⌽ Samael ⌽
I don’t turn around to look through the window after I have locked the door again. I take the two buckets and bring them upstairs to clean them out with the hose before inhaling through my nose again.
Since the Church of Second Reckoning is mostly self-sustaining, it has been effortless to get bowels from the latest slaughter and add some excrements from the pig stables.
The urine however is my own.
It gives me a strange and utter satisfaction, even though - for the blink of an eye – I hesitated. And still, the fact that Anna is now standing in that filth, her own mixed with all of that which I collected, mends at least a fraction of the suffering she has caused me. Now, I must only decide for how long I will have her wait for my return. Maybe, my duties will take that decision off my hands.
Soon, I must report to my father and tell him how the training of the youngsters progresses. It depends on my father’s satisfaction if I will have to stay and conduct an overnight exercise with them or not. I prefer that to having to execute one of my father’s punishments again. Especially if it is one of those he likes to oversee.
When I turn off the water and roll up the hose, I lean back my head and enjoy the heat of the sun burning down on me. It is so much warmer outside than inside in the cellar. And I become aware of this for the first time in a long time. I can smell the scent of the freshly cut and dried grass around my house. I can even hear some birds singing.
It is so peaceful.
My grandparent’s house had been a reward for the past three years of my service to the Church. At first, I felt nothing for this house, I did not remember the times I have spent here. But after I decided that it was the perfect place to imprison Anna I started to renovate the place, fractions of memories returned.
I know, this had not been my father’s intention. Presenting me with the house that was already rightfully mine had been a grand gesture to all the youngsters, who were bound to become guardians of the Church, soldiers to protect the property from outside forces. If my father really would have wanted to award me, he would have placed his hand on my shoulder and would have told him that he was proud, and would have added that special word ‘son.’
I still try to re-earn that title.
I take another deep breath before I must go inside to tend to my wounds before I change into proper clothes.
೦ Anna ೦
I have no idea for how long I’ve already been in this place. All I know is that there’s been no way that I can fall asleep like this. Whenever I doze off, the stench seems to become stronger and makes me snap wide awake. And as consciousness regains control over me, I’m reminded of what my body is covered with.
In the beginning, I started retching every time, but eventually I’ve become used to the stench, or maybe it just lessened over time. Then, somehow, I manage to stop thinking about the filth I am covered with. I even become hungry. But it only need to wet my tongue to stop that feeling instantly.
What I can’t control though, is my bladder; at least not any longer than holding in becomes painful again. That’s when I realize it’s silly. Sam – or rather Samael – won’t notice, or care. He probably expects me to pee myself again So, after another dozing off being disturbed of the pang in my bladder, I simply let go.
What difference does it make anyway? Filth is filth. I won’t get any filthier than I already am.
I don’t even know if Samael will return.
This thought instantly changes the situation I had settled with and keeps me wide awake and restless.
Although I don’t dare to move my feet across the gross ground, which squishes through my toes, I try to somehow get my feet beneath myself and stand on them. Then – since I don’t expect Samael to come back soon – I start to tug on my chains, so that I might loosen the sockets. I try that, knowing it might be useless, because I’m sure Samael is prepared for everything. Even letting me die in there.
These chains could have always been in here, it wouldn’t surprise me. Or they are brand-new, put in this cellar especially for me.
How much must he really hate me?
Enough to let me die in here?
Like this?
Maybe it’s the shock about this possibility, maybe it’s me being overly tired and freezing, maybe it’s the lack of food and water, but my body starts to tremble and turn strangely numb as I feel increasingly dizzy and lightheaded. The fear wears off, as I settle for worry, and my exhaustion returns with a vengeance.
I know, I will only have to close my eyes and I will fall asleep. Not the filth on me or the stench all around me will stop me, this time. But I’m scared, scared that if I close my eyes and welcome sleep, I might not wake up anymore. And even if I would just sleep, what if Samael returns and disapproves of me not being awake?
⌽ Samael ⌽
Pain. Pain is the first and the last thing I remember when I think of the night my soul was overturned. And I have the scars to prove them. The biggest one, the one from my shot wound still hurts sometimes, but that is nothing in comparison to how it felt when my father had just torn a hole into my body.
Pain and darkness. For a long time.
There are nights when my dreams are nothing but that: pitch-black and full of agony. Then, I hear a girl screaming in the distance. In panic, in protest, and in pain, too. Just a different kind, or maybe exactly the same kind. I do not now. But that scream is a fixed point. It’s the very thing I reach out to when I am drawing in that liquid obscurity. It is that scream that wakes me up at night. Every night. Ever since…her.
This noise, this scream, reminds me of the tale my grandmother told me about. A tale that is forbidden. A tale that is heretic. A tale about the banshee. If you hear her scream at night, someone close to you will die, and the only time you do not hear the banshee is when you are about to die.
Neither of that ever happens.
But then again, no one is truly close to me. And the only way I die is violently. Yet, I am undefeatable.
Just like I thoughtlessly re-draw the scar at the side of my face, I press my palm on that large sun-shaped scar my father gave me and check if my shoulder is still doing okay. My father refused to call a doctor, to let anyone enter the Church’s property after I aided Anna in her escape. It was because men – strangers – had broken down the electric fence and had helped her, after I was left behind.
That is what my father told me. These men could have carried me easily. And they did not.
My scar could have been smaller. It would have been if I received it for trying to stop Anna from her flight instead of helping her. But it is not. My palm barely covers it. It is right below my right collar bone, and it is a miracle that nothing important was severely damaged.
I barely remember the punishment, that created the final shape of this scar, and many of my smaller scars come from that night and day, too, as far as I know. My father was furious. I had taken away his final bride. It was my fault. So, he pushed his fingers into my shot wound, and would only stop digging around in it, when I fainted. And when that part of my body was numb, he simply stuck a knife into one of my limbs and twisted it until I fainted again.
I woke hearing someone scream, every time, until I realized that it was me, it was my voice.
At some point, I could not control any reaction of my body anymore. At some point, I did not even try anymore. It was then when my father stopped and left, not turning around. He dropped the knifes, the bloody cloths, and his two shadows – my own elder brothers – followed him. He was done with me. At least for the next week, until I recovered.
There are nights when I catch myself wishing that he would have just been done with me forever, and just killed me. For three years, every morning and every evening, I took my sword walked up to him, went down on my knees, and offered him the blade to kill me, kneeling, with it resting on my palms.
In the beginning, he completely ignored me, and I always waited until he would vacant his seat at the head of the gathering hall, passed me by and left the building, before I moved again.
I am not sure that he told Rowena to take care of me, that night, or if she simply decided to do it, and he condoned her deed.
I do not know how she managed to stop all my wounds from festering, and she told everyone that it was God’s intervention that saved me from dying. There was a time when I was certain it was the Devil’s work that bound me to earth. But of course, I share that memory with no one, either, because Rowena is a living saint now, through my father.
Everyone else was too willing to believe Rowena as she talked about seeing angels doing God’s work, guiding her hands as light started seeping from my injuries instead of blood. She claims, the night she attended to me was the night she was blessed by God with the power of healing.
For a few years, even I believed her.
Rowena only shared with a few people that it was me – the Light-bringer – who had given her this godly power, and that it was drained from her, when she used it. And although no one can see this light she sees and uses, Rowena has truly saved people, healed people, and I was the first.
“It is still a work of prayer and humility,” so she tells everyone, and it is true that she cannot flip her fingers, or place her hand on someone’s forehead to work her miracle.
No, she sits entire nights at their bed and prays, all alone with the one she heals. And before or after such long nights she needs my assistance to regain her holy power. Rowena made me swear on my father’s bible to be silent about what happens. Now, I wonder if it is because of what she makes me do so that she can sing to God and receive the light.
I believed in her like all the others did for a long time. I believed that I was truly helping her, that she did indeed need my light. It all suddenly made sense. She explained to me that this was the reason I was not allowed to have a wife, why I could not have Anna. Only the chosen ones could receive my light, giving it to others would corrupt it and weaken me, and give them powers they could not control.
Knowing what Rowena could do with the light I gave her made it bearable for me to do what was expected of me. My father ordered me to obey her and not doubt her. But I do have doubts. I always had. I only keep them to myself. No one wants to hear them. Not even God himself. It is still, after all these years, my punishment. I am still the fallen son.
Accepting my duty as punishment is the only reason I can do what she expects of me. I was taught it is forbidden. Rowena is the only exception, because God chose her.
Luckily, it can only be done one way.
Still, thinking that I am touching Anna’s mother like that with my mouth, doing these things to her, so that she connects with the godly light, is tormenting me still. Those are the dreams that still haunt me, even when I am awake.
So, when I witnessed that others could give her that light, too, others I had to discipline and teach them shame for failure, I was relieved. Still, she insists that the light received through me is the most potent one. They are substitutes, for when I am done.
My doubts have grown so strong that I cannot believe her anymore. I know it is a sin. She is a holy woman, but it did not only not feel right. I now know she is not being honest now. I let my doubts guide me, and now I do not know what or whom to trust. It did not feel right that few people knew about how Rowena received her gift. For years I have been the only one, until I received the permission to leave the property and travel for days to find Anna.
That was when Rowena asked me to bring back items from a pharmacy. At first, I did not think twice about it, but then doubt made me read the packages. It is medicine, medicine with the healing power she claims to have. But I cannot tell my father. I cannot disobey him. But I did disobey her. And it was not doubt that guided my mind. It was a nightmare.
One of those that haunt you when you are at your worst. This dream makes me wake up in a different torment, and makes me hit myself and pull on my hair. Because I remember something that did not happen, could not happen, or Rowena did lie to me. There is doubt, again, screaming into my ears.
It is always the same. It’s always that familiar scream first and the images flashing before my eyes second. As if it is in truth a shattered memory, something I barely consciously experienced. And the voice wails in terror about what she is witnessing.
It is Rowena on top of me doing the unspeakable, the forbidden deed I am only bound to use only as punishment, and my shoulder hurts as if it is on fire, again. I sit up in my bed, and kneeling, as I have slept on my stomach. My sheets are drenched from my sweat, as are the bandages on my back. They are soaked and my injuries burn. I will have to replace them. It is dawning already.
Again, for the blink of an eye, Rowena was on top of me again, her mouth opened in rapture, as if she is the one wailing. But it is not her. And there is no light. There was never light. Only darkness. And if I tell my father, he will blame me for corrupting his beloved wife. So, I stay silent, like I swore, now twice to her, after I showed her the packages and turned her face as pale as a shroud. I am not her light-bringer anymore, but the nightmares remain.
I still hear the screams in my mind as I am wide awake. Pressing my hands on my ears only seem to increase the noise. Yet, for the first time, they sound as if they are not only screams. It does sound as if the girl is screaming my name. I press harder, staring at the blank wall in front of me in disbelief.
This voice, this voice sounds like Anna. And she is screaming my name. I pull my hands off my ears and harken. Silence.
She is only screaming in my head. For me.
೦ Anna ೦
Once more I snap wide awake, leaning my head back so that I can open my eyes. They are still blindfolded. Probably, the noise I’ve heard was just in my head. Maybe it was just in my dream. This metallic sound the bars make on the other side of that heavy door; this scratching noise it makes when it moves across the floor.
It is still completely silent. It’s just in my head.
I let out a deep sigh and force myself to stand up straight so that the strain on my joints and in my shoulders, elbows and wrists lessens. I let my head hang in my neck, simply because I’ve got no strength to lift it anymore. My knees are already threatening to give in again, my legs are wobbly and I can’t feel my feet at all. Only cold.
The sound of splashing water hits me like a live current, and I instantly yank my head into a straight position, which makes my neck cramp. I bite my tongue to stay silent, as I process that what hit me is really water, and it’s warm? No.
Another bucket of water collides with my freezing body, but it’s even colder than my bones. I tremble as I feel the icy liquid reach my feet and spreads across the ground.
He’s standing behind me. He has thrown the water against my chest and back, and now he’s behind me. I didn’t dream the noise; the door had been opened.
Samael is back.
And, he’s cleaning the floor?
I stand on the balls of my feet, tense like a string that threatens to tear. I’m so relieved, yet terrified, that Sam has returned that tears break from my eyes again. They are flooding my cheeks like acid, even though I’m thirsty and my lips are chapped.
I am so embarrassingly weak.
I don’t dare to move, speak, or breathe, as I beg silently Samael would say something, anything, just to make a sound so that I can hear that it is really him and not one of the mindless drones of this Church, or worse: one of his brothers.
It has to be him.
Samael clicks his tongue again and I just know it’s a sound of reproach. It also tells me that it is really him, but it’s not a relief, when I feel as if I can hear his thoughts.
Filth. So filthy.
Shame makes my body burn and I let my head hang to my chest, but the tension in my body stays.
“What is my name?” Samael suddenly asks, and he’s standing closer than I expected.
“Samael,” I answer instantly. “Samael.”
“What are you?” he inquires; was there hesitation?
I swallow dryly, trying to stop these tears from soaking my blindfold again, as I respond: “Filth.”
“You might not be beyond hope after all, Filth,” Samael hums and starts to move again bringing the water hose with him to continue cleaning the floor.
Breathing shallowly, I listen to Samael’s movement through the room, as suddenly my stomach rumbles. I freeze, petrified, and my captor stops, turns towards me and icy water splashes across my feet. The stream is stronger than I anticipated, but it washes away the filth that has been clinging to my skin for who knows how long.
“You’re hungry,” he states the obvious, sounding almost surprised, but the words that follow tear a hole into my stomach: “Filth has no hunger.”
I don’t dare to make a sound, not knowing what he’s expecting me to say. Maybe I should apologize, but I opt for not saying anything. If I don’t know the right answer, and he’s not demanding me to respond, staying silent is the best option.
When Samael leaves without a word, I’m sure I’ve made a mistake, until I realized that the hose is still there and continues to splatter water all across the floor and to my feet. This means he’s coming back. He’s not leaving me here all alone again, for now.
Could he be getting food?
As I listen and wait, I notice that the water running down a drain, within my cell. The sound is taking me captive, hypnotizing me. It’s such a difference to the silence I’ve been held in until now.
Then, suddenly, steps.
He’s back. Samael comes down the stairs, passes through an antechamber and right into the puddle of water that is slowly draining away. He doesn’t stop until he has walked around me to my face.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me directly and I know I must give him a direct answer.
I have no idea what kind of response he wants to hear, or what would happen when I answer. But my voice fails me, it’s nothing but a thick lump in my throat, so, I nod.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, while my head is still moving, which means that was enough.
I don’t dare to hesitate and obey instantly. As soon as I’ve opened my mouth he stuffs something into it, using both his hands to move my jaw and shut my mouth again. I’m confused first, but whatever it is, it’s still moving!
My instinctive squeak of horror is muffled by Samael’s hands and renders me incapable of spitting out what’s crawling in my mouth, across my tongue, over my palate. It feels hard, as if it has shells and tiny pinching legs. A roach!?
“Chew.” Samael’s voice sounds utterly indifferent; somehow, I know it means the complete opposite.
My stomach was already revolting, again. I can’t bring myself to move my jaw or tongue to do what he tells me to. I press my eyes shut and hold my breath, so I don’t start sobbing again.
“Are you nothing but filth after all?” he asks, disappointment hiding in the darkness of his voice.
I tense and blink. This is a test!
I have to prove myself to him right now, right this second! I press my blindfolded eyes shut again, as I force myself to move my jaw and bring my teeth together. Clenching my hands into fists, I bite.
Inside my mouth, it’s cracking and goo spreads out from the shell I break, across my tongue, towards my throat.
I retch.
I must recover quickly. This might be my only chance! I swallow down what is too far down my throat. I do my best to ignore the vile taste on my tongue. My mind screaming in disgust. And I chew.
“Good girl,” Samael hums approvingly, as he removes his hands from only my mouth but not my jaw and he pats my head. “Now swallow.”
As he speaks the order, he removed his hand from under my jaw and places his index finger against my lips. His touch strikes my body like lightning.
I swallow.
Without thinking, without hesitation, I obey, all because he is touching me. I feel the gross content of my mouth, the edgy and gooey mass running down my throat.
“See,” Samael almost coos, satisfied, patting my head once more. “That was not so hard, was it. But then again, filth does not eat roaches. Vermin do.”
He steps away, while the information sinks in my head as slowly as the roach moves down towards my stomach. I can’t think straight. All I think about are vermin. I wonder which one he is exactly thinking about. Probably those, that like eating roaches.
The icy water hits me hard, and rips me from my trance-like state. It feels as if it’s burning me alive. Harsh pricks like needles collide with my dry skin. I’m tensing, painfully, clenching my hands into fists again, not daring to react in any way. I try my best to keep my balance on the slippery ground, and endure this cleaning, while the stream of water continues to crash against my body.
Finally, the dried remains of bowels, excrements, and urine are about to be rinsed off and I’m willing to take the pain until Samael is satisfied with his work. It takes forever, and he doesn’t stop at my head, face, or any sensitive areas of my body. He is very, extremely thorough.
After he stops, he doesn’t say a word, but I can hear him leave, taking the hose with him without closing the door. He will come back.