by Poppet
Oh my fucking hell! What is this? If this is a joke it's in bad taste.
I can't breathe!
Bending down, planting my nose between my knees, I will myself not to pass out, not to hyperventilate. I need to keep it together.
Tears trickle out of the wasteland within, my carnage exposed, my fear, my anguish.... sob.
I can't hold my legs, I'm shaking too much. Choosing to sit on my hands in an attempt to hide my convulsions of terror from him, I inhale with exaggeration, forcing awareness to take hold.
I finally sit back up, wiping my eyes, looking at the blank face of a man old enough to be my father.
“That's one heck of an egotistical statement. You are god? Don't you think that's, I dunno, kinda, vain?” My voice undulates, insipid and weak.
He shrugs, staring at me as if I'm laid bare, a wide open scroll he can explore at will, as if I have no secrets or privacy in his presence. It's a violating stare.
His voice is deeper than Victor's, saying, “I am vain. As god I made the entire human race in my image so I can look at myself when I look at your kind. If that's not the epitome of vanity, then what is?”
He has a point.
I don't know how to react. I'm conflicted between wanting to run screaming, to balling up and heaving out the panic engulfing me. I can't handle this shit!
Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his bulk intimidates me, and he says conversationally, “I made mankind to serve me. I don't ask permission, I am the ultimate authority. I have no tolerance for sinners or argument. If you do not follow my laws you have no business stealing air from my planet. You live only because I allow you to.”
Dreary charcoal narrows my vision, blotting out his sitting-room, and I know by the vile reaction squeezing my gullet that I'm either about to throw up or pass out.
He smiles at me, his voice so faint I almost lose it when my ears block, “Your reaction is because you are staring into the face of god. Not many have, and not many will. Most go blind, your soul shrinks away from my glory because you have sinned.”
Fuck! It's all true. Victor is Vengeance. They all are. They're a cult where this man is ineffable and without reproach.
I'm in hell.
The suffering is never going to end.
Ever.
Panting through the constriction in my chest, gripping the cushion of the couch, clinging to sobriety, I whisper, “Why am I here?”
“Vengeance redeemed your soul. He's no longer in this realm so it's left to me to care for his mate. It was normal and ordained when the supernatural angels chose women for fornication. We require heirs, the kingdom of god cannot overpower the sin infesting my world unless we breed a new generation to save them. You lost Victor's baby because you are weak, because he is weak. It is scriptural for you to go to his brother, Seth. I cursed him when he was born. You are a redeemed dirty angel, so now you will be my concubine. I will fill you with my holy spirit. You will be my Lilith.”
The pressure in my head, in my chest, in my soul, it blanches to a pinpoint and I can't... the world keeps going black, his face keeps distorting with his voice... how can god be covered in tattoos? Can't he see he's delusional?
My father-in-law is going to... he's going to...
Something hot holds my thigh, his words reaching me through a tunnel of denial, my weakness overpowering my ability to stay conscious, to argue, to fight.
“... I've lifted you out of the ninth level below, brought you to the highest high... eat and drink... prepare the bride to return to the bridegroom. In the end every bride will return to the groom. Every life returns to me, sooner or later.”
I can hear screaming but I'm having a seizure, my body is wracked with spasms, the shock and trauma winning the war.... succumbing to the searing agony bombing my mortality, I hope... I want... escape.
I.
Want.
To.
Die.
~~~
Shauna:
I have no concept of time. I came to with two women bathing me. Their mouths were sewn closed with black fishing gut, their eyes glassy pools of fear and torment.
Vital fluids and nutrients fed into my body through the intravenous drip secured to my hand, hanging down the side of the tub.
I walked with it, weak and shaky, forced to allow their ministrations when they pointed to the automatic rifle mounted on the ceiling, the other woman pointing to the inlet marked 'saran gas'. The threat is blatant, comply or die.
At what point do we lose the motivation to co-operate? The longer I live the more attractive death becomes. But for their sakes, which may have been misguided altruism, I didn't want to be the reason they left their earthly form, murdered because I refused to be manhandled, so I let them wash me, dry me, dry my hair and set it, withdraw the supplementation feeding into my bloodstream, and brushed my teeth, put on the perfume handed to me, walking without shoes in a white silk dress that has no consideration for my modesty, taking the drink they plied me with, downing it, and gripping to the bar inside the elevator when they forced me into it, pressing the button, leaving my stomach behind my eyes when I plummeted to a level... sent to who – what.... I'll know when the doors slide open.
There are no numbers to tell me where I'm headed, no countdown...
The elevator slows, jolts, the gilded doors reflecting a pretty and emaciated version of me slide apart, revealing a vision that quakes my womb and robs me of reason.
Shrinking back, I press every button, whimpering, my ability to speak macerated in my throat, sheer frenzy the only level I'm operating on.
God reaches in, snagging my wrist, yanking me out, into the crypt of men clad in leather, covered from top to toe in the clothes Vengeance wore when he destroyed me. Red horns poke praise into the sky while gloved hands clench in fists, every face swivelled in my direction, hiding the madmen underneath, with slits for eyes and zips for mouths.
Maybe I'm unconscious and this is a nightmare?
“These are disciples. They serve me, and if you ever disobey me they are here to punish you.”
Clinging to his arm I try so hard to remain upright, but the pain incinerating my womb is agonising. Crumpling, red seeps a fast blooming stain on my white dress, the excruciating shards stabbing through me, cutting through my womanhood, aborting my own life this time, the constant ache now a roaring burn, the blood slippery, hot, wet, pooling.
Disbelief holds me tight, keeping me alert, forcing me to reach down in numb denial to plant my palms on the floor, coating my freshly scrubbed skin with evidence.
I'm broken.
Shock shivers my hands, I'm unable to blink, showing him my palms, I don't understand, I never read a book, I'm uneducated about everything related to miscarriage, but my body wants to purge, trauma rips my insides out, grief stole my baby and my husband, and now these men witness my loss in the most personal sacrifice possible.
I'm bleeding in front of devils, and they stare, uncaring.
It hurts! It burns! It's incapacitating. It steals my ability to breathe, it snaps my spine and bows my back, it heaves rampaging sobs out of my spirit; the alien wail ricocheting around the vacuous room belongs to someone stuck in a pit of hot tar, dying, suffering, singed with debilitation.
~~~
Alpha: The Watcher:
Introduced to the others in their getup, she hyperventilates and has a massive panic attack, haemorrhaging, bleeding profusely.
I've made my point.
She'll never question my authority again.
Snapping my fingers at Peter and James, they come forward, lifting her onto the gurney, wheeling her into the elevator.
Joining them I swipe the hair on her forehead away, pleased with the sheen of panic-induced perspiration. Pulling the anaesthesia out of my pocket, I inject the woman.
It's time I operated on her. It's time I left my mark and prepared my bride.
She has seven days to recover, to heal, and then she will understand what it mea
ns to serve god. This is personal. No man can step into Victor's shoes. Only I can adopt his widow.
I watched her for months, I watched her sin, I watched him intervene, I witnessed every interaction between them and no matter how many of my legion imprison women, this one stood apart. This one is unique. She endured everything he delivered, then turned from sin, leaving her bitterness behind her to serve my son without question; to serve the son of god without question, to serve the Angel of Vengeance. She doesn't look like a sinner, she never has. She looks innocent, vulnerable, pure.
She's been purified; Victor inserted a new hymen before he claimed her as a resurrected dirty angel. Now it's my turn.
Leaving my minions behind in the elevator, I wheel her onto level four, heading for the operating theatre. She's more fragile than I ever thought she would be. She doesn't have Victor's level of endurance or resilience. She must have truly suffered immeasurably at his hand, and yet she is so delicate, so easily pushed to the brink of survival.
Now that we're isolated and alone, I pause, staring down at the reborn angel. Bending, I brush her soft lips with mine, savouring the nubile cushions, finally touching the woman I've obsessed over for months. I was in a state of self-preservation, needing to believe my son Vengeance was a stranger, I told myself lies to justify his death, but in a moment of remorse I claimed that guilt.
“He didn't deserve you, Shauna. I do. You have always belonged to me. You were on loan to my son, now you are home.”
I will replace her blood loss with my own, with my own personal supply, with haemoglobin from my own body. I will make her greater than the first woman. When I am finished I will control and possess a goddess.
And she will never leave me.
Chapter 6
Is it not written in your Law, I said, You are gods? So men are called gods [by the Law], ―and the Scripture cannot be set aside or cancelled or broken or annulled.
~ John 10:34
Alpha / The Watcher:
I don't know why it took me so long to notice how vulnerable to mental stimulation Shauna is. She's excessively sensitive to vocal tone, to lighting, she's aware to the point of paranoia. If I drop the lighting in her room her pulse accelerates, if she senses motion she tenses, she's kept unconscious and yet even at that level she is acutely perceptive.
I hate to admit it but I find this endearing. She's a rare specimen indeed. It's innocuous, subtle, but this woman has a quality that only becomes immediate when I am physically with her, it's an influence, the x-factor, the unnameable charisma that plucks on male instincts. She makes me want to own her and protect her.
She's so fucking humble, so potently delicate as if the tiniest catalyst can ruin her, and then instantly all I want is to undo the damage. It's messing with my head. I don't feel compassion, yet this female taps directly into a part of me I've not experienced for twenty years.
In her catatonic state, held there thanks to medical intervention, I'm staring at a woman who has the face of a cherub and the body of a seraph. In her ignorant slumber she looks virginal, naïve, untainted, pure, the disconcerting contrast is the effect of that much innocent sensuality just fries my self-control. She makes me want to indulge in pursuits I've not entertained for decades.
I've not been a man for a long time, I've not had any desire or lack of restraint for so long, that this.... this... anomaly... is disturbing, and simultaneously exciting.
I will shield her, I will protect her. She has proved her worth more than once. Seth is an obstacle I'll deal with when I must. Right now he's away searching for the missing body of my son, but in the meantime I will keep her to myself. I can't wait to show her my empire.
I know knowledge is an addiction for women. They are constantly curious and hungry for answers, and when she comprehends the expansive reach of my power she will be seduced by it. She will be the one to compliment me. She is everything I intended when I created woman.
Her sins were there by design. I created them defective, inferior, morally questionable, impossibly blasphemous and heretic. It was the grand design so men had someone to rule, someone to break, someone to own. There had to be a challenge, there had to be a clear turning point when discipline induces obedience, they had to have laws laid down and reinforced, and that's why men are still built like angels.
Women were never angels, they can't be because they are useless in the face of genocide. A woman would never condone the great flood, to wipe out the abomination and offensiveness of sinners. Women refuse to murder, to maim, to mutilate and torture in order to establish dominance.
They want to protect the children and feed the hungry. They were the thorns in every war waged on the exodus. Nothing can nag and wear a man down like a woman with an issue to grind. Incessant, annoying, instigating the retaliation of violence they receive because they are ignorant, to the self-sabotaging point of peril.
Yet men have the instinct to reign, to overpower, to overthrow, they have the desire to rise up and crush enemies, and they are loyal to their cause, to their brotherhood. They were born to rule, but not every man can rule a kingdom, or a business. So I gave them women. Women were created so those men had a conquest, and inside their abode they had the power to crush, rape, smite, pillage, discipline.
And now I'm looking at this one. The one who doesn't nag. The one I've watched for years, witnessing her when entirely alone, and she is not like the others. She's different.
She was rejected by her own family so she could be one of the lost for me to own. I will make her holy and she will be a comfort. One I hadn't known I yearned for until now.
Victor did well. After I dedicate her to myself, I will honour his sacrifice. I sacrificed my son to soften my own bitterness, to find a balance I wasn't aware I was lacking.
She's been in this bed for seven days. It's time Shauna is resurrected. It's time to explain to her the blood covenant.
Switching the fluid in her drip, I wait for her to rouse, ordering a meal and instructing the infertile and inferior to prepare the slaughter. After dinner, the truth will set her free.
~~~
Shauna:
Blinking, yawning, the hand on my arm pulls my focus, demanding attention.
Staring at the man who has mid-shoulder length hair the shade of roasted coffee, and eyes that vary from scorched tobacco to velvet cocoa, I can't seem to summon a reaction. I know I should feel a multitude of worries, yet it's as if they were cut out of my mind, leaving me unable to react.
Victor looks like him, a lot. It's disconcerting, because I love Victor and don't want to project onto this stranger who's staring at me as if I'm the most precious possession in his house.
He wore a disguise when I met him. Pretending elegance and sophistication, and age. He's not nearly as old as I first assumed. Black squiggles, sigils, and foreign words cover the exposed skin of his arms, peeking out above his t-shirt's neckline – but it's not enough to disguise the leanness of his body, it doesn't hide the thick veins netting over his mammoth muscles. He's tall too, probably taller than Victor. It's all very intimidating, but I can't seem to summon the anxiety he should instil in me.
“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 th
at 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?”
