He turned away, moving toward the shelf where he kept different prayer implements—candles, oils, cords, a small bowl of blessed salt.
“Silence,” he hissed. “You will speak only when I permit it.”
As he reached for the drawer beneath the shelf—the one I’d peeked in only once, when I was younger and my childish curiosity had gotten the best of me—I felt the room close in around me. Felt the walls tighten. Felt the air shift with inevitability.
“Remove your shoes,” Father said gently, focused on the drawer’s contents.
My fingers trembled as I slipped out of my sandals and stepped onto the wooden floor.
His smile was thin as he turned back towards me. “We must ensure your spirit is clean. You understand, don’t you, my son?”
I gave him a short, trembling nod.
“Kneel.”
I lowered myself to the floor, trying to breathe evenly.
“Your heart is divided,” he murmured. “Something is pulling you away.”
My breath hitched. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
He hummed, almost pleased. “Do not lie. You were always a poor liar, Elior.” He stepped behind me, hands settling heavily on my shoulders. “A divided heart is a dangerous thing. It invites corruption. Temptation.”
I felt the pressure of his thumbs digging into the tendons of my shoulders—not painful at first, but becoming so when he tightened his grip into one of steel.
“I haven’t—”
His hands clamped down hard, and I gasped.
“You forget I raised you,” he whispered near my ear. “I see every shift in your spirit. Every quiver of doubt. Every sin blooming beneath your skin.”
A tremor ran through me, and the pressure on my shoulders increased sharply, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to make me wince.
“Your silence speaks louder than confession.”
“Father… please… that hurts—”
“Pain reveals truth.” His voice was feather-light, almost tender. “You know this.”
He released me only to step around and stand directly before me, looking down with that bright, feverish intensity I’d grown to dread.
“Place your hands out.”
My stomach dropped, but still, I obeyed.
He turned his back to me and walked back to the drawer, pulling something out. When he turned to face me again, I saw it.
A thin rattan cane.
“Father—” My voice cracked. “I haven’t done anything, please!”
“I will decide what you have done.”
The rod tapped softly against my palms.
“Tell me what burdens your soul,” he said. “Tell me what has taken your focus from your duties… from your Father.”
I kept my head bowed. My breath shook. “I’ve just been tired,” I whispered. “I promise, Fa—”
