Scars

by Patience Prence

  I can’t believe this! Why can’t people see the truth? It is so clear. It is all in the Bible. No wonder they banned the Bible. Jesus gave the disciples so many warnings to prepare them not to be deceived. What part of “as lightning flashes from the East to the West, so shall the coming of the Son of Man be” don’t they understand?

  “Never!” she said aloud. “I will never worship Maitreyas. I’d rather die than worship him!”

  “Well, Becky,” Brock said glumly, “death may be your only alternative. Maitreyas will use fear and anxiety as a way to deceive many.”

  Tucking her thin gown around her body, Becky scooted down the metal wall onto the floor, propping her arms under her head. She studied the crooked pipe hanging down from the ceiling.

  It all made sense to her now. It was just as Brock and Mr. Smith had said. Innocent people were secretly rounded up and put onto trains that headed to these death camps. Deadly gas must have flowed through the pipes attached to the boxcars. People must have wondered what was going to happen to them as they waited, not knowing the containers were slowly filling up with intoxicating deadly gas fumes to kill them. Their bodies were then carried out to the fields then dumped into the deep pits and buried. All of those dirt mounds must have bodies under them. She shuddered.

  A tear escaped the corner of her eye. I wonder if Daddy and David are buried under one of those piles of dirt? For a moment a profound pain cut through her chest like a sharp knife. Her eyes filled with tears as she sniffed back the mucus running from her nose. She pushed from her mind her terrible loss.

  How horrible our government has become. How could so many people believe and follow Peter Roma and Maitreyas? Maitreyas was teaching, “Peace! Peace!” while at the same time he was behind all of the death and destruction in the world.

  “I HATE MAITREYAS! I WISH HE WAS STILL DEAD!” Becky turned over into a fetal position. She buried her head in her arms and sobbed uncontrollably.

  Metal clanged as Brock’s shackle scraped across the floor. He reached over and kindly brushed back Becky’s hair with his fingers. “There, there now, Becky. Let it all out. It’s gonna be okay.”

  Becky’s sobbing subsided, and a deep quiet settled over the foul-smelling box container. Minutes bled into hours as the small beam of light pouring through the round pipe slowly inched its way across the filthy floor. They both waited anxiously, dreading and fearing the unknown. Sometimes Brock hummed songs to break the dreary silence.

  The cold wind howled outside, and the day’s light began to dim. The menacing shadows in the boxcar grew darker and larger.

  The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of two car engines pulling up outside.

  A worried expression crossed Brock’s face. Lifting his eyebrows, his gaze fixed on the metal sliding door.

  Several car doors slammed.

  Becky quickly sat up, tucking her knees beneath her nightgown. She was sure Brock could hear her heart pounding wildly inside her chest.

  There was a loud screech as the container door slid open, spilling fresh air into the stuffy prison. Two men dressed in sable shirts and trousers with matching berets, peered inside.

  “Disgusting! It smells like a sewer in here!” yelled one of the men as he held his hand over his nose.

  The other man hoisted himself up into the boxcar. He was over six feet in height, broad-shouldered with an almost dirty, sandy complexion. Tight faced, he walked toward Becky and Brock. His black eyes glared below his massive forehead. Becky noticed a red scar on his right hand as he fumbled with a key. He bent over and unlocked Brock’s chains.

  The other man waited outside, twisting up his blond moustache, trying to look insolent and peremptory, shifting his gaze from the rows of shackles to the smelly rotten debris on the floor.

  “Both of you, outside!” the tall man demanded, jumping to his feet and pointing to the open door.

  Brock moaned in pain as he stood up, stretching his cramped arms and legs. Becky pulled herself up and stood close to him. Her knees began to shake as they walked slowly to the entrance together. The tall man stood behind them and waited.

  Brock jumped out first then turned to help Becky out. The tall man then scooted out after Becky.

  Standing outside, the mustached man seized Becky’s thin arm and began leading her away.

  As they walked away from the boxcar, Becky felt a surge of sadness at the thought of parting from Brock. Although she had just met him that morning, she felt as if she’d known him her whole life. She had shared so much with him. She felt so close to him, and now she was leaving him. A part of her soul was ripping away. Without thinking she pulled her arm from the mustached man’s grip and ran to Brock, thrusting both of her arms around his neck in a fierce embrace.

  Brock sensed her body quiver. Stunned and grief-stricken by her sudden burst of emotion, he felt a sob lodge in his throat, but no tears followed.

  Tears streamed down Becky’s damp red cheeks, and the mustached man angrily grabbed Becky’s elbow and pulled her away from Brock. She sniffled as she turned and watched the other man grasp Brock and walk him toward the parked white car.

  Brock stopped abruptly and turned back toward Becky.

  She quickly brushed away her tears with her right arm.

  “Hang in there, Becky. . .I’m counting on you!” With that, his head disappeared into the back of the car.

  The mustached man roughly led Becky over to the parked black car. He opened the door. She obediently crawled in and sat on the leather seat.

  As they drove down the dusty road, away from the ghostly prison death camp, Becky wondered where they were taking her and if she would ever see Brock again. . . .

  It was granted to him to make war with the saints and to overcome them. And authority was given him over every tribe, tongue and nation. All who dwell on the earth will worship him, whose names have not been written in the Book of Life of the Lamb slain from the

  foundation of the world.

  Revelation 12:7-8

  7

  The trial

  Becky takes small strides back and forth across her cell. With the back of her hand she wipes the moisture that trickles along her hairline. The relentless sun pounds angrily against the outer walls heating the little room like an oven. The heat seems to radiate off every surface: the desk, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, her small cot. Smoke from the fires still hangs in the stagnant sky and casts a reddish-brown hue over everything.

  She cannot escape the stench of the burnt grass and timber. Her throat is scratchy, and her lungs are restricted making it difficult to breathe. She involuntarily expels air from her chest and coughs uncontrollably. The grimy soot scrapes her throat and lodges deep into her bronchial passages.

  She stops for a second and forces her mind to try to break away from the heat and misery she feels. Her eyes close, and she visualizes the swimming pool back at home in Valencia. She can see herself floating on the dark-blue air mattress while kicking her feet, the cold water splashing against her face.

  With a deep sigh she opens her eyes. The peeling white paint on the wall stares at her, snapping her back to reality. With a groan she walks over to the desk where her journal sits, concealing her most private thoughts. Carefully she flips the book open. Broad curvy handwriting tells the story of how she came to this prison. Her favorite Scripture verses are scrawled over and over again. They have brought her untold comfort in her most difficult moments, and hopeful prayers to God are written like letters to an old friend. She turns to the back of the worn, tattered book. Only a few blank pages are left. She holds one between her thumb and forefinger and tugs on it tentatively. She slams the journal closed and pushes it away. She turns her attention to the copy of “The New Gospel” sitting undisturbed in the corner.

  It seems to glare at her, mocking her. In a quick and violent motion she grabs the black book and flings it across the room. It hits the wall with a thud; its thin, delicate pages flutter like wounded birds and scatter across
the floor. Her body stiffens, and she becomes paranoid when she realizes what she has just done. She glances up at the security camera hanging from the ceiling and whispers an urgent prayer that no one has seen her act of “blasphemy.”

  Quickly she moves to pick up the brittle pages and stuffs them back neatly into the loose binding. A shrill cry echoes from the bed springs as she sits down with the damaged book and spreads it open in her lap. She reads earnestly, hoping that anyone watching through the dark lens above will figure she had only dropped their sacred book by accident.

  “The mystery of the Sacred wedding.” Her lips move as she mouths the words.

  “Christ—the Sacred Masculine and the Sacred Mother, the Sacred Feminine. . . .” Her eyes scan the small, black print.

  “By meditating under the Rainbow Path of the Mandala of the Heavenly Jerusalem, you can reach a higher state of Being than receiving the Crown of Initiations. . . .”

  “Oh, brother.” She rolls her eyes and continues.

  “The universal consciousness of the Christ lives in you and you are to do what you see from him. The Son can do nothing on his own; he does only what he sees his Father doing. What the Father does the Son also does. For the Father loves the Son and shows him all that he himself is doing.”

  A feeling of sadness overcomes her. I can’t believe they quote Bible verses only when it benefits them to contradict their lies.

  She stands up and with reasonable care tucks the book under her arm and walks into the bathroom. She sets it on the corner of the vanity.

  Thank goodness, there are no cameras in here.

  She sits down and uses the toilet. A giggle escapes her smiling, dry, cracked lips as she pulls a loose page out of the “The New Gospel.” Now I have an endless supply of toilet paper! When she is finished, she stands and jiggles the chrome handle. The porcelain bowl gurgles, and the contents disappear down the drain pipe.

  Becky turns toward the tub. She lifts another loose page out of the book and begins the task of wiping away the muck from the walls and bottom of the tub. When she’s finished she tosses the soggy, soiled paper onto the ground. She reaches over and turns the brass knob to release water out of the valve. Rust-colored liquid spills out of the spout and begins to fill the bath. The sound of cascading water echoes off the bathroom walls and stained ceramic tiles.

  Her blond tresses tumble over her shoulders as she yanks the orange drawstring out of her hair and sets it on the counter. Her shirt clings to her sweaty back as she lifts it up over her head and then drops it to the floor. Her foot kicks the bright orange top aside.

  She reaches over and shuts off the spigot. Lukewarm water ripples as she dips her foot in, one after the other, and then slowly lowers herself into the bath. She leans back and squeezes her eyes shut, holds her breath and completely submerges herself under the refreshing water. Her body tenses as it adapts to the change in temperature. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she rises but keeps her eyes closed.

  Drip. Drip. Drip. She hears tiny drops of water as they work their way down the spout and into the tub.

  As the rust-stained water buoys her small frame, Becky cannot help but let her mind wander. Random thoughts and images flash before her as aquatic sounds fill her ears.

  Finally her mind settles on the image of her black-and-white cat, Buster, perched at the edge of the tub dabbing his furry black paws at the drips of water falling from the spout. Oh, how I miss my Buster Kitty. She wraps her arms around herself in an unconscious effort to comfort her grief.

  A stray Siamese cat showed up at their house one evening and stayed just long enough to birth four kittens in Buddy’s doghouse.

  Sadly, when the kittens were just a few weeks old she disappeared. Dad said he thought a coyote might have gotten to her because he’d seen some in their neighborhood on his way to work. The kittens were not weaned yet so Momma handfed them until they could eat on their own and were old enough to give away. “Oh, please, Momma.” Becky remembers pleading for one particular blue-eyed charcoal-black kitten with a white stripe down the middle of his face. “I promise I’ll feed him and change his litter box.” Momma finally gave in and agreed to let her keep “Buster.”

  “Rebekah Silver?” A woman’s sharp voice jolts Becky out of her thoughts. Her body shrinks as she realizes they must have seen her rip the pages out of “The New Gospel.”

  “Uh. . .hold on a second. I’ll be right there.” Her voice quivers. Water splashes on the floor as she scrambles out of the tub. She quickly scoops up the large orange shirt and wraps it tightly around her wet body. Her feet leave wet prints on the tile as she hurriedly walks to the entry of her cell.

  A short, overweight, white woman stands on the other side of the bars. Her bleached blond hair is pulled back tightly into a bun.

  “Yes?” Becky asks softly, hiding behind her shirt. Her jaw shudders, and her exposed skin wrinkles with goose bumps, partly due to cool dampness and partly out of fear for what this strange woman wants with her.

  “Uh. . .I was hot so I decided to soak in the bathtub.” She tries to explain her appearance to the expressionless woman staring back at her.

  “Get dressed. I will be back for you in five minutes.”

  The woman turns and disappears into the dark hallway.

  Becky stands motionless for a second then blindly moves back into the bathroom. Wild thoughts run through her head. What does that woman want with me? A sudden stab of fear pierces her soul. Maybe they have come to execute me? Her head becomes light, and the walls seem to sway all around her. Her knees bend, and she grabs the sink to keep herself from falling over. She feels the chicken broth she had at lunch rising in her stomach.

  All the sounds in the room suddenly go silent, as though she is holding her head underwater again. She can hear only her own labored breathing and the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. Her eyes moisten. It is almost evening. . .maybe they want to execute me before sundown? That means I may be alive for only a few more hours. GOD, WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? she pleads.

  After several long minutes she forces herself to think rationally and push aside these morbid depressing thoughts out of her mind. She wipes the tears from her eyes.

  “My momma must have come to get me,” she whispers. Her hands shake as she struggles to push her arms through the armholes of the shirt. All she knows is she’s sick and tired of this place. She wants to go home to Momma, Buster and Buddy.

  “Momma is here,” she whispers again, trying to convince herself.

  She straightens the large shirt around her body and looks into the mirror. A frightened child looks back at her. She closes her eyes and prays. Dear Jesus, please help me be strong. . . .

  She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. Her body begins to calm. She combs her fingers through her tangled, wet hair and then ties it back with the drawstring she’d left on the sink. Her hands are now steady, and her breathing is smoother. She looks deep into the mirror. Her reflection reveals a gaunt and pale face, but she recognizes her father’s strength in her expression.

  The sound of metal banging reverberates throughout the room as the blond woman inserts a long metal key and unlocks the cell door. Those dreadful feelings resurge. Becky slowly moves toward the door where the woman stands. Becky notices the name tag on her sand-colored uniform, “SALLY.”

  Heavy makeup pastes her face massed with wrinkles, and light-blue eye shadow is carelessly applied over her small inset eyes. The smell of stale cigarette hangs around her like cheap perfume. Becky thinks she was probably pretty at one time.

  “Come on. Let’s move it.” The woman’s hoarse voice startles Becky. She takes one last look at the cell that has been her home for so long, and surprisingly she feels a twinge of sadness.

  Becky follows Sally down the hall and finds herself jogging to keep up with the woman’s fast pace. Her bare feet sting as they slap against the wood floor once covered with lush carpet.

  They pass through a metal door marke
d “Use Stairs in Case of Fire” and descend two flights of metal steps that lead outside into a gravel parking lot.

  Becky searches for any sign of Momma. Her heart sinks when she realizes Momma is not there to greet her.

  A white van with black-tinted windows sits idling in the late afternoon.

  She hears a shrill, scraping sound as Sally slides the back door open.

  “Get in!” she commands.

  Becky climbs into the hot seat. Sally slides the door behind her and walks to the front of the van. She pulls her considerable heft up into the driver’s seat and revs the engine then flips on the air conditioner and clicks the lever into drive.

  Sitting quietly on the navy-blue seat, Becky glances through the black-tinted windows as the van pulls out of the former hotel parking lot and speeds through the sleepy streets of a small town.

  Black-and-brown smoke slashes the normally hazy sky obscuring the view of the Sierra Mountains. Handmade “OUT OF GAS” signs block the entrances to every service station they pass. Storefronts are boarded up with plywood and spray painted with colorful graffiti while clothes hang on lines strung in front of strip motels.

  Becky notices very few cars are on the road. People are either walking or riding bikes.

  Sally lights a cigarette, and the van tilts to the left as she takes a right hand turn at high speed. They are now

  accelerating down the freeway. They pass abandoned tractors sitting in fields covered with dry grass and weeds. Miles and miles of dirt farms are sprawled along the highway. Becky barely recognizes the area but soon realizes they are in the Central Valley of Northern California. The lush, green farmlands are now dried, arid wastelands. Dust and smoke blow across the empty roadway in front of them.

  The hypnotic hum of the van lulls Becky into a shallow sleep.

  * * * * *

  “Get out and follow me!” Sally’s voice wakes Becky from a hazy slumber. Becky realizes the van has stopped.

  She crawls slowly out of the back seat and glances around at the reinforced concrete columns and empty parking spaces. Fluorescent lighting flickers from the ceiling and against the cement walls. They are in a parking structure of some kind.