Beyond His Control (His 2)

I doubt they’d let me leave the community again.

“You’re not allowed to walk out onto your own property, let alone wipe your own ass without someone watching. This isn’t the son I raised,” he continues.

He puts the cigar down and waves me off. “Get out. I’m not listening to this bullshit anymore. Be grateful you’re alive.”

He turns around and walks back into his bathroom, shutting the door behind him as if I had any inclination to go after him. Fuck that. Fuck him and fuck the president.

They deserve all the hatred I have for them.

Chapter 11

Natalie

When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was already back in my bed. The hood on my head and the rope around my wrists had already vanished.

It was as though nothing had ever happened.

As though I’d never left this place to begin with.

But I remember.

How many days have passed since I’ve come back?

How much have I missed?

I gaze outside at the people going about their day, blissfully unaware of what has transpired in this community. I saw freedom … and they stripped it away from me once again.

My nails dig into the wood. I won’t let this go unpunished. Not anymore.

I put on the slippers underneath my bed and put on a robe, lifting it over my head so I can partially hide myself. I know it’s not much, but anything will do right now. I slide to the door and listen. I don’t hear any voices, coughing, or breathing. Are the guards even there?

I slightly open my bedroom door and peek outside. No one’s there. They must’ve stationed the guards outside the temple doors.

I rush across the hallways toward Noah’s room. Right as I’m about to knock, I pause. Why am I even going to him? He’s the one who got me back here in the first place. He can’t do anything for me now.

Without hesitation, I retract my hand and turn around. I walk into the opposite direction and gaze at the numbers on the doors, trying to make sense of it. I don’t want to just waltz inside and risk getting caught. But how do I know which room to enter?

Suddenly, I hear beeping.

I stop in my tracks and listen.

Every other second, a device bleeps.

I lean in and place my ear against the door. It’s so quiet in this house that you could hear a pin drop. Everyone’s sleeping … but not me … and certainly not whatever’s behind this door.

It sounds like a computer. But I thought they didn’t use technology here?

Someone coughs, and I jolt back in shock.

There’s definitely someone in there.

A moan follows. It’s a woman, and it sounds like my mother.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I push down the handle and nudge the door open.

It’s a giant room with not much furniture but definitely more than I’ve seen in any other room in the community. In the corner, there’s a bed with a machine next to it that has all kinds of wires coming out of it, and they’re attached to a woman lying in the bed.

“Mother,” I whisper, as I step inside.

Her eyes spring open.

The air is knocked out of my chest.

The door closes behind me. Our eyes connect, and mine immediately tear up.

“Natalie …” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

I don’t care if anyone finds out. I’m going to hug my mother.

My body falls onto hers as I wrap my arms around her. “You’re alive,” I mutter, but I still can’t believe it’s true. “I thought you were dead. All this time, I thought you’d sacrificed yourself for me.” Every word is painful to say, but I say them anyway, because I want her to know what her actions mean to me. “You gave me a chance at life. At freedom. And I can’t ever repay you for that.”

“Natalie …” she whispers, and she pets my hair. Her hand feels so familiar, and memories flush back in of her doing my hair and putting on my clothes, of cooking food together and running around in the gardens outside.

Back when we were still carefree.

When I didn’t know about the cruelty of this world.

I turn my head and look up at her face. But it’s not the same familiar face I expected it to be. Her skin is marred by fire, red blotches and stains everywhere, and all that’s left is tough scar tissue.

Tears flow down my cheeks. “Momma …” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She has to be in so much pain, and it’s all because of me.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, reaching for me with a hand that’s even more scarred.

I grab her hand and gently caress it. “You have so many wounds.”

“The fire was more intense than I expected,” she says.

I lick my lips, feeling guilty for what my own mother had to go through for me. “Why did you do it?”