My attention was immediately torn from the pregnant woman and redirected to the neon pink sign being shoved into my hands. Out of breath and sweating profusely, Joy distributed the rest of the obnoxiously colored and heinously hateful signs to everyone filing out of the church vans. The majority of the signage read: “Thank God for dead soldiers!!!” and “God hates America!!!” written in bold, black lettering. I cautiously studied my own sign and cringed: “Thank God for IED’s!!!”
Sergeant Coleman, whose funeral we were at, died from a roadside car bomb, according to the Lexington Leader Obituary. Our local paper detailed the account of Sergeant Coleman’s untimely death, highlighting his military experience and his childhood. Coleman was a Mt. Vernon native who married his high school sweetheart as soon as they graduated. He and his wife were expecting their first child in August.
Joy led W.H.O.R.E. in the protest of Sergeant Coleman’s funeral, and she urged the congregation to chant: “God Hates America!” louder as the organ cascaded into a beautifully tragic rendition of Amazing Grace.
The worst portion of the protest occurred halfway through the funeral, when the church’s elegantly wooden carved doors burst open and several of the Sergeant’s fellow soldiers stalked through the threshold. “Enough with this shit!” growled a lanky man with leathery olive skin. The man’s five-o’clock shadow was at about half past eight; he looked as though he hadn’t slept for several days. Although, his lethargic state was hardly noticeable as he lunged forward, ripping Essie’s yellow sign from her hands and shredding it to bits. I watched the flamboyant neon fragments float to the concrete in my practiced state of indifference. Of course, I sided with him, but there was nothing I could do to convince W.H.O.R.E. to turn around and leave.
The man’s lapel read “L. Stanley,” I noticed, as Joy spat in his face, hollering: “God hates y’all. Nothin’ would please Him more than y’all to join your friend in Hell.”
L. Stanley was hardly fazed, as a man on a single mission. He marched toward David, standing sheepishly behind his own orange sign, trying his best to concentrate on the ground. L. Stanley snatched the orange sign from his grasp and tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Joy, who was still blubbering on. I half-expected the situation to escalate to violence, as it so often tended to at W.H.O.R.E. pickets, but L. Stanley turned on his heel and marched back through the church doors his uniformed friends held open. Joy insisted we continue our protest, but relocation was necessary for optimal television coverage. Of course, everyone, including the news crew, thought W.H.O.R.E. was a crazy cult, which was spot on.
Onlookers gathered along the streets to protest our…protests. More often than not, bystanders responded with violence, throwing sodas, rocks, or whatever blunt objects they deemed chuck-able. I didn’t blame them. I understood the ludicrous nature of W.H.O.R.E. I hated myself for being a part of the toxic message, the damning, the same folks who probably nailed Jesus to the cross, laying a crown of thorns atop his head. I passively complied with W.H.O.R.E.’s ways. In a way, my compliance proved me worse than any other members of Blood of Christ Baptist Church—at least the other members believed in something, enough to take a stand against whatever they translated as unholy. Self-preservation stood as my only motivator.
Walking over to the Channel 6 Action News cast, I recognized Gideon’s voice before I spotted him, preaching God’s hatred with all eyes and cameras on him. His appearance was rather unusual; Gideon’s unruly, mousy blonde hair was slicked down, by product or perspiration I could not be sure. A crisp polo shirt clung to his back, and as he arched his spine in a confident display of posture, he read approachable and friendly to anyone who couldn’t see beneath a perfectly straight smile and fresh pressed khakis. Friendly and approachable was who Gideon used to be – but now he was a stranger, who reveled in my hesitant gaze and grinned through clenched teeth.
“Tell us what the purpose is in protesting a military funeral,” the pretty blonde news anchor shoved her microphone in Gideon’s direction, which he hastily snatched from her hand and climbed on top of the fountain to gain vertical advantage over the crowd.
“Blood of Christ Baptist Church has one purpose, ma’am. That’s to spread God’s message. Sin is the enemy. Faggots, towel-heads, soldiers, the filthy perverts of the television—just to name a few—they’re all livin’ in sin. They’re goin’ to hell,” Gideon paused to stare directly into the camera, a maniacal smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “God is angry. He’s angry with all of y’all, raising your children in sodomy-acceptance, with worldly desires and feminism. The end of times is comin’. Y’all should be shakin’ in your boots.”
Gideon handed the microphone back to the news anchor and stalked off. Soon, the funeral ended and puffy-eyed silhouettes clad in black filed out of the wooden doors. I watched the crowd embrace; the uniformed men shook hands. Like an itch, I sensed a pair of eyes on me. They belonged to the sullen but furious mother-to-be, who was close enough for me to notice dried mascara trails splattered like paint on her face.
“How dare you!” she hissed, advancing. I glanced around to make sure she was directing her commentary at me. Yes, I was definitely the target of her anger. She looked so fierce despite her petite frame. Behind her watery eyes was fire. Only inches away from my face, she grabbed my wrist and laid my hand on her bloated belly. “She’ll never know her daddy,” the lady lowered her voice, just loud enough for me to hear. “One of these days, I’ll have to tell her. She’ll wanna know, you know, why he’s not around. Why all of her friends have a mommy and a daddy. He’ll never be there to threaten every boy she brings home—to tell those boys she’s somethin’ special, and they better not lay a hand on her. She’ll have no one to teach her the things I can’t. No father to walk her down the aisle…and why? Because daddy’s in a million fucking pieces. He died protecting scum like you,” she paused, and I felt a tiny kick on my palm. With each word she spoke, she became more unhinged. The pregnant lady released my hand and began poking my chest with her index finger as she yelled: “HE DIED SO YOU COULD HAVE THE RIGHT TO WAVE YOUR HATEFUL SIGNS—TO PROTEST AT HIS GODDAMN FUNERAL!”
I cringed as her words hit me like multiple rolls of quarters in a tube sock. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, that I knew what it was like to grow up without a father. But like a coward, I hesitated to muster up an apology.
I lifted my gaze from the ground to meet her stare. Before I could say anything, Gideon appeared, clearing his throat, “Your husband—granted he was your husband and y’all didn’t have lust-laden sex out of wedlock,” he scoffed, eyeing the pregnant woman from head to toe, “is suffering the consequences of living a life of sin…in hell, right now. He’s a murderer and probably a fag-lover, too.” Gideon shot a sideways sinister grin at me, then turned and spat at the woman’s feet.
Gideon’s words sliced through me. Two months ago, such hatred would’ve never escaped his lips. His eyes filled with tears as he confided in me how he wanted to run away from W.H.O.R.E., to escape his family’s toxic grip. Now, judging by the grin of cruel satisfaction plastered across his face, all of Gideon’s empathy had been replaced by…something else entirely. Just when I thought Gideon’s spiel was over, he took in a deep breath. I noticed he was hunched over in an unnatural way, hovering over the now sobbing widow. Then, the smell hit me; I peered around for the source of the spoiled milk stench, tinged with a bite of old pennies.
I glanced over at Essie, who was watching the scene unfold with a frozen expression of horror, but her expression showed no indication of smelling something foul. How? I began to feel nauseous; overcome with the potent mix of humidity laced with rot. The stench reminded me of the one time Gideon and I found a decaying deer on our way into the woods. At first, when we stumbled upon the scene, we believed it was a recent kill, probably being tracked by a hunter. But as we approached the deer’s lifeless form, the smell hit us. The smell of mangy, unfiltered death. I didn’t want to get any closer, but Gideon coaxed me to i
nspect the animal with him. When we were five feet away from the body, pinching our noses, Gideon flung his arm out to stop me from moving forward. I shot him an annoyed glance, but then examined the deer and immediately understood the abrupt halt.
The buck’s body lay bloated, his stomach doubled in size. We suspected he had been hit by a car. His left antler was spiked off into five different points. The right antler was snapped in half. The buck’s face appeared unharmed, except for the pair of maggots crawling out of his blank stare, but the rest of his body hadn’t fared as well. His front leg was twisted, bone protruded at the knee, dried blood matted the surrounding fur. His stomach indicated the age of the kill: several days, judging by the swarm of flies and pile of green entrails that lay beside his body. Buzzards.
To my horror, I noticed the buck’s chest slowly rise, then deflate. He was still alive.
“Oh my God,” Gideon saw it, too.
“We have to do something!” I yelled at him in a panic. I knew the deer was beyond saving. Tears threatened, clouding my vision, but crying seemed selfish, given that I wasn’t the one spending my last moments in agony, eaten alive.
Gideon stepped forward, flipping out the knife he always carried around in his back pocket. “Look away, Katie,” he ordered, kneeling next to the buck.
But I couldn’t look away. Like driving by a horrific car accident on the highway, glass everywhere, maybe even an engine fire, several ambulances, pieces of metal spread across the lanes. You know you shouldn’t look, but traffic slows, and you can’t stop yourself. You have to know. You have to know what death looks like.
The world moved in slow motion. Gideon placed his blade against the buck’s throat. The buck’s eyes moved to Gideon’s face, defeated. In one swift movement, it was over. The buck’s chest didn’t rise and fall like before. Blood seeped out of his neck. A breeze filled the already cool air, carrying the chill of death with it. The leaves stirred. I heard Gideon sniffle as I pulled him away from the dead animal.
We left the buck and shuffled to the bonfire in a heavy silence. Gideon and I waited for our friends to arrive. He poured fire-starter over a mound of brush we collected.
“He ran all the way out here to die,” Gideon sighed. He was right, of course. The interstate was about a mile away from where we encountered the rotting deer.
I nodded, not really knowing what to say. Picturing the deer getting plowed by an unsuspecting driver was horrific in itself—but to think that the buck’s life didn’t end roadside was unbearable. His last moments weren’t sudden and painless, they were drawn out and filled with suffering. The buck limped to his home, where he felt safe, in the woods. He dragged his mangled body to safety. To die. To rot.
We never told anyone about that deer.
Gideon reached out and placed a hand on the shoulder of the sobbing widow. “I’m speakin’ for all of us when I say,” Gideon motioned to the crowd of neon signs, “I hope God kills your baby, too.”
My world spun out of control as I attempted to regain my balance, struck hard and off-kilter by Gideon’s piercing hatred. I didn’t see the widow fall to her knees. I didn’t register the sight of Sergeant Coleman’s fellow soldiers crowd around her, pushing Gideon away. I didn’t feel Essie and David’s hands on me, asking me if I was okay. I gasped for air. My stomach twisted. I felt the bile make its way up my throat. As sick as I felt, it was nothing in comparison to the anger bubbling inside of me. Anger I had never felt before.
I caught Joy’s stare as I fell. Her usual, passive expression was absent, replaced with a hard frown as she studied me. I was consumed by how much I hated her—how mad I was that my grandparents had died. How alone I truly was. How much I longed to escape. Gideon was supposed to escape with me—those were the thoughts running through my mind when my head smacked the pavement.
4
The Mark of the Beast
The scene unfolded in slow motion. I expected pain but felt nothing. I saw red. Fury pulsed through my veins, and I locked eyes with Gideon, who studied me as Joy did moments before. I recalled the scene in the woods, when he forced himself on me, the way I ran from him like a mouse scurrying from a calculating feline. He chased me with an unnatural speed, grunting madly as he navigated through the night. My savior was the interfering animal in the woods, to whom the two red eyes belonged. Gideon walked away unscathed, and I had also managed to escape, but for what? To go back to W.H.O.R.E.? They branded me, with whelps and shame that I’d never forget. My wrists were still tender. I scanned my eyes over the blurry red horn outline. The burns tingled as my breathing became shallow and controlled.
It was my turn. I brought myself to my feet with unexpected ease. Then, without a plan, I lunged at Gideon, who was snickering at me near the church doors. My attack caught him off-guard, but he was quick to react, shrugging me off and bolting into the house of worship. A growl vibrated in my throat as I pursued Gideon across the threshold. As soon as I entered the building, I didn’t see Gideon, but a waft of his unpleasant stench teased my nostrils. I sniffed the air and cocked my head to the right. He stood hidden behind me, in the shadow. I turned to strike him, but instead of defending himself, Gideon held up a single hand and the doors dead bolted locked. I bounced off of him. He chuckled at me with amusement, like I was a pathetic child. He didn’t wait for my next move. Gideon pulled me off my feet by my ponytail, pressing my backside against him, a cold hand on my throat. His smell was suffocating; his breath was on my ear. I struggled to free myself from his grasp.
“Who…are you?” I screamed, the tremble in my voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“I am God’s soldier,” Gideon replied in a husky voice, followed by a deafening laughter that reverberated against the beautiful stained windows. He maneuvered me so I was facing him. The vein in his neck was throbbing. “Look at me,” he whispered in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, which added fire to his anger. “LOOK AT ME,” his grip tightened on my throat as his voice grew louder, until his nails bore into my flesh, sending a trickle of warmth down my neck.
I can’t die like this, I told myself, panicking. I felt the pressure on my neck increase, followed by a soft crunching sound. The pain was unbearable. Gideon’s twisted face clouded and became unrecognizable through my tears, like I was gazing at the final moments of my life through a kaleidoscope. Green and blue glass, golden wooden pews, yellow teeth, black crosses. No, no, no…
A myriad of brightly colored spots filled my vision following release. My racing heart sounded like thudding bass vibrating through my core. Gideon let go of my throat. I smacked the floor with a thud and staggered to regain my footing. I wiped away my tears and scanned the church for an exit. For help. For anything. Instead, Gideon doubled over, coughing up blood. His horrified expression cut through me as the white of his eyes became pink, and blood spurted out of the sockets.
“What are you doin’ to me?” Gideon shrieked, throwing himself on me. I fought him, digging my nails into his arms, biting his hands, but he was completely unfazed. From behind, he snatched my chin in both of his hands, trapping my writhing body under his weight. This was it. The fight was over.
As a bystander in my own life, I watched everyone I loved be taken from me. I was sent to Brushy Fork, to endure toxic people. I was never given the option of happiness that I thought I deserved. In that moment, I promised myself, that if I escaped the church, if I lived, I would really live. I’d never go back to Brushy Fork. I’d never hold another horrible sign. I’d never damn an unborn child to Hell.
I opened my mouth to scream, and Gideon attempted to cover my mouth with his hand, which provided opportunity for action. I bit down on his index finger with all the strength I could muster. Gideon shrieked in surprise, trying to free his hand, and his resistance proved to be his downfall. All the squirming gave me enough time to bite through bone. He scrambled away from me, clutching his bloody hand to his chest.
“You hill-billy bitch!” Gideon shook his hand, stalking forward. I spat out
his still-wiggling finger and managed to find my feet, ignoring every pulse of pain thundering down my spine.
“Do not touch me,” I snarled and held my hand up with purpose.
Gideon hunched forward to strike, but was stopped, like he hit an invisible wall between us. I closed the gap, feeling bold and stared straight into Gideon’s eyes. But the sensitive boy I knew wasn’t who stared back. Blood continued to ooze out of his eye sockets, but he remained eerily still with the same sinister smile tugging at his lips.
Finally, he let out a yelp and crumpled into a lifeless mass on the floor. Gideon landed with a thwack on the hardwood, followed by the sound of fingernails scampering across the floor. A dark, hunched animal-like figure hunkered out of the corner of my eye, but I was more concerned with Gideon, who had fallen face-forward, whimpering in a pool of scarlet.
“I’m s-s-so sorry, Katie,” he wailed. I studied him, fascinated by the constant dribble of blood spurting from where his finger once was. “I d-d-didn’t wanna to hurt ya. I-I told ‘em that, ya haft-ta believe me.” I kneeled next to Gideon to get closer to his hand, taking it in my own.
“You hafta leave, Katie!” He was yelling now. “Are you even listenin’?” I wasn’t. I was watching blood gush and glisten out of his hand. My grandparents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary when I was ten. The catering provided a chocolate fountain. The chocolate flowed to the top and cascaded down varying levels of the fountain. I dipped marshmallows on wooden skewers into the melted chocolate. It was tasty. I brought Gideon’s hand to my mouth. The smell was intoxicating. I wished he wasn’t injured on the ground. I wanted him to run. Not because the last ten minutes of torture and confusion, but because I needed to chase him. My mouth watered. Gideon’s chest rose and fell hastily; goosebumps formed along his neck. He was rambling on, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was all background noise to his thudding pulse.
Kate Fox & The Three Kings Page 6
