೦ Anna ೦

 

This is hell. And it will never end.

How can this get any worse now?

When I finally understand what Samael tries to tell me, he’s through the door, and the only thing left I can do is throw his stupid present at him.

The paper breaks open from the impact and some pieces of paper that are shaped like post cards scatter around the binding. 

I don’t care about what it is.

I don’t want it.

He’s fucking my mother with his mouth, like he did me, minutes ago.

This is sick.

This is insane.

I don’t know if I should be disgusted, or mad.

I am both.

I feel sick to my stomach.

I feel icky, filthy, and so much worse that being covered with shit, intestines and piss again.

Samael.

My mother.

I shake myself.

I pull my blanket tighter around me until his scent snakes into my nose. I shake it off. I don’t want it on me. I don’t want him on me.

My mother.

I remember what she told me again, but also, how she looked at me. I never understood how she looked at me back then. Her expression never seemed to fit her words. And suddenly, it’s like as if her face spoke more than her mouth ever did.

That was the reason Samael didn’t dare look at me, moments ago? Because he is ashamed?

That’s why my mom told me I shouldn’t grow too close to Samael, because he wasn’t meant for me? The look she gave me back then, full of pity, and yet she smiled when she left?

I jump onto my feet.

“Since when?!” I scream, hoping he can still see me, but there is no reaction.

I turn towards one of the cameras.

“Since when?!” My voice breaks, heavy with tears.

I cover my face with my hands, angry at myself for crying, and rub the tears away.

I try to remember, I need to know when was the first time I heard about the light and the healing.

“Since when?” I whisper to myself, rubbing my temples in circles like I used to do when I needed to remember something for an exam.

I rewind my memories backwards from the time I left the church to the time I arrived. I look for images, emotions, thoughts that might help me find the right answer. But I can’t recall the very first time.

“Since always,” is what I mutter to myself.

I was a child, and I was so blind.

I thought Samael was simply my mother’s favorite stepson, like he was my favorite person. But now, as I recall that, apart from me, she was the only person who touched him, and she was the only person who made him flinch apart from his brothers and Joshua.

My stomach churns.

Everything Samael said to me the past few days, what he did to me. All of this was done to him and worse. Not only because he helped me, even before that. If they did this to him before I escaped, what did they to do him after?

My own mother.

My own mother.

No wonder Samael called me a liar. It’s a surprise that he didn’t hurt me even more. He never hit me, only used me, like he was used.

By my own mother.

That’s what he’s trying to prepare me for.

For the abuse. For being used, raped, violated. But why? Why would he want that to happen to me?

Is this still revenge? Then why prepare me at all?

Remembering all the times I was so childishly and stupidly oblivious is easier than finding an explanation for Samael’s obsession with preparing me for when I return to the church.

He grew up like this, almost his entire life.

Sam had grandparents. He loved them just as I did mine, and I guess that was the reason he believed me when I told him about them. Maybe, because when I shared my memories about them, he was thinking of his own. His mother was their only daughter, just like my mother was their only child. They had so much in common. To me it felt like my grandparents were also his. Maybe he hoped that, too. Maybe, by losing me, he also lost his grandparents all over again?

I can’t begin to understand what he must have gone through the entire time. I think he wants to show me, the only way he understands. He was never taught with words before me. He was always shown.

No wonder Samael is so torn, and I helped them tear him apart for good.

Can he even be saved?

How was I so naïve to believe that I could help him, that anything I do could mend his pain?

My own mother.

No, that woman birthed me and that was it. She never was my mother. Never.

Why did he tell me? How will I be able to stand in front of her and not claw her eyes out? How will I not go on a rampage? Is this what he is trying to prepare me for? Or does he think me weak?

If you measure strength by how much suffering you have endured and survived, then Sam is easily the stronger one, but he is also damaged.

Maybe, back then, I was too young to see that, was too blinded by my unrestrained admiration of him, my hero, that I didn’t notice what he went through, what my own mother put him through.

When she dared to use Samael like that, she, who believes in her husband so devoutly, what other cruelties must his mind create apart from raping teenage girls?

My mind ventures into directions I do not want it to, but once that door has been pushed open, I can’t stop the flood that threatens to drown me.

Again, I hear Sam telling me ‘He loves that, believe me I know,’ and ‘I’ll show you what helps.’

The flood of thoughts births another flood of tears. And I thought, there were no tears left in me. Blinded by myself I pull back the blanket around me, as I sniffle, conflicted about whether I want his scent around me or not.

 

⌽ Samael ⌽

 

I’m running away like a coward. I endure every pain that is thrown at me but not her agony.

It needed to be done.

She would have learned anyway. Best she learns it from me, and at a place where she is safe from other people’s thoughts. At least like this, she will have time for herself, to be on her own and get through this.

Me being with her would not help her.

I should not have killed Rowena. If I had been in full control of myself I wouldn’t have. If Anna would still have been at her dorm, I wouldn’t have.

But I did.

And there is one witness. Someone, who can tell Anna that I killed her mother.

The truth is however, I doubt, she will mourn that woman, who did nothing but bring her to life only to toss her away until she had a use of her. The woman who claimed to be what Anna always was: a healer. Even when she was a child she mended my wounds.

How could I be so blind? She was right in front of me. It was right in front of me. But I was too taken with her, and too egoistic. I wanted her all for myself, because she was the only person who didn’t use me, but needed me, loved me for who I was.

‘Was’ is the right term.

Now, I am her keeper, her dungeon master, her tormentor. I made her chant my name in rapture only to have her hate me again.

Is this it? Is this the reason?

Am I doing this because I do not dare to hope that she could love me? Again?

And what would this hope mean?

It will only break and shatter.

What is broken a million times cannot be mended. Nothing can. At one point, pieces go missing and you can only try so much to build it up together, try to use fillers so it might stick together again. But I cannot be put together again, too many pieces are missing.

I know this. I can feel it.

In times like these when my mind seems clear, it is almost like these six years never happened. Especially now, that I have her back.

But it terrifies me that she might not be the person I remember, the girl that was the only glue that could put me together and keep me whole. How could she be different than her mother? Am I so much like my father, a tormentor, a killer, relentless, unscrupulous, and cruel.

I think of the present I gave to her.

Only a broken thing can be reshaped. And, only a broken cube can fit through a circle shaped hole.

I carry the gunnysack over my shoulder, which contains carefully weighed mixture of rags, pig fat and pig bones, combined with some strong scenting herbs to cover a smell that is not there yet. I take the same route as I always do, when I need to leave the church grounds, without the unknowing sheep finding out. Of course, my father has also had cameras installed at this side of the premises, despite me and him being the only people having the keys to the locks that open the fence to the area where I have a storage room and my car parked, and to the gate that opens to the world outside. And, as long as my car stands on the property of the church no officials are allowed to touch it.

It is early afternoon, a time when they – as in the federal police watching us – do not expect me to carry a corpse into my car. Apart from that, they have stopped me once and searched my gunnysack, probably thinking I did this on purpose to scare them off. Little does anyone know that I have learned how to rewire the cameras, into replaying a video of me leaving and returning without carrying anything back inside. Because of that, my father does not know that Anna is hidden right beneath his nose.

I have thought of making another tape that shows me carrying a gunnysack and leaving, so that I do not have to leave, but two lies are one to many.

If I have learned something it is that you should never cover one lie with another one, it’s like building a house on quicksand.

Apart from that, I will have to stay away from Anna for a while, so that she can calm down, since we need to talk things through, before I can continue to prepare her for her new life.

I don’t like leaving her behind, but she will not talk to me if I stay, so I should make the best of it.

 

೦ Anna ೦

 

I sit on my mattress, and stare at the wall opposite to me for a long time. I don’t have a watch and despite the daylight that comes through the small vent on the wall I can’t say how much time has passed since Samael left.

He knew exactly how I would react when he told me about my mother and him.

Rowena and him.

I refuse to call that woman my mother. I will never call her that. Never. She is a monster, a sick twisted thing. I cannot believe that this woman was brought up by the same woman I spent my childhood with.

It’s just horrible.

I can’t imagine how my grandparents must have felt because of her, because of what she became.

I don’t want to think about Rowena anymore. I don’t want to think about anyone anymore. I wish I could just sleep. And I am tired.

It’s probably way too early to sleep, but then again, I haven’t slept properly ever since I got here, apart from the deep slumber in Samael’s arms.

Thinking about that makes me shudder, and I can’t determine whether it is a good or bad tremble that goes through my body like an electric current.

I grab a candy bar, just to realize that it is a protein bar, which makes much more sense, because candy is forbidden. Plus, it might explain why Samael is built from bone and muscle.

Chewing helps me get my mind off things. It also reminds me that I am parched. I got so used to that feeling that I almost forgot. But, I’m careful, and drink sip-wise, because I don’t want a belly full of water that makes me end up feeling sick.

The last thing I want is having to use that bucket on the first day.

 

೦ Some Time Later ೦

 

As I wake up, I know it’s the next day, because the light outside the vent is different, more blue-ish, and I actually can hear birds singing. It’s that silent in here.

But that’s all right, I guess. It’s somewhat peaceful.

The light at the ceiling is still off, and I wonder if it will stay like this with Samael being gone, or if it will come to life automatically, because of a timer of sorts.

My stomach grumbles and distracts me, making me feel so relieved about the bananas that I eat two, which is just too much for my shrunken stomach. I feel like I usually feel after eating an entire pizza.

Knowing that lying down is the worst thing I can do, I lean back against the wall and start rubbing my belly. That’s when my stare falls on Samael’s present, lying at the door, those postcards scattered around it.

I decide to get up and gather them up. The chain clatters, and I realize that I almost forgot about it. Then it hits me: my hands are not tied anymore!

Quickly, I bring them up to the latch at the front, just to feel a smooth metal cover that has a lock on it. Samael has really thought about everything.

Defeated, I exhale, pull on the chain and walk over to the present, and kneel so that I can pick up the post cards, which turn out to be not cards, but photographs. My stomach aches, and I’m not sure if the bananas are to be blamed for that, or if it is some kind of dark foreboding.

I tear off the newspaper from the binding, after I gathered all the photos. It’s a photo album, but it’s old-looking. For some reason, I don’t look at the pictures when I return to my mattress.

I get rid of the paper first, before I settle down next to my present and open the album to put back every single image to where I feel they belong.

And, I know where they belong.

I recognize these pictures.

My heart-beat is in chaos, the second I look at the pictures on the first page.

I know them.

They show me as a baby on my granny’s arm, and on my grandpa’s arm. Baby pictures. One is missing, and I search through those I hold in my arms to put the lost one back in its place.

My face is hurting from the wide smile, as I grin. And tears of happiness gather in my eyes. I wipe them off, so that I can continue looking at these pictures, which I believed were lost in the fire, as my childhood home burned down.

I race through the pages, sniffling, but smiling, as I put each and every photograph back at its place with ease, as if those six years never happened.

But, my heart begins to stutter and my smile fades, as my mind puts together a puzzle of its own.

How did Samael get these pictures?

How come this photo album isn’t damaged at all, apart from the impact when I threw it at the door? How come it doesn’t even smell of fire, like my beloved little red car does?

I want to be happy to at least have something I thought I had lost in the fire. When the house burned down, all I had left were the clothes on my body, the contents of my purse, and my car.

Everything else was lost, gone, consumed by the fire, or irreplaceably damaged by the water. The only pictures I had were the ones on my phone, and now, I have the album in my hands that my granny had made so that I could remember my entire life, safe the six years I lost to the church.

How did Sam get this?

I know the answer already but I am worrying my brain to find another explanation. But why should his brothers care about a photo album? They don’t care who I was. They care about what I should be.

Sam got this because he was there.

His brothers would have taken the album away from him, and thrown in back into the house, or they would have kept it to taunt him with pictures of me, or given it to my mother. Why should she give it to him when she wants Sam for herself?

Sam was there, alone.

I press the album to my chest, close my eyes, and shake my head, calmly, while my heart beats that fast that it hurts in my chest, hammering against my ribs.

No, he wasn’t there alone. Someone had to have been with him. He wasn’t there, alone.

Okay, he was there, and he saved my granny from enduring even more pain.

A sob bursts from my body, shaking my bones. I press my eyes shut, refusing to let me cry, and I shake my head again.

“Nonono,” I whine, weakly, shaking my head, and clinging to my photo album.

My photo album.

I crouch, pressing my chin against the priceless item, the only thing left of the life I could have had. It can’t be, but for a brief second, I think I can smell that typical scent of my grandparent’s living room.

Suddenly, I’m back there, fifteen years old, and I step through the front door, into that room. They are both there, waiting. For me. For a split second, they freeze, not believing that it’s me, really me. My granny starts crying and opens her arms into which I fly.

‘You’ve grown so much,’ I hear her whisper in my mind, and I feel my grandpa’s hand on the back of my head, brushing over my hair, carefully, as if I was just an illusion that would burst if he touches me.

The memory vanishes just as fast as it came to me, and despite my best efforts, the tears are running.

I wish. I wish so damn much, my granny would wipe them off my cheek, telling me that it’s okay, that I am safe, that it was only a nightmare, a bad memory, and nothing to worry about.

But she can’t.

And, she will never do it again.

She will never comfort me again.

Because Sam shot her.

I wail, because I know it’s true.

He shot her. Between the eyes.

I can hear that sound, the shot, and it makes me flinch, even though it’s not really there. I know the sound is wrong, because it sounds exactly like the shot I heard when I lost Sam.

And I really lost him.

He killed my grandmother.

He choked her, and then, he shot her.

I can’t feel my body. It’s like it’s not even there. All I feel is my chaotically racing heartbeat.

I don’t even feel myself shaking my head, although I know I am still doing that, despite knowing.

He killed her. He choked her and then he shot her after he killed my grandpa. Stabbed him.

I can’t stop my mind from imagining that, too. As if I was there, as if it was me. A dozen times. Twelve times. In front of my grandma.

I hold my breath, I refuse to breathe. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to see this, imagine this, know this. I hold my breath until my survival instinct jumps in and forces me to inhale deeply.

I know it was him. Because I’ve seen his fury.

I hold my breath again, I tighten my arms around me, pressing the album against my chest, because I don’t want to breathe, don’t want to inhale. I want to keep it all in, because maybe then, it’s not real.

But it is.

He killed them.

My Sam killed them.

He killed them.

I scream at the top of my lungs and more. I yank my head back and hit it against the wall with such force it makes me dizzy. But it’s not enough.

I screech.

The album topples down.

I barely notice. I’m too busy with hitting myself in the face. Hands clenched into fists. I pull at my hair, scratch my face, shake myself from side to side.

I roll into a ball.

Maybe, if I’m small enough, I cease to exist.

My stomach churns and I throw up.

I want to turn myself inside out.

He touched me. Kissed me.

My skin crawls. I’m shaking.

I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t stop crying. I can’t feel. I can’t think. All I can do right now is lie on the mattress, face glued onto the album and stare. But I can’t see.

I can’t exist. But I do.

 

೦ Some Time Later ೦

 

Another downside of the collar is that apparently, it makes it impossible to choke myself with the chain.

I also don’t have enough water to drown myself in the bucket. I can’t break the plastic water bottles, so I have nothing to cut my wrists with. I’ve tried to bash my head in, but I couldn’t go through with it because I felt so dizzy.

Two days left. Too few to starve or parch myself.

And then he’ll be back.

Samael.

Joshua’s worst son.

A mindless killer.

A cruel liar.

I want to hate him. But I’m empty.

There’s nothing left. No feelings to feel anymore.

He’ll come back, and I can’t escape him.

He’ll come back to prepare me. There’s nothing left inside of me to train. I’m just an empty shell.

I’ve screamed my soul out and my voice along with it. But I don’t need to speak.

I try to be happy about what was done to him. I don’t want to accept this as an explanation or alibi for his doings. But that is my mind working. My mind is doing just fine. I wish it would shut the hell up.

I’ll just continue to lie here. That’s all I can do, all I will do.

He wants a puppet?

He can have it.

Murderer.

Monster.

 

೦ Some Time Later ೦

 

I cry. That’s all I do.

I’ve pried the album off my face because I don’t want to soak it.

I’m lying here, naked, freezing, hungry, thirsty.

I’ve thrown the blanket into the farthest corner of the room. And the bananas, protein bars, and empty bottles along with it.

I’m lying on that mattress and soak it with my tears. I ignore the smell of him, until I get up on my knees and crawl into the corner that is the farthest away for the door, next to the bucket that’s still filled with my drinking water.

I hide my head behind it and roll into a ball.

My face hurts from what I did to it. So, does my head, my hands. My heart hurts, too. And my throat.

I wish my body was numb again.

Or, at least it should hurt bad enough so that I don’t feel this pain inside me that carries his name.

Sam.

I loved him.

I killed him.

He killed what I loved in return.

And now he has killed me.