“Yes,” I said coldly, “I am to suffer until I’m dead. That is my penance, to give back to the world more than I’ve taken.”
I whimpered, feeling the agony of gross tortures, skin jabbed and peeled, the burning of fire, the chill of snow, and then my head being submerged in a tub of water.
I started gasping for air.
johnny said, “Go to the point of death.”
I stilled for a moment, not breathing at all. Then air filled my lungs. I said, “I drowned.”
“Did your suffering ease man’s pain?”
“No,” I said. A lone tear streaked down my temple. “No, it did not.”
“What else do you see?”
My voice deepened, “No more, johnny. No more! I feel like I’m making all this up. Or, maybe you are creating these things for me to see.”
“How else did your religion betray you? You see it, Jenséa. It’s happening now.”
Before I could resist, I was hurled into a time . . . oh, such a time. My words poured out against my will. The scene grabbed me and made me live in it. “I’m a prophet and a healer at a pagan temple in France. I am female. It is said that I serve Satan. It is said that I am a witch. I’m taken to a monastery and . . . and . . .”
“What Jenséa?” asked johnny, “What’s happening?”
Not breaking the trance, I sat up with desperate open eyes. “They are raping me!”
“Who?” johnny eased me back down on the cushions.
Pain rolled through my body like birth contractions.
“Who is raping you?” asked johnny again.
In welling sobs, I answered, “Priests, one after another. They say they are getting the Devil out of me.” My face contorted with pain for grueling eternal minutes. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t speak. I begged silently for God to spare me from this agony. Then, I whimpered, “I’m treated . . . like an animal—a thing.” I panted hard. A volcanic grief erupted in me. I screamed and screamed and I could not stop. My voice sounded like it was miles away, yet consuming my brain and exploding my heart. I screamed until I no longer had a voice.
I don’t know what happened for a time. But I remember johnny carrying me in his arms into a bathroom. He set me down in a black porcelain tub with my clothes on. He removed my shoes and fanny pack and then filled the tub with cool water. Rising in me was the feeling I had of being drowned when I was the monk.
I whispered, “Are you going to drowned me, johnny?”
“No, Jenséa. I’m not going to drown you.”
My eyes were puffy and sore. I could barely see. I kept whimpering.
He took a black washcloth and wiped my face gently, which felt good. Then he handed me a black goblet filled with red wine.
I tried to push it away. “I don’t drink,” I whispered hoarsely.
“Drink it anyway.”
My stomach lurched with the feeling I had of being poisoned when I was the nun.
Half-delirious, my voice rasped, “Are you going to poison me, johnny?”
“No, Jenséa, I’m not going to poison you.”
I remember looking into his eyes, and in that moment, I decided that he told the truth. Why I decided that I don’t know, especially when he’d just taken me through hell.
I drank the wine straight down thirstily, dehydrated from crying so much. I wasn’t used to wine except for a sip now and then at church. I didn’t realize it would make the world spin. My eyes fell shut. My head plopped to the side, dipping my chin in the water.
I felt him pulling off my wet clothes in the tub. And the degradation of being raped by all the priests who’d claimed they were getting the devil out of me, returned.
I panicked, and asked in a huff of almost voiceless air, “Are you going to rape me, johnny?”
“No, Jenséa, I’m not going to rape you.”
“I can’t suffer any more, johnny.”
“All you need do is call for me,” he said, “and you’ll never suffer again.”
With those words upon my ears, I fell asleep.
Chapter Five
I dreamed scene after scene that I was laboring to get to Zeke’s Meadow, needing to relive the memories of when Randa and I vacationed there at a cabin owned by a friend of my parents. But every time I tried to get there, a winged monster grabbed me and threw me into a horrific scene, where I was raped, tortured, or killed—each time betrayed by religion. johnny’s voice kept filtering in, Call for me. But I refused. Until the last dream that is. I just couldn’t take it anymore.
“johnny!” I wailed out loud with a rasping voice. “Help me!” My head thrashed. “He is trying to kill me.” Then I started choking because in my dream someone was sticking a wooden object down my throat.
johnny’s voice half awakened me, but not enough to shake the dream. “Who’s trying to kill you?”
“johnny, are you here?” My throat hurt bad.
“Yes,” he answered. “Who’s trying to kill you?”
“My sister’s husband. I’m in my bed. He tried to choke me, but someone came and he stopped.”
“Why does he want you dead?”
“He says I’m a witch, but he knows I’m not. I’m a Puritan, a God-fearing, good-hearted Puritan. But he’s going to inform the townspeople that I made a ship full of Puritans sink by evoking a hurricane at Plymouth harbor, because he was with me overlooking the cliff when it happened.” “Did you make the ship sink?”
“No, he just wants me dead. My sister is missing. He doesn’t want me asking about her disappearance because he murdered her. The people are going to come for me and weigh me down with stones until I am crushed. If I die, they will know I wasn’t a witch. But I don’t want to die this way. But God will save me. I know God will save me.”
“Does God save you?”
“No!” I wailed in a harsh whisper.
“Wake up, Jenséa. Wake up.”
I heard johnny’s voice like the sound of deep echoing bells. I opened my eyes. johnny’s face hovered over me. His long, damp hair moistened the black tee shirt against his chest. He must have just showered.
It was morning. I was clothed in a black silk shirt, maybe the one he’d worn last night. The musk smelling silk engulfed me. My hands were somewhere under the sleeves. Only my fingers peeked out, touching the softest comforter. I lifted my head slightly and glanced down. I was under gorgeous velvet covers, black as midnight, on a king size bed. I rested my head again. The velvet pillow clouded my ears. Comfort was no issue.
I stared at his face, observing me with a strange adoration that felt unearthly, and at the same time deliciously wicked. Then it dawned on me that he’d seen me naked. I blushed, and my head hurt.
I grabbed my forehead. “I don’t feel well.”
He mounted the bed, and me. Not in a bad way really, just kind of unnerving. The heat of his knees filtered into mine, even through the covers.
My mouth was so dry that my swallow was loud. “I . . . I don’t think you should be up here with me.”
His fingers circled my wrists gently. “You need my help to rise from bed.” He drew me up to a sitting position. The covers fell to my lap. I noticed my shirt wasn’t buttoned very high. Oh geez. Had something inappropriate occurred?
I took back my hands and grasped the upper portion of the shirt I wore. I slid my knees from under his and the covers, and turned to get out of bed without his help, but my woozy head fell forward.
He caught me from falling off the bed with his arm, angling me against him. The side of my head fell against his shoulder. I asked, “Did you . . . hurt me, johnny?”
“No, Jenséa. I did not hurt you.”
“Are you evil, johnny?”
“Yes, Jenséa. I am evil”
“Yes? Yes you are evil?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How can you just say that you are evil?”
“What is evil?” His hand slid feather light down my cheek. “Violence. Chaos. Death. Could a world exist without such things? I
f not, then I am needed.”
In the nook of his arm, I sighed, exasperated. “I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand who you really are and why you would want to help me. What’s in it for you? If you are evil, then whatever you want with me can’t be good.”
“But it is. It is good for you. And it is good for me.”
“Good for you, maybe. This is not good for me.”
“Jenséa, your journey into darkness began before you met me. I’m only helping you through it to a better place.”
“Through what?” And then feeling a wave of nausea, I said, “Never mind, I’m going to be sick.”
He took my hand and led me off the bed. I almost fell to the carpet, handicapped by sore muscles. Running from a predator, struggling with johnny, screaming from horrid visions, and having nightmares all night will do that to you. johnny caught me, then helped me inch along toward the bathroom. My stringy hair hung in my eyes. I felt like an old, old woman.
I reached the bathroom. And oh, what a bathroom it was: expansive with a separate tub and shower; a shiny onyx counter with a gray marble sink; plush black carpet that courted my bare feet; and black and gray tiled walls, marble maybe. It was odd to see such extravagance in what was supposed to be a poor part of town.
“Drink water and shower,” he said. “Then you’ll fare better.”
He pointed to the array of toiletries on a glass shelf above the glossy black counter, so neatly arranged that I felt guilty at the thought of disturbing them. Everything was top of the line and seductively packaged: herbal oils in colored glass bottles, exquisite shampoos, fancy conditioners, toothpaste, deodorant, brushes, combs, soaps, bath sponges. There was even a black pitcher of water and matching goblet at the corner of the counter. Geez, what more could a girl want? A little make-up maybe.
I glanced at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror above the counter. From behind me, he brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “Help yourself.”
His face was dark in the mirror, almost like a shadow, but his eyes glowed red. I snapped my head around and stared at him. The red glow was gone.
My brow tightened. Did I need an eye exam? Was the light playing tricks on me? Was johnny a demon? Oh, what good would it do me to know the answer? I was still in trouble.
johnny smiled faintly as if enjoying my attempt at logic. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
Another sick wave washed over me. I turned to the black commode, flipped up the lid and fell on my knees, dry heaving for ungodly moments. I kept telling myself that johnny could not be for real. He was harsh, yet seemingly earnest in his desire to help me. Could one such as he truly have taken me under his wing for a good-hearted reason?
I rose stiffly and walked to the counter. I poured cool water into the goblet and drank. The icy liquid soothed my stomach. My nausea subsided. I slipped off the silk shirt and laid it on the counter, surveying my naked pale flesh, a bit too emaciated, and way untapped. Abused maybe, but not opened. You know, like in the movies where a woman’s femininity splashes all over the screen.
I gathered lavender shampoo, conditioner, purple soap, a loofah sponge, and a razor, then padded to the shiny black shower adjacent the tub. I opened the clear glass door and stepped inside onto the smooth black tile. I adjusted the water to a steamy hot level, and reveled in the soothing warmth that poured over me like silk, loosening my sore muscles. I glided the soap over my skin, so happy to get thoroughly clean after yesterday’s ordeals. Though my body was relaxed, my mind was yet tangled in knots.
Surely, there was no such thing as reincarnation. I mean, a hereafter in heaven, yes. But nothing more. johnny had said that in a way there wasn’t reincarnation, yet in a way there was. What did that mean? And how could I recall those past times so clearly and relive the pain as if it had happened today? I doubted my sanity. I doubted reality. I doubted everything. And yet, swimming in all that doubt, the good little religious girl was still treading water. Religion remained a lifeline that I was not ready to release.
I continued this consternation for the duration of my shower. Afterward, I completed the rest of my hygiene ritual, concluded by rubbing lavender oil onto my skin. Why did I do that? I guess I wanted to be pretty for johnny, even though I’d never allow myself to have a romantic relationship with him.
I slipped back into the black silk shirt, wondering where my clothes might be. My shoes, belt, and fanny pack were also missing. I buttoned the shirt up around my neck. I wrapped a huge black towel around me over the shirt, feeling too sinful to not cover up, if indeed I could.
The heat from the shower had eased my muscle pain. Walking was easier. I emerged modestly from the bathroom, swallowed in my towel, with damp combed hair, wearing no make-up at all. I felt plain and pale without it. I wondered how any man could be attracted to me. Oh, my figure was okay, but my overall appearance seemed ghostly, almost incorporeal, not of flesh and blood, as if I’d never really been alive. In truth, I felt as if I’d slept through life, and I suddenly, desperately, wanted to wake up.
I peeked shyly around the corner into the distant kitchen. johnny was frying something. Judging from the sizzle and aroma—ham, and being a vegetarian who had just thrown up, I didn’t embrace the idea of eating pig.
I cleared my throat and asked, “Where are my clothes?”
“In the basement dryer. They needed washing.”
I had an urge to throw up again, but since my stomach was empty, I overrode the sensation. “Is he gone?”
“Gone,” johnny said.
I sighed with relief, not wanting to feel like I'd been part of a killing.
“Thank you for cleaning my clothes,” I said. But not wanting to go home naked, I added, “What if someone steals them?”
He looked at me as if my question was stupid, and his look was clear, even from the kitchen.
“I know. I know,” I said, half-patronizing, “You are watching over my clothes even though you’re nowhere near them.”
His orange eyes seemed to burn. “You mock me.”
I had mocked him, and I felt bad. “I don’t mean to. It’s just a lot to believe.”
He walked toward me with a black plate of ham, rounding the corner where I partially hid. “You will believe.”
When he reached me, I said, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t be sorry. Pity insults me.”
“I don’t pity you. I feel bad that I hurt you.”
He said, “Nothing of me can hurt. And those who try . . . well, it is a call for pain you might say.”
When he talked like that, I feared more than ever that he would hurt me yet.
Seemingly reading my thoughts, he said, “I told you, you are the exception.”
I raised my eyes demurely. “But why am I the exception? Why do you want to help me? What’s in it for you?”
“I know what you are. To harm you would be a waste.”
“What do you mean what I am? I’m just a woman.”
“Trust me. You are more.”
“I don’t trust men. Not any men—except priests.”
“If there is but one man worthy of your trust, it is I.” He pushed the huge slab of pink juicy pig toward me, still wearing fingerless gloves. Did he ever remove them?
I didn’t want the ham. Just looking at it sickened me. My hands remained hidden in the towel.
“I don’t eat meat.”
“That’s your problem,” he said, “you’re no carnivore. And you need to be.”
“Well, I don’t want to eat it.”
“You need some animal in you.”
He pulled back the plate. With his free hand, he grabbed my towel and tossed it to the floor. “Stop hiding.”
I gasped, hugging my stomach. “You had no right to do that!”
“You are such a nun,” he pressed the plate against my stomach, “but we’ll fix that.”
I glared at him. I didn’t want to take the plate, but if I refused, I knew he’d
force me. I took the stupid plate, stared at the ham and winced. “Well, do I at least get a knife and fork?”
“Use your fingers.”
My jaw tensed. He was pushing me too far. I said, “I don’t like how you make me do things. I have a right to refuse, and you have no right to keep me here, no matter what the reason. I want my clothes, and I want to go back to Randa’s.”
“Not yet.” His eyes sharpened.
I glanced at the black cordless phone on the square slate end table, cornering the black armchair and floor cushions. “I need to call Randa.”
“Not now.”
“When will you be done with me?”
“Not ever.”
“Not ever? Never? Like never, ever, never?”
He said, “What’s never, what’s ever, what is being done with you?”
I stared at him, annoyed. He never gave straight answers, and he made me doubt my questions. “It means, when can I go back to Randa’s? You can’t keep me prisoner.”
“I can. It is for your own good. Trust me.”
I threw my head back, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, oh please, let me go!”
His traditional silence left me hanging. I sighed hard, and then glared at him. And he was glaring at me, his orange whirling orbs, calming me against my will.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m confused. You distress me, but claim you are helping me, which I doubt, because you won’t tell me what’s in it for you. You say you cause people pain, which means you don’t feel compassion. Therefore, you can’t care about me. How can I comply when I don’t understand what’s happening?”
“If you eat,” he said, “I’ll tell you.”
I glanced at the ham slab, not relishing the prospect of landing it in my stomach, but I decided to try.
“Okay,” I said, “Do I at least get a napkin?”
He put his hand behind his back, and brought if forward producing a napkin. Had it been in his pocket? I took it quickly, fearing it might disappear. He led me into the main room and motioned me to sit on the black velvet cushions. I hated viewing the horror hanging on his walls, so I made it a point to avert my eyes. I sat, eyeing him hard. I wanted answers.
The Mark of Chaos Page 7
