But I remember a time when my father was just another preacher at one of the larger Baptist churches in Birmingham. I went to the religious school, had a nearly normal life, and pretended to believe in all the crap my father spouted. Over time, he became the head pastor. And that’s when everything changed. Power allowed my father to preach a new message. One of fear, of a coming apocalypse, of the need for the congregation to tithe more and more to support the church. To support him.
I shake off the memories as the Protectors file into the room and stand in a circle around me. None of them look too happy about me killing Newell. I smirk and hope they know I’d just as soon do the same to them.
“Son.” My father’s voice slithers into the room. “Why have you disappointed me yet again?”
“I guess old habits die hard.” I see Noah flinch at the sarcasm in my tone.
“You think this is a joke?” My father moves closer.
“I think I killed someone who had it coming.”
“Had it coming?” He seems genuinely confused.
“I thought you’d be all in favor of what I did, considering Newell was about to break your number one commandment.”
“You have no proof of that.”
I realize there’s no point arguing. Gripping the wooden cross, I steel myself for what’s next.
“Oh, son.” The faux dismay in my father’s voice is laughable. “I don’t enjoy this. You know that, don’t you? But what else can I do? You killed one of my godly Protectors. There can be no other outcome.”
A rumble of agreement pulses through the circle.
“Just get on with it.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, as if he isn’t looking forward to the blood and pain. But I know the monster too well to believe it. This is what he thrives on.
“Just as in the story of Abraham, I must take my own son and lay him on the altar of the Lord. A sacrifice to show my adherence to God. And just as Abraham, my heart aches as I lash my son to the altar.” He moves around and checks my wrists, making sure they’re held fast, then takes the whip from a frowning Noah. “And I must be steadfast in my sacrifice, for if I am, the Lord says ‘I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.’”
The Protectors answer with a steady “amen” as my father backs away.
I want to say that in the story of Abraham, he never sacrifices his son at all. The son is reprieved by God, not harmed by his father. But that thought is seared away with the first strike of the whip. More follow in rapid succession.
I don’t cry out, not even when I feel the blood trickling down my back. My teeth grind together, possibly on the verge of breaking as my father puts everything he has into the final blow. Black flickers across my vision, but I refuse to pass out, refuse to give in.
When he’s done, he’s winded, his voice breathy. “Atonement has been paid for the loss of Protector Newell.”
Another “amen” and the men file out, some of them giving me satisfied smirks as they pass. Despite the overwhelming fire roaring across my back, I want to lunge at them. To take these monsters down the same way I did Newell. But that thought ignores the obvious.
After all, I’m a monster, too.
I lie on my side, lazy smoke from my joint twisting in front of my face as I stare at the wide TV screen on my wall.
Delilah sits in a corner of her now-clean room. She rocks back and forth, her wide eyes focused on the door. She’s the picture of terror, the sort that, once it touches a person, leaves a mark.
“These aren’t the worst you’ve ever had.” Noah tends to the tears in my skin, the wounds that will heal and add to the scar tissue inside and out.
I take another drag on the joint, holding the smoke in my lungs as he pulls me into a sitting position and begins wrapping gauze around my torso.
Exhaling, I watch as her head slowly drops to her knees, then bobs up again, her gaze on the door. Is she afraid that I might come through the door? Another Protector, maybe?
Fear is the best thing for her. The sooner she breaks, the easier it will be for me. In the past, I had quite a few Maidens who—despite the stark reality of the Cloister—still believed my father was the Prophet. The rituals helped with that notion. And they didn’t require me to break them. Instead, they were eager to please, to learn, to become the Prophet’s favorite.