Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Fuck it.
I check the second gun and nudge it into place on my other side. Better to be over prepared than under.
Although, I don’t want to put a bullet in my father. Not unless I have to.
No, the fantasy that’s played over and over in my head for years—chaining him to the wall in the basement and whipping him raw, then just leaving him there—is so close I can taste it.
Maybe he gnaws off his arm and escapes. Maybe someone rescues him. Or maybe he slowly starves to death and someone years from now finds his skeleton.
The possibilities are endless.
I stick to the grassy side of the road. Memories of hiking up and down this driveway to or from the school bus return. Dread followed me both ways for different reasons back then. I hated school where I was relentlessly bullied for being “weird,” but I feared home—the endless chores, scripture reading, and predictable punishments for any sin.
Weak, pale sunlight spears the gray clouds above but my mood’s blacker than midnight.
My footsteps slow as I round the corner and the old white farmhouse comes into view.
Fewer animals and children roam around the yard than I remember. The few pieces of playground equipment have rusted. The grass left to grow so tall, the tops of the merry-go-round bars are barely visible.
Three figures seem to be tending the field at the side of the house. In their white, shapeless garments, silently and slowly moving, they look like ghosts.
Beyond the dilapidated white farmhouse I grew up in, the big, red barn my father used as a “church” seems to be the only building that’s had any attention in the last few years. Now, it’s a crisp white with a huge wooden cross nailed above the barn doors.
Not an improvement.
Screams from the church pierce the air.
Some things haven’t changed.
I turn, scanning the area. The people in the fields continue working.
More screams. High. Girlish.
Fear slams into my chest.
Jezzie. Jezzie. What if that’s my sister?
Forget stealth. I sprint through the tall grass, dry blades whipping against my jeans.
Another gasping, desperate scream.
My footsteps slow as I approach the barn doors. They’re cracked open wide enough for me to slip through. I grip the Glock tight in one hand. Stale air hits me, dry and suffocating.
Loud splashing echoes from the “altar” at the front of the church.
My father’s voice fills the air. “I cast out these demons!”
Memories slice through me like barbed wire as his words slap me in the face.
I close my eyes, forcing the memories of hours of torture away.
Splashing, struggling gasps, and my father’s voice split the air. I open my eyes and edge forward, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.
Only my father’s head and shoulders are visible over the rows of benches.
“Submit and repent your wicked ways!” He’s bent over a large, white, heavy-duty plastic tub—the thick kind of industrial plastic used for the chemicals used to clean farm equipment.
Now, it’s full of what I hope is water. His arm’s plunged in up to the elbow and he’s holding someone’s head below the surface.
Seems the old man’s getting more creative with his torture.
“I cast you out, demons!” His voice is harsh and raw with the same violent fanaticism that filled my childhood.
As I approach, thin legs kick, feet thumping against the floor. Pale arms thrash weakly. Small hands desperately clutch the sides of the tub, fingers slipping against slick plastic.
He yanks whoever it is out of the water by a mass of wet black hair.
“You will obey!” His voice thunders through the air.
I have to stop this. Now. Before he shoves her under the water again.
The girl gasps and screams, clawing at the air and coughing violently as he yanks her backward.
Water cascades over his arms, splashing onto the wood floor. “Are you ready to repent, Jezebel?”
Jezzie. No, no, no.
“Stop!” A raw, broken shout explodes from my chest. Anything to draw his attention away from my sister.
My father’s body jerks at the sound of my voice. He releases Jezzie so fast, her arms splash into the water. Her panicked gaze bounces between our father and me as she scuttles away from the tub.
Across the distance, I meet my father’s cruel gaze. Hate’s aged him more than I expected. Thinning hair and wrinkled skin drooping from his skull. But I’d still recognize him anywhere. As we stare each other down, indignation flares across his evil face.
My finger strokes the trigger. No. A bullet through the heart is too easy. He needs to die much harder.
“Get back here, girl!” he shouts at my sister, pointing to the floor in front of his feet. “You’re not finished.”
I raise the Glock, aiming at his chest. “Yes you are.” My voice and hold on the gun remain steady despite the panic coursing through my veins.
“Leave her alone.”
He tears his gaze away from my sister and stares at me. Surprise flickers over his face, then slowly, recognition seems to wash over him. He stands taller and curls his lips into a familiar sneer.