by Syra Bond
As the last jolt that hit me I seemed to rise up into the air. I was weightless, flying - moving into a dark tunnel, passing from the light into the darkness. There were no more shocks - everything had changed. I flew over the congregation and peered down into the coffin. Yes, it was me lying inside - pale, blue lipped, dead! But I didn’t mind. I felt a strange calmness. It was as if I was looking down at my past life, realising it was over, thinking only of what lay ahead. I felt completely tranquil. My mouth was open. Blood was gushing from it in a stream. Everyone beneath was turning their faces upwards trying to drink from the flow. Their faces were all spattered with my blood. I circled them slowly - my blood dripping down onto them - offering them the chance to drink from me, hoping that too much would not be spilled. Everything was confused. I felt as if my grasp on life and any sense it made was broken - I was dead and I was alive witnessing my own death. Nothing made sense any more.
FINAL REALISATION
Things were silent now. The redness had subsided. I felt a wave of darkness sweeping over me. I could no longer see the congregation. The shocking jolts had finished. Images again flooded into my mind. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. The pictures in my head felt different again. I was seeing part of my own life in the past. Then I felt as if I was really there - in my own past!
Yes, I was somewhere else! I had gone back in time! Again I was in the motel room in the desert. Again, I heard the pain of the shrieking girl - howling in uncontrolled anguish, penetrating me, filling me with her terror. Her pain got closer. It oozed over me like a heavy black cloud - it filled my soul. The shrieks became clearer - nearer, each one isolated, each one attached to a particular source of pain. Every sound had a picture; every picture brought with it a torrent of agony. I was drowning in a sea of pain; overcome by a wave of terrifying images. I felt them as if they were in the same room - as if they were produced by a scourging of my own body! I felt the lash of a whip, the thrashing cut of a thin cane, the firm thud of a wide board, the smack of a flat hand. I felt the tightening of a hand around my neck, the gagging intrusion of a cock deep in my throat, the spreading pain of a stuffed rectum.
Suddenly, I broke out in a cold and shivering sweat. I realised that the shrieking girl was me! That’s why I was feeling the pain! It was me who was suffering!
I felt giddy with confusion. I had no control. I was completely bewildered. I thought I would fall - collapse into nothingness. I heard my gasping breath, my bubbling spit. I felt the heat of urine running down the insides of my thighs. I tasted blood again. I swallowed it. I felt a glow inside - as though illuminated by a burst of light. A fresh clarity came over me. The confusion evaporated. I saw everything clearly - it was all there in detail. It was like being reborn. Everything was becoming plain - at last it was all beginning to make sense.
There was still uncertainty - I didn’t know whether I was hearing it, whether I was experiencing it , or whether I was remembering it - but it didn’t matter, at last I was understanding it. My giddiness passed, the pain eased, I was shaking less. I rubbed my hands between my wet thighs.
Yes, the motel room in the desert in Arizona - that was where it all started. I was there and I was seeing myself there. I was on the bed. The sheets had been flung onto the floor, the mattress dragged against the door as if to block out sounds. I could see myself naked, spread-eagled on my back and taped by the wrists and ankles with wide silver tape against the harsh springs of the bed. I smelled the plastic aroma of the adhesive tape as I struggled against it. I could feel the metal of the springs digging into my back, the hard edges of the bed frame against the backs of my wrists and ankles. I stared down at my exposed naked cunt, and realised how open and prone I was.
Father Dawson stood over me with a cane - he looked angry and frustrated. He had already been thrashing my breasts - they were covered in red stripes and my aching nipples were hard and sore. He had gagged me with a thin scarf - it was tight and I could only just breathe. I pressed my tongue against it and felt a wave of nausea oozing up my throat.
There is another girl - I have not seen her, and I don’t know who she is, but I can hear her whimpering in the next room. Of course! He has pursued me here. I remember my frantic escape from his church in the desert. He has brought me here, to this motel, and tied me up to the bed. He has been thrashing me for most of the night. I can taste his semen in my mouth as well, so he must have gagged me after he had made me suck him. Yes, it’s all becoming clear now. The other girl must have escaped him as well. Perhaps she has suffered even more than me? Yes, we are being punished for escaping and he will take us back only when he thinks we have suffered enough.
He takes the cane and brings it down across my naked cunt. I strain against my bonds. It hurts so much - my flesh is so tender and exposed and the cane is so sharp and forceful. He is not holding back at all - this is pure punishment. There are tears in my eyes. It feels as if the cane has cut into my flesh. I try to bring my legs together, but all I can do is tense them and that only makes it worse when he brings the cane down again even harder.
‘Lord, have mercy on the soul of this poor sinner!’ he exclaims as he brings the cane down again. ‘Lord, have mercy on this terrible fornicating sinner. I need to bring her back into the fold. Oh, Lord, give me the strength to punish her enough. Give my arm the power to redeem her wickedness and bring her back to the flock.’
He brings the cane down again. I can’t stop myself tensing. The pain across my cunt is unbearable. I don’t know how I can stand it. I press my tongue hard against the gag and strain against the tape on my wrists and ankles. My eyes are wide and filled with the horror of it all. He is relentless. I think I will die. Then, as the welcome darkness of unconsciousness begins to enfold me, I feel his strokes weakening.
‘Oh Lord, let me rest a while. Let me leave this sinner in repentance and go out into the light and pray for more strength.’
He nods as if he has received permission. He places the cane on the floor, drags the mattress away from the door and goes outside. I hear his mumbling prayer as he kneels outside on the boardwalk. After a while I hear him say “Amen”. He gets to his feet and I hear the door of the next room opening. The whimpering girl shrieks as he peers in on her - just the sight of him is sufficient to send her into a panic.
I listen to her being thrashed. He seems stronger than before - his vigour renewed by prayer. The girl’s shrieks rise to a climax then slowly ease until again she is merely whimpering. I hear him throw the cane down in anger, slam the door and walk away. The girl’s whimpering continues - it is as though she cannot ever end it.
The sun begins to set. I try to swallow. Suddenly a face appears at the window. It is a beautiful young woman - a Mexican. She peers in at me. It is Lydia!
For a moment the confusion comes back. Surely this can’t be true?
Lydia comes into the room. I lie before her helplessly - exposed, naked, and laced by the lashes of the cane. She stares down at me. I see a look of sympathy on her face. She says something but I do not understand it. She smiles and begins pulling away the grasping sticky tape that binds me to the heavy bedstead. She helps me to my feet. I feel myself swaying.
Yes! I’m beginning to remember. Yes! It was her! I can see it all now! It is all so clear. I don’t know where the memories have been, but now they are back.
I think she is going to help me escape but, without warning, she knocks me to the ground. I fall giddily onto the floor. I watch her rifling my bag, removing my passport, all my cash, my credit cards - everything that is me! She stuffs them into her own bag. I try to get up and stop her but she punches me in the face. I fall against the heavy bed and hit my head. I watch her running from the motel with a companion, and hear the pickup I had arrived in revving and pulling away at speed.
I walk unsteadily outside the room. It is very hot. Nervously, I look into the next room but the whimpering girl h
as already disappeared. I realise I am still naked. I find a short skirt and a T shirt, dress hurriedly, and run into the desert scrub - not far away, but far enough to take cover behind some thorny bushes. I wait there - not knowing what to do, squatting, my arms folded around my knees until he comes back.
He struts along the boardwalk and goes into the first room - he looks so arrogant in his pin stripe suit and dog collar. I hear him scream in anger. He runs to the next room. I hear him throwing things in rage. When he emerges he is red with fury. He looks around with wild eyes then, with a screech of spinning wheels and a billowing cloud of dust, drives off.
I remember it so well now. I didn’t move for hours. I stayed there breathing hard, shivering as it got dark, urinating, still not knowing whether it was safe to break cover. It was late when I saw him driving back; Lydia and a companion tied up like animals in the back of his pickup - their eyes blackened, their bodies laced with scratches and cuts. I knew they were doomed - he was so angry. And as I saw her bag, filled with my cards and passport, I knew that whatever was Lydia’s fate would be in some way mine.
Yes, it was all clear now, but my mind still would not hold onto it. I felt my grip on the scene loosening. As I watched him dragging them roughly out of the back of the pickup I felt myself rising away from the desert scrub, lifting up from the dark gold earth, into the cold air above the desert. I circled the scene as he kicked both his captives and hauled them into one of the motel rooms. I heard some screams but they were faint now, and they faded completely as I drifted away.
I remember being found by one of Father Dawson’s flock. I was sitting in a diner when he walked in. He sat with me, talking about my body, then his cock, and within minutes I felt giddy and sick. I knew I had been drugged. I never went back to the desert though. The next thing I knew I was here, at Pacific Heights.
I felt a sudden sickening jolt. My memories left me - I was back in the present, confined in the electric chair and again filled with fear.
Caroline stood next to me.
‘Oh, you’re back, sweetie. You’ve been dreaming, I think. I dream sometimes, in the day, when I sleep, but it’s usually about the night and how exciting it is to taste blood. We are so grateful to you. Oh, Syra you are scrummy! Yes, you! Syra, haven’t you realised yet? Oh, you are a one! This is Father Dawson’s new church - his “Church of the Flock” he calls it. Nice, don’t you think? We are all his flock, and we owe it all to you! When he brought you here he found you carried the seed. Yes, you, Syra! You are a sort of ancestor to us all. We’re like sisters, Syra! He used your blood to infect the rest of us. You were only a carrier, of course. You were immune - and never knew anything about it - but now he says we have enough in the flock and it’s time for you to join us properly. He’s very excited - we all are! Syra, it’s so thrilling don’t you think?’
I knew blood was trickling from my mouth and nose - I could taste its salty warmth. I stared up at the single light bulb as it swung above me. Its glare made my head ache. I heard the ocean in the distance - it sounded like the whispering of the dead.
I wanted so much to wipe my mouth and nose. I wanted to look at it - smeared with blood and spit.
I coughed. The sound of it frightened me.
‘So we have not defeated Nurse Roslin,’ I said. ‘She has beaten us.’
Caroline laughed.
‘Oh, Syra, you are so funny!’
She moved aside. Father Dawson stood in front of me, his dark pin striped suit contrasting against his starched white dog collar. My mind was reeling as I realised what I had read in the newspaper; that Father Dawson had been executed!
‘Ah, Syra, you are with us again. Did you think you could escape me, Syra? How could you think such a thing? You, my delectable little blood slave. Now you are to join my new flock. I have held you back for as long as possible - you the bearer of the original seed. My sweet Syra, graced with carrying the germ which has started our new Church of the Flock. I have kept you here, using your delectable infected blood to form our new flock. But now it is time that you join us properly. Yes, now we can bring you over to the side of the Lord, welcome you into the dark world of joy that you have made possible for us all.’
The realisation of it all descended on me like the darkest night.
I saw movement near the priests. It was Nurse Roslin! She had managed to free her head from the roof bars of the cage which confined her. She was shaking the confining structure from side to side - using her body weight to roll it over. It fell on its side. Several priests rushed to the cage but she had already forced the door open with her feet and was free. There was a lot of shouting. The priests hung back - cowering, baring their teeth, snarling, growling. Nurse Roslin stood before them - naked, beautiful, and filled with purpose.
She rushed to the side of the large room. The priests moved back fearfully. She reached up to one of the heavy blinds that covered a window and tore it down. The priests fell back in fear - baring their teeth and snarling. She ran to the next window and did the same. The blind fell to the floor with a clatter. Light burst into the room. It hit me like a blow from a huge fist. My head pounded as I gasped for breath.
Nurse Roslin ran around the room tearing down all the blinds. The room was bathed in light. Holding his arm up against his face, Father Dawson ran to the door. His flock - the priests and the congregation - ran close behind him. He turned - baring his sharp canine teeth, frothing at the mouth, filled with irrepressible anger and pain. He shielded his eyes, unable to utter a word, unable to stand the pain of the light. He snarled as he left, his flock and the priests gathering around him as much in fear as in an effort to protect their master.
I felt trapped- still bound to the chair, unable to protect myself from the light, abandoned by the flock, and giddy with fear and throbbing pain.
Father Dawson and his flock howled and screamed from behind the door. My head was thumping, my eyes ached, the veins in my neck were throbbing.
Suddenly, I felt a waft of cold air across my cheeks. It eased my buzzing head.
Hands held an old newspaper in front of my face. It was charred at the edges.
‘Read your own obituary,’ said a calm voice.
I struggled to make out what was on the page but, as I squinted my watering eyes, the words finally came into focus.
Bodies of missing women found
At the weekend, the bodies of the latest of Father Dawson’s victims were found in the desert outside Tacopa Hot Springs, Arizona. It was possible to identify one, Syra Bond, from her belongings found at the scene. Syra Bond was known to have been Father Dawson’s captive in his church in Arizona. Witnesses say she escaped only to be tracked down by her persecutor near Niagara Falls. She was last seen on the lower viewing balcony of the Canadian Falls two days before Father Dawson’s arrest, but it had proved impossible to trace her until her body was discovered in a shallow grave alongside the body of another young woman assumed to be her travelling companion.
I paused as the information sank in.
At last I spoke.
‘So I am dead,’ I said in a weird matter-of-fact way.
‘Just like me,’ said the voice. ‘You are not alone. We died together. We are both dead. You have just read it. We were found together!’
A shiver of confusion came over me. It was Nurse Roslin!
‘I was one of Father Dawson’s victims as well,’ she said. ‘Like you, I escaped his clutches by chance. Like you, it was another unfortunate who took my place. Syra, I was in the next room to you in the motel in the desert on that awful day when they were taken in our place.’
‘Who was the other girl?’
‘Who suffered and died for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor Syra, hadn’t you realised? It was Caroline! She was with the Mexican girl Lydia who stole your passport. Father Dawson was hol
ding her as well. She escaped with Caroline but not before she rifled through your belongings and took your cards and passport.
‘But that means she’s dead!’
‘Yes, Syra, really dead - whatever her name is does not affect that. She is one of Father Dawson’s flock of the dead. They both took on our identities - and our deaths!’
‘I thought - ‘
‘That I was your enemy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Syra, I have always been your friend. I have been looking out for you all the time you have been here. I heard your suffering in the motel room. I followed you to the diner but could not get you away. Then, when you were drugged and taken back to Father Dawson, and by chance he found the seed of bloodlust in your body, I knew I had to follow you and help. I have had to play their game to prevent discovery - act my part as a nurse. I have been trying to protect you, and now I will save you.’
