to enjoy the sunshine and sit at the stream on hot days, letting the cold water trickle between your toes, soothing you in this insufferable heat.” Forcing the stem into her hand, I close her fist around it.
It's automatic, she lifts it, closing her eyes and inhaling.
It's unfortunate these asters have no perfume.
Desert dandelions bob and weave with every gust, but I stay still, watching her instead of the rugged beauty around us.
When her eyes reopen she looks aggrieved, her eyelashes dark with tears.
“Shauna?”
“It…s pretty.”
“Like you,” I affirm.
Lacing my arms around her waist, I sit with hands lazily hooked, watching her reaction. I need a breakthrough so badly. I need to reconnect her with her humanity.
“We'll get into trouble,” she whispers.
“No we won't. You are my wife, I can take you outside if I so choose.”
“This doesn't hurt. It's evil. It's temptation,” she argues in fearful mumbles. The alarm in her features wrings my heart and I tighten my hold, ready to cry a new flood for her lost soul.
Wrangling my emotions back in check, I lick my lips, watching the fragile blooms that flourish in such harsh conditions. They're proof that she can survive this.
Looking back into her compelling gaze, I state the obvious, “Love does not keep a record of wrongs. 1 Corinthians 13:7 God is supposed to be love, so why then would he think you are sinning if he keeps no record of your wrongs? In my household, you consider me your authority. As your authority I am telling you that love is gentle, it kisses you better, it wipes your tears, it seeks only to see you smile. I don't like it when you cry because you deserve to be happy. And if a god seeks to hurt you and deliver pain, then he is not god. You don't have to obey him or follow his laws. If he goes against his own truth then he is an impostor, and that makes you free.”
She still looks doubtful and confused. This is a scenario he didn't program her for. She doesn't know what to do with love because it's become alien.
Reaching up, tucking
her hair behind her ear, I say softly, “If I have no love, I am nothing.1 Corinthians 13:2 I have come to love you, you are one with me, I refuse to let you harm you or my baby for rules that hurt. From now on we only do things that make Shauna smile. When Shauna smiles, I smile.”
Frowning, she looks down, staring at the flower in her hand, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. “What's happening?”
“I'm respecting you. I'm showing you how precious and resilient you are. I'm proving to you that your happiness means more to me than subservience and discipline.”
Looking away, leaving wisps of her hair to breeze out to tickle my face, I can see by the shaking in her carriage that she's crying.
Tears are a step toward healing. She hasn't shown emotion for months.
Lifting her, carrying her like a baby, I wander down to the brook, sitting on a bed of owl's clover, snuggling her to me, just soothing, rocking the damsel in my embrace, letting her crack in private, to get it all out without chastisement or retribution.
This is my duty. I'm supposed to protect her. I will, even if it means making an enemy of my father.
It's been four weeks to the day, and she is transformed. I've even managed to make her laugh. It's become my only goal. That, and making plans to escape. I've heard that Alpha is personally going in search of Victor in two days, and that's when I plan to make a run for it.
I owe her, my child, and my deceased brother, this freedom.
She lets me comfort her, the nightmares are becoming less frequent, it's all going swell, but I know I've taken three steps too far when his voice booms into the suite.
“Arise. The shed awaits. You have ten minutes to meet me in the garage.”
Blinking against the dark, I check my phone. It's 1 a.m. in the fucking morning! This can't be good.
Shaking her, I whisper urgently, “Wake up princess. We have to go.”
“Go?” she murmurs, rolling, burying her head in my shoulder, snuggling.
“Shauna, Alpha has summoned us. I doubt it's good news. We need to dress and meet him in the garage.”
