by Naomi Canale
After she left the court room, they laid out the crime scene visually. One-by-one photos were placed onto a table where everyone could see and all of a sudden, I understood why I might not ever see Mom again, and I haven’t.
When Dad’s picture came up, I tried to look away, but it was too late, I had already caught a glimpse of the horror. Mom and Dad were each other’s beloved. They had always joked about how they would be old and senile together. My heart will never heal at the thought that that won’t be happening as I sit and rot in my cell, for life.
For a split second, I thought it was a man resting his head on a table, and then I saw the blood—then Dad. His Bible sat vertically where the other chair had sat at our kitchen table—someone had been sitting next to him. I noticed the pages of Dad’s Bible crumbled up in wads and strewn about in puddles of his blood. The idea that Daniel was taunting Dad, or whatever it was he was doing with my body, puts a sour taste upon my taste buds. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallow. I know as the new Christian I am, I have to practice forgiveness, otherwise I might not survive a penitentiary.
I shut my eyes and press hard into the creases of my eyelids. I push firm enough to see black and silver stars before more tears fall across my cheeks.
I breathe in, wipe them clean, and pick up my Bible. I place it in my lap. But I’m tempted to put it back down as I listen to my attorney’s words echo through me as if it was yesterday.
“You’ve already been through a traumatic experience and I know after talking with you personally, what a smart young lady you are,” he said.
“Thank you,” I half smiled. Being complimented felt strange after being prosecuted like I had been, especially by myself, I seemed to be harder on me than anyone else sitting in that room.
“In school you were at the top of your class—”
The prosecutor quickly interrupted, “Excuse me, but what does this have to do with the trial?”
“Well, I’m trying to make the point that Savanna is extremely intelligent. Her scores rank among the highest in the state, but she also comes from a religious background. And I believe she was fostered into the delusion she was possessed.”
The entire time he interviewed me, I thought he believed me, and then I felt stupid sitting up there on that stand. He had me suddenly believing I was more than insane, that I was a psychopath. I should have just taken the plea bargain I was first offered to avoid all the media and humiliation. But he had urged me not to. “I wouldn’t ever get an appeal again,” he told me.
Later, the psychologist that works with the state had me believing I fostered a manifestation and the moments I couldn’t remember as Daniel “used” my body was my brains way of collecting bits and pieces of an experience. She told me on several occasions that our brains can only attempt to fill in the gaps of our memories and sometimes they block out things we don’t want to remember. It’s common among homicide cases.
But I know what I saw, and now that I’ve read all one thousand seven hundred and one pages of the Bible, I know I didn’t foster an illusion, a manifestation. People used to think the earth was flat and the Bible has always said different.
The list of why I now have faith is long.
I have the faith Dad was always trying to show me, and I’ve become one of those Jesus freaks I was always afraid of.
The door unlocks.
It’s time for me to pay for my sins.
Chapter 27
Jesus Freak
As I step out of the van and onto soil that belongs to Sin City, I think how ironic it is that I’ll be paying for mine in the city most known for sin.
The chains connecting my wrists down to my ankles quickly begin to burn from the August heat. Desert sand bakes on top of asphalt and shifts under the soles of my canvas sneakers as guards guide me across an empty lot toward the entrance.
A crow startles me with a loud squawk as the sun sits just behind him. My eyes burn as I watch him fluff up his charcoal wings. He’s agitated and continues on with his shrieking as his glossy eyes look straight into mine.
A shiver moves down my spine—he has reminded me of my nightmares.
My psychologist told me traumatic experiences will leave an impression on a person for a long time and nightmares are a very normal thing when it comes to recovery. But the thing I didn’t tell her is that I’ve been having nightmares since before I could even remember. Maybe that’s why I’d always enjoyed a good thrill, my nightmares became normal and only seemed to make life dull after waking.
Gates lined with barbed wire slam shut before we step onto cement shadowed by the large building made of bricks covered with a sloppy off-white paint job. I’ve lost sight of the sun. The warmth of it on my skin, its guiding light, the rays of hope it carries—dreams, it’s all gone.
The crow bats his wings in my direction and I catch a glance of him over my shoulder. He lets out one last harsh call as he takes off. Wherever he’s headed, I’m envious. And in a way, he just mocked me because he’s free and I’m not.
Since my trial got a lot of media attention, the system is treating me special. It sucks in a way because I don’t get to blend in under the shadow of other inmates; I have to do everything alone with the guards.
They hand me off to two other guards and bring me into an open room with large windows. On the other side I can see the prisoners that I may spend the rest of my life with—if we’re all blessed enough to survive.
One of the newer guards I’m being handed off to removes my cuffs and doesn’t even look at me, like I don’t matter. “Please step into the fish tank and remove all your articles of clothing.”
Fish tank? What is this, some form of humiliation to break in new prisoners?
As I start to remove a jumpsuit that’s twice my size, I notice the other prisoners staring. One begins to laugh and point which causes another to split two fingers across her mouth and stick out her tongue. Another joins in on their “fun” and humps the air before I’m searched.
I already had this done before I got into the van for my nine hour drive over here, but I guess they want to make sure I didn’t find anything tucked away into the cushions inside the van. Another guard with short hair and heavy freckles searches through my Bible. She turns it upside down and shakes it. The many pieces of papers that it holds are almost a year worth of notes—they fall all over her desk, and I squint in pain. The visual of verses strewn all over make Dad’s homicide picture come to mind. I bite my lip and swallow trying to hold in tears, I don’t want the inmates watching to think I’m weak.
A loud buzzer sounds and two other women guards walk out. “C-2 segregation here?” says another large woman with the straightest posture I’ve ever seen. She carries the name Sandy in small lettering printed on her shirt.
“Yup,” says the other holding onto my Bible. She gives it back. “You can get dressed now.”
They chain me up all over again while the other two guards grab my elbows. “You ready?”
I nod quickly; I want out of the fish tank. Being the source of everyone’s “entertainment” isn’t fun and it feels dirty, unholy.
They’ve allowed me to have a Bible—that’s it. It’s tucked close into sweaty palms. I won’t even get the essential toiletries for a while unless family or friends send me some, but I don’t have any of those left except for Mom and I doubt she will. To her, I took the love of her life, the two souls God bound together to be one. In a way, I guess I did.
I’ll find strength in pain. I shut my eyes and try to listen to the outside world, but I can’t even hear the loud shriek of a crow, the soft chirping of the birds, or even the violent wind making dust devils out in the desert. I wonder how long it will be before they let me outside so I can hear them again.
The darker woman hanging on to my left elbow stiffens her grip. It’s like she read too many news clippings on my case and she’s scared. When I catch a glimpse of the cross that delicately hangs on a gold chain around her neck, I
start to understand why she would be afraid of me.
The inside of the prison smells of bleach, sweat, and cold bars of steel. My body is broken; I limp with a permanently wounded right leg as I move along. As I barely scuffle along because of chains and my pathetic limp, I watch as all the women bang their steel bars with their palms and holler out to me. How am I going to survive?
As we draw closer to the cells, segregation suddenly doesn’t seem that segregated. Prisoners try to make their voices known as I step into sight onto a metal bridge that keeps me distanced from them. “It’s demon girl,” they shout.
“I heard you killed kids, bitch,” yells another.
Their voices grow louder. They must think I’m like them, but I’m not; I’m innocent, in a way. But their judgmental glares and remarks make me think different. I doubt my innocence as the devil still plays with my mind—he is the biggest accuser after all. But as my palm grows sweaty around the Bible my heart grows steady and doubts crumble quickly like a sweet pastry upon famished lips.
I made the news as another troubled youth, out to take revenge on the innocent. It’s like these girls want to test me because they’re bored and want to see what I’m made of. But I don’t want to fight fire with fire, I want to hold onto everything Dad taught me and live out the plan God gave him, which I helped cut short.
I know I’m not going to be allowed to talk to anyone for a while. I’ve already been told what my first few months of my new life in prison are going to be like. Before I’m left a long time without being able to talk to anyone, I try to speak the word of Jesus into the two holding onto me. “I’m really not crazy. But demons really do exist—God exists. And even though I’ve been to hell and back, God’s son, Jesus Christ, saved me.”
Sandy grasps onto my elbow more firmly. She laughs and rolls her eyes while looking at her counterpart. I continue, not only to console myself with scripture, but to possibly be the one to help her believe, like Dad wanted me to all those years.
“The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control.”
“Fuckin’ crazies,” she says so quietly that not even her believing counterpart can hear.
But it’s true, I want to cry. But it probably won’t do any good. She’ll most likely chuckle more and put in a request for me to have more visits with my psychologist.
For a moment, I stare at my feet and mumble, “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control.”
I attempt to shut out my new world as we stand outside of my cell—C2, I repeat the verse as she gestures me into my tiny home.
Sandy’s irritated with me. She holds onto her belt and straightens it out as she shuts the gate of my cell and locks it. “Let me tell you something, honey,” her brown eyes narrow in on me, “you want to survive in here? Listen to me closely. Rule number one: you don’t talk to the guards. Number two: respect other inmates. Number three: do not get involved with a gang. Number four: don’t do drugs. Number five: don’t have sex—you’ll most likely get AIDS. Number six: don’t gamble. Number seven: keep yourself busy with positive activities—idleness is this devil you believe in, it’s his playground. And number eight: consider yourself lucky that I just told you all that.”
The other woman walking away with her appears to be less than impressed with her co-worker. I wonder if that officer and I will get to know each other? Even though she seems like she’s afraid of me, she’s one of the nicest ones I’ve met thus far.
“Goodbye, dreams,” I say to myself as I look around a dark grey room that’s damp and gives off the vibes that suicides happened in here at one time. There’s no mat on the beds here, just a white flat surface with a blanket. I take a seat.
Satan tempted Jesus in the desert and just like Jesus I was tempted in an eerily similar way, but I was feeble, Jesus wasn’t. I guess that’s a big difference between being mortal and immortal. But he won’t ever tempt me again.
Regrets start to collect.
For just a moment when Daniel breathed over me—whispered to me that night in jail—pain, misery, and the best time of my life all blended into one. And then he moved on as if I was a faint memory of someone he might recall. He probably laughs at the flash backs (if he even has any) of our embrace, our kiss, and the way it felt when he held me so close that he stole my heart—took my soul.
That lonely look of emptiness that covered his face stays with me. I took him in like a sick puppy full of hope swelling in his eyes praying I could help make him well—alive. But like a brown speck on an apple he quickly rotted me whole. From the outside in, he devoured me and left me to decompose on the cold, still, hard ground.
I’ve had a lot of time to think and I’ve tried hard to not think of the demons, but after everything I’ve been through it’s nearly impossible. I’ve grown scared—scared of the idea that demons play with your deepest fears.
Lucky feared the monsters and maybe for me—I feared love.
They still seem to whisper to me in the middle of the night, I always tell them they can’t have me and to go away, but it seems to only make them mad and anxious to do it more. Maybe because my body is burned on the inside out from Daniel and it’s noticeable. I’ve learned that the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; I can’t even begin to understand it.
The verses I read to Detective Johnson stay with me—they’ve brought me comfort because all I’ve been told is how I’m a murderer, a religious crazy who finally snapped. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one possession has happened to. I clutch onto my Bible. It’s been happening before and during the time Christ walked the earth. I’ve been memorizing chunks of the Bible daily, especially the creepy parts to help deal with the pain. I’m not sure why but the scariest verses seem to bring me the most comfort.
Dad would be proud though, it’s only a matter of time before pages filled with verses become worn—frazzled, like his were.
There’s an urge to stand to my feet and observe my new surroundings. I should just get it over with. I’m going to have to face the fact that my home is now cold concrete with roommates who like to pick fights.
A girl with skin the same color as Daniel’s eyes tilts her head at me and smiles. Her cell is far from mine, but I can tell she’s beautiful and there’s something different about her.
As I smile back, her lips lower. “Daniel will always love you,” she says, lip syncing through the empty space within the bars.
I grip onto cold metal, swallow my fear—I hadn’t told anyone his name.
“What?” I reply.
She’s silent a moment, but suddenly I know the answer to my own question. I can see the demon that’s latched onto her as she begins to giggle so hard that spit sprays the air. “Daniel, loves you,” she shouts.
It’s a faint echo, but I hear her words and watch as snot clings to a metal bar as she sways around—almost dancing.
Another one of her chuckles dives deep into my chest and penetrates my heart with a sickness—a sadness. She slowly speaks to me again so I can understand each word. “He moved into those dying bodies to feel their salvation sucked from their lifeless veins.”
She stops and strokes the bar.
I notice scars on her face—they’re like mine. “I’m your worst nightmare, Jesus freak, your worst nightmare.”
Acknowledgements
First I want to thank God, without Him, I would have never found my way out of the darkness I was lost in so long ago. I love you.
I’m continually grateful for all who stood by my side, cheered, and mentored me as I wrote this book…
For Daniel, my husband, you have always told me I can when I say I can’t. You are the light of my life. To my boys, Coby, Jesse, and Asher—you have opened my eyes to true happiness and joy, thank you. My mom and dad, your guidance and love led me to where I am today. I couldn’t ask for better parents. To my broth
er Ben, your intelligence has always astounded me. I’m so proud of you. Thank you for your insight into this book. And for my sister, Alisa, your fighting spirit has always amazed me. You will overcome this battle, I believe in you.
Thanks to Lia Keyes for her editorial expertise and unwavering support. To Ellen Hopkins, Susan Lindquist, Jay Asher, Heather Petty, and Jacqueline Garlick-Pynaert, I’m in debt to you for the amount of time and love you have given me as I’ve grown in the craft. You are more than authors. You pour out your hearts and souls to others. Thank you for being extraordinary examples.
For my agent Pam van Hylckama Vlieg. Thank you for always believing in me.
A huge thank you to my beta readers Sara Jo Johnson and Traci Kattelman. Your enthusiasm for this book kept me writing late into the nights with a smile on my face. Thanks to Trenton Johnson for the hours spent helping me see through the eyes of a detective. My crime scenes would be stale without you. To Jeanette Maxwell-Santiago, your art and faith inspire me daily. Thank you for the beautiful pieces you created for this book. And thank you to all the Starbucks baristas who brewed me hundreds of cups of coffee and tea so I could write this book. You guys rock!
I would also like to credit Robin Ludwig Design Inc. for the gorgeous cover on this book and Kendall Berry for my author photo. You both have such talent. Thank you!
Table of Contents
Copyright
EPIGRAPH
Dedication
Chapter 1 Thrill Seekers
Chapter 2 Breathe Deep
Chapter 3 One Touch
Chapter 4 Perfect Chemistry
Chapter 5 Small Town Life
Chapter 6 Black Lace
Chapter 7 Haunting Me
Chapter 8 Afflicted
