by Genna Rulon
Each day I hoped for a sign he was softening, willing to give me one more chance to explain. Losing Wes—or rather, the promise of what we could have been—was the impetus to change. Terrifying though it may be, the prospect of resurrecting my skeletons for his inspection was infinitely more tolerable than abandoning our potential.
What could I do to force him to acknowledge me? How could I capture his attention and his ear? My desperation was such that nothing was beyond consideration, yet he hadn’t even provided the opportunity to humiliate myself for his benefit. He was either never home or exceptionally good at avoiding detection. All the grand gestures I’d considered—and even one that I attempted—went unrealized without their intended recipient present. Last night, after listening to “Say Something” by Great Big World on repeat for over an hour, inspiration struck, leading me to his lawn with my laptop raised above my head, reenacting John Cusack’s epic boom box scene. It might have worked had he been there to hear it.
My chocolate gone, music was next on my agenda in hopes of erasing the disastrous night from my memory and deterring regrets from consuming my every thought. Halfway up the stairs, the doorbell rang, demanding my attention. Nevertheless, fear of who might be on the other side of the door kept me rooted in place. Bravery be damned, I resumed my climb, intending to hide under the covers until the unwanted visitor was gone and morning arrived.
“I know you’re in there. Open the door!” the disembodied voice ordered.
Wes.
Heart in my chest, I ran down the stairs, disarmed the alarm, and flung the door wide open. Sure enough, he was there, looking beautiful as ever.
“Where is he?” Wes asked harshly.
“He, who?” I asked, perplexed. “Griffin is at home with Sam,” I finished, guessing who ‘he’ was.
“I know where Griffin is, I just left him. Where is Mark? I swear to God, if he’s in your bed right now, I’m going to tear him limb from limb,” he said menacingly. “How could you fall for his act? You have no idea the type of man he is—you deserve so much better.”
“Can we rewind? Seems I’ve missed the opening scene and now I’m not following the plot. Mark is not here. I left the condescending ass with his belittling buddies an hour ago,” I explained, hope swelling at his show of jealousy. “Why? Did the idea of him in my bed—eww, by the way—bother you? Maybe make you a little…jealous?”
“Jealous?” he parroted. “No, I wasn’t jealous—covetous, possessive, and homicidal would be far more accurate descriptions. Why would you agree to go with him tonight?”
“When he asked, I felt guilty about ignoring his calls for several months, which he was kind enough to point out—manipulative jerk.”
“Are you seeing the pattern here? You plus guilt equals bad decisions,” he said, concern in his tone.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered to myself, but unfortunately, he heard me.
“Tell me…I will never know unless you open your mouth and give me some of those precious secrets you’re stockpiling like an end-of-days survivalist collecting canned foods.”
Didn’t I spend the last hour longing for this precise opportunity…why then was it impossible to speak? I could do this—I had to do this. Telling Wes my story might cause me to lose him forever, but keeping my secrets would absolutely kill any chance with him.
“Can we sit down?” I asked, stalling. “My feet are killing me and this may take a while.”
His discerning stare said he was onto my ploy. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Leading the way, we entered the great room and sat on opposite ends of the sofa, facing each other. Wes rose from the couch to grab a blanket from the back of the loveseat and draped it over my legs, which were extended on the couch.
“You looked cold,” he explained.
Reseated on the couch, he took my left foot in hand, massaging the balls of my feet with a firm pressure that relieved the lingering pain I’d endured all night.
“Wearing heels can be torture if you’re not accustomed to the position—or so I’m told,” he said sympathetically.
Realization dawned…
Wes was stalling for me, giving me time to gather my thoughts. Courage was a fickle friend, always around to boast when there was no need, yet fleeting when needed. Luckily, courage’s cousin ‘desperation’ showed up in his stead.
This was my last chance with Wes—I was certain it was now or never.
Here goes nothing…
"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." -James Baldwin
Westly
Patience was not one of my limited virtues, making the wait torturous. She was trying, that much was obvious, yet seemed unable to find the words…or perhaps not knowing where to begin. Accustomed to leading the witness, I asked the question that had plagued me for months, hoping to finally obtain an answer while providing her a starting point.
“What’s your name, beautiful?”
“I can’t answer that,” came her familiar refrain. My hand froze mid-rotation as I dropped her foot like it was on fire.
Seriously? After everything—knowing this was her last chance—she still wouldn’t answer the fucking question! Why did I waste my time? Because I was a glutton for this girl’s punishment.
“Wait!” she shouted in panic. “Let me explain, please—please, don’t walk away again.”
Offering a nod of approval, I relaxed my tensed muscles.
“I can’t tell you my name because…” she paused again, averting her eyes, “I don’t have one.”
Say what? My brain came to a screeching halt, unable to process four simple words.
“That’s not possible,” was the only reply I could manage.
“In most circumstances, you’d be correct. But in my case, you’re patently wrong.”
“Would you care to explain?” I prompted.
“No…but for you, I will,” she stated simply. “I was born in a small town near the borders of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, surrounded by national forests and rural roads. It was very isolated, yet only a four or five-hour drive from Portland, Seattle, and Boise.”
She stopped again, the halting recollection of her story exhausting my patience. She obviously needed help. “So you grew up on a farm?”
“Kind of…I guess you would call it a compound. It was completely self-sufficient and required minimal contact with the outside world. Life was basic; no electronics or phones were permitted for the general population of the community.”
“Wait, are you Amish?” I asked, attempting to fit the pieces together.
“No, the Amish are an enclave of ultraconservative Christians whose beliefs are compatible with major Protestant denominations. Unlike where I come from, they do not require their members to pool their finances, nor is their faith centered on a single human authority.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, frustrated with her roundabout responses.
She signed, resignation painted across her face.
“It means the Amish are a recognized and accepted religious sect—a Christian denomination—whereas I was raised in what you would refer to as a cult.”
She fell silent, obviously awaiting my response. Too stunned by her admission, I said nothing. Then the rambling commenced.
“Although cult is a heavily debated term due to the intrinsic negative connotation and subsequent discrimination, which ultimately led to a movement in the 1990’s toward the term ‘new religious movement.’ Sociologically, a cult is a religious or other social group with deviant and novel beliefs. From a purely academic standpoint, the term has no positive or negative association; it is merely a classification. Now, the term destructive cult is what most people mean in the colloquial or pejorative use of cult. Destructive cults, including religious extremist groups and terrorists, are likely to cause loss of life among their memberships or the general public.”
“That was a lot of information, beautiful. I’m still trying to
process the ‘I was raised in a cult’ part, so I don’t know if I’m ready for a sociology lecture yet.”
“Sorry, it’s my field of expertise—when I get nervous, I start spewing facts to fill the silence.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You were raised in a cult, but a cult is not necessarily bad…just an atypical religion, except when it’s considered destructive as is the case with religious jihadists or whackjobs like Charles Manson.”
“Exactly, except Charles Manson’s ‘The Family’ was one of the few cults without strong religious themes, which made it the exception not the rule. David Koresh’s ‘Branch Davidians’ would be a closer comparison,” she replied with a slight smile, clearly proud of my grasp of her explanation.
“So which type was it…your cult?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“It’s not my cult,” she began defensively before catching herself. Gentling her tone, she continued, “To Ieró—The Sacred began nearly a century ago as a novel faith, blasphemous by Christian standards, yet borrowing portions of the vernacular and calendar from the Greek Orthodox tradition. While To Ieró existed well outside the box, it was completely localized and in no way destructive. It evolved, the dogma growing more controversial and radical to the point of fanaticism—still it wouldn’t have met the criteria to be deemed destructive. However, the microstructure of the enclave underwent an abrupt mutation approximately twenty years ago, though the change in doctrine went unnoticed by most of the followers. The changes were insidious at first, eventually becoming toxic, until finally graduating to lethal. It was the epitome of every horrific cult generalization by the time I ran. I can’t begin to imagine what has transpired in the last seven years,” she finished sadly.
“Okay, I can understand why you may be embarrassed by your upbringing and the family you were born into…but beautiful, you have nothing to be ashamed of. So what if your family is crazy—maybe even evil? That doesn’t mean you are. Who cares if you weren’t given a name when you were born? You picked one for yourself, which is even better. I’m curious, how did you decide on ‘Meg’? Also, how the hell does anyone know who they are talking about or to if no one has a name?” I asked, my questions all over the place, courtesy of the vast number of thoughts running through my mind while processing what she’d disclosed thus far.
“If only it was as simple as you’re making it. Yes, it’s an embarrassment to come from a crazy family, but that isn’t the source of my shame. Countless others are the product of criminals, rapists, drug addicts, and the like—that doesn’t make them fruit of the same tree. Each person has a choice, I know that. Family may shape an individual, but it does not determine exclusively who they are or will be. It’s the choices I’ve made that bring me shame, not the DNA within me. I promise you I deserve every moment of guilt and remorse that gnaws at my soul—I’ve earned them all,” she confessed, tears filling her beautiful green eyes. “As for my name, or lack thereof, I was the only member of my generation not given a name. When Jay created my new identity, he needed a name but I had no ideas. He picked ‘Meg’—it was a tongue-in-cheek selection that I didn’t find particularly funny, but the damage was done. I provided the last name.”
“You know what my next two questions are going to be.”
She nodded, “Adeio—or άδειο, in Greek—means ‘empty.’ It seemed fitting. Jay was inspired by my position—or you might say title—in To Ieró when he named me ‘Meg.’”
“I’m assuming your nameless state and title are linked, but care to tell me what your position was?”
“Yes, my potential standing at conception dictated I not be named. When my potential was realized, I was referred to as The Omega…o-Meg-a, get it? It wasn’t funny then and it’s not now, however Jay’s intentions were good.”
“Beautiful, ‘potential standing’…‘potential realized’…you keep giving me glimpses that don’t amount to a full picture. I’m trying to be patient—to understand what you’re saying—but it’s nearly impossible with only fragments of information. Furthermore, nothing you’ve said explains your self-abhorrence and disgrace. And we haven’t even touched on the fact that you’re married, for fuck’s sake, nor why you withheld that pertinent piece of information.”
I sighed wearily, at the end of my rope. Without grasping the scope of her issues, I couldn’t ask the right questions to pry her open. It was like picking through an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of flash drives, hoping to find the one with the document you needed—an impossible feat.
“Just what? Lay it all at your feet—every secret, mistake, regret, and shame, on display for your inspection. If I introduce you to my demons, what then? You try to exorcise them, or run away in fear? I loved the way you looked at me before, like I was something to be treasured. Even after Jay told you I was married, you still look at me as if I held some value. I’ve never had that, Wes…there have been days when the only thing that made me believe I was of any worth was the fact that you believed it. Forgive me for not rushing to destroy that look and lose what little respect you may still hold for me.”
“Holy shit, woman! I’ve tried to be supportive and give you time, but enough is enough. The Mr. Nice Guy approach isn’t working, so I’m going back to my roots,” I near shouted. “You can’t have a relationship of any kind with anyone if you won’t let the other person know you. Not the façade or lies—you. It took guts to leave and attempt to live in a completely different world with nothing, not even a name. Where the hell is that backbone now? If you left to escape the life you were trapped in and the girl you didn’t want to be, then why do you insist on still being her? Face that girl and her secrets, take responsibility for any sins that are yours—and only yours—figure out how to atone, then move the fuck on. Keeping yourself locked away to obsess over every sin you believe you’ve committed is nothing but a means to punish yourself. Stop playing the damn martyr and fight! Fight for us. Fight for your friends. And if nothing else, fight for yourself.”
“You should really consider a career as a motivational speaker…or maybe a therapist,” she replied sarcastically.
“Last chance, beautiful. The clock’s run out so you have to decide. Keep your secrets or take a chance. What’ll it be?”
“Wes, I’m trying, I swear I am, but I don’t know what to say…or how to explain.”
“Just tell me your story. All of it, from beginning to end. I’m begging you.”
"The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” -Flannery O'Connor
Meg
“As I said, I was born in Oregon,” I began shakily. “No, wait…the story starts before that. In To Ieró, there is always an Alpha—the incontrovertible, omniscient leader who is an incarnation of Theós, or God. He is revered to the point of worship, never to be questioned or doubted. While To Ieró is governed by strict traditions, mores, and laws, The Alpha can spontaneously alter or contradict the norms at any time without question. Each Alpha is born of the previous Alpha and his Omega. When the current Alpha dies, the new Alpha—his son—ascends as leader, at which time Theós, who lay dormant inside, is awakened. The new Alpha then recognizes his Omega and declares her publicly. He leads and she follows, eventually birthing the next Alpha.
“When I was in utero, the Mánti—or seer—Malachi prophesied I possessed the potential to be The Omega,” I explained with a skeptical look that told him I thought the whole concept was preposterous. “Traditionally, two or three infants in each generation are divined as possessing the potential, however no other was foretold after my conception—lucky me,” I added sarcastically. “Seeing as I was a foregone conclusion, I was treated as The Omega from birth—given no name, and with rare exception, not addressed directly by anyone other than my mother or The Alpha.
Forcing the familiar tidal wave of loneliness and segregation aside, I continued.
“As potential Omega, my sanctity was preserved at all costs. To Ieró believes that the incarnation of God is transferred fro
m The Omega to the fetal Alpha-to-be. Supposedly, an Omega is born with the dormant Theós within herself, and to protect Theós she—the vessel—must remain unblemished by external forces. For this reason, I was raised in near isolation without love or affection for fear either would establish a sense of worth that would corrupt my purity. It was imperative that I only conceive of myself as an object with no innate value, since only that which I safeguarded was of worth. Ultimately, I would pass the treasure to another and my usefulness would end.”
For the first time, this detail captured my attention. What happened to The Omega after giving birth? No present or past Omegas lived amongst To Ieró that I was aware of. Were they sent away, separated from their young children? A horrible suspicion took root—what did one do with the packaging after the toy was opened? Too disgusted for further contemplation, I resumed my story.
“You have to understand, my own mother was a fervent believer. She was overjoyed to learn she possibly carried The Omega as it elevated her standing in the community and would provide additional resources to the household. Women, with the exception of The Omega, were married to To Ieró as a collective—the wife to all as the children of these unions were the children of all.
“It never occurred to my mother to treat me any differently than she would an antique box. I was provided the necessities for physical survival, but I was not nurtured or loved because one doesn’t not love an object. The dynamics set the stage perfectly to produce an obedient, docile little girl who would grow into a perfectly biddable Omega. Had I acted out or exhibited a strong sense of self, it would have been regarded as a sign of corruption, causing me to be shunned and banished from To Ieró.
“Growing up, no reaction from my mother was the equivalent of praise. If I received acknowledgment in any form, it was a mark of disapproval, resulting in swift punishments that deterred future mistakes. Punishments ranged from the withholding of food, should I make eye contact, to physical discipline for egregious errors such as speaking to anyone other than my mother. The first time I met Jay, my mother was bringing me to the meeting hall for a blessing. Jay was only a few years older than I was, and he smiled and waved like most kids would do. It was the warmest, kindest interaction I’d encountered in my five years of life so I impulsively returned his wave. In order to cleanse me after an act of individualism and defiance, I was required to undergo a purification ceremony.”
